The Floating Outfit 55 Read online

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  They came from the East—well-heeled city men with money in their wallets and greed and hate in their hearts.

  Texas was their destination—in particular the cattle country of the Rio Hondo, which they thought to take over with the aid of their hired gunmen.

  But when they chose the Rio Hondo country, they chose wrong, for this Rio Hondo country meant an outfit called the OD Connected, and that meant a man called Dusty Fog.

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 55: THE RIO HONDO WAR

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Brown Watson Publishers in 1964

  Copyright © 1964, 2021 by J. T. Edson

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  This electronic edition published January 2021

  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

  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.

  Chapter One

  I Need a Man

  ‘You’re loco, Boss!’

  The words came in a startled croak from the tall tanned man’s lips as he stood behind Basil Drinkwater and stared at the pointer’s tip as it touched the map of Texas set up on an easel.

  ‘Why’s that, Bill?’ asked Drinkwater, studying the man.

  ‘That’s the Rio Hondo country,’ Bill Acre replied as if he need say no more.

  ‘I’m aware of that. It’s ideal for our purposes. One of the more easterly and better civilized cattle counties. Just over the county line here, at back of the town of Diggers Wells, I have bought the ranch which is being used as a holiday resort for rich easterners who want the thrills if not the rigors of western life. We’ve our own men there, and in Diggers Wells we even have our own town marshal. I can move into the ranch as a visitor and command things without anybody knowing my interests in the business.’

  For a long moment Acre studied his boss without speaking.

  Somehow the big man did not seem to fit into the atmosphere of rich, well-organized elegance of the room in which he found himself. He stood bareheaded, his black Stetson hat resting on a table by the door. The face had a leathery tan which certainly did not find its origin anywhere in the great city of New York which sprawled out beyond the walls of Drinkwater’s town house. He wore a leather coat of range style and, from the way it was fastened, the string tie around his neck was not a usual item of dress in his life. Nor were his high-heeled boots, showing from under the Levi’s trousers, suited to city life and wear. In everything Bill Acre gave off an aura of the range country, the vast, untrammeled and untamed west beyond the Mississippi River.

  ‘It’s just not worth the trying, Boss,’ he finally said.

  A smile played on Drinkwater’s lips at the repeated use of the respectful ‘Boss’ from a man so much taller, stronger and more able in practical matters than he himself would ever be. It gave him, a small man, a sense of power and Basil Drinkwater was painfully aware of his lack of inches. In height he stood on more than five foot six and had a slim build which the elegant fashions of New York tended to emphasize rather than hide. He wore his clothes well for all that and he was handsome enough even without the added attraction of being known as a rich and powerful man in the business world of the United States’ largest city.

  ‘You really believe it, don’t you, Bill?’ he asked, fingers playing with his watch chain as he spoke.

  ‘I know it, Boss,’ replied Acre, holding out his big left hand so he could tick off points on the fingers. ‘First off there’s Hondo Fog, he’s county sheriff, town marshal and about every other damned thing, and hell on wheels where law enforcement’s concerned. Mannen Blaze’s the local judge and a ringy old goat who can still handle a ten gauge scatter when there’s need for it, which same there isn’t much in the Rio Hondo County. They’ve kept the county free of crime for years between them. Then there’s the Blaze boys out at the Double B. Buck and Pete are bad enough but young Red’s a terror, and they’ve seven men who would rather fight than eat. The O.D. Connected runs seventeen hands full time, counting Ole Devil’s floating outfit. All ringy cusses who can handle their end in any man’s fight. Then happen Ole Devil opens his mouth and hollers he’ll have nigh on half of Texas guarding his front porch and the rest riding circle around the house. Wes Hardin’s his nephew, you’ve heard tell of him?’

  ‘He’s a criminal, isn’t he?’ Drinkwater replied. ‘A murderer.’

  ‘He’s wanted for killing, but he’s no criminal. Shot down a nigger as was set to use a razor on him. That was right after the war and there wasn’t no crime so bad thought of by the Yankees as killing a nigger, no matter what that same nigger aimed to do to a man.’

  ‘They seem to have you scared, Bill,’ said Drinkwater, looking at the other man in frank curiosity.

  Certainly Acre had proved his courage when Drinkwater first began to work on his scheme for a vast cattle empire in the Texas range country. He led the men who successfully drove off the owners of two ranches up Uvalde way and perfected a technique which worked very well. Until this evening Drinkwater had never seen the burly westerner show any sign of fear, or worry about starting to take over a new area.

  ‘Sure they’ve got me scared, Boss,’ Acre stated flatly. ‘Those other places we took were like babes in arms compared with the O.D. Connected, even without counting Ole Devil’s floating outfit.’

  ‘And who, or what, might Ole Devil’s floating outfit be?’

  Acre, a man not given to freely showing emotions, looked surprised that a man so knowing in most matters should have failed to hear of Ole Devil’s floating outfit.

  ‘It’s who, not what, Boss,’ he explained. ‘It’s four hell-twisters Ole Devil lets handle any trouble that comes his way, or to his friends. There’s Mark Counter, and he’s stronger than any three men you can name. One of the best rough-house brawlers in the west when he’s pushed into it. Only he’s not just brawn, he’s smart and he’s real fast with his guns. Then there’s the Ysabel Kid. They don’t come no tougher, nor meaner in a fight, than the Kid. He’s part Comanche, claims to be the kin to ole Chief Long Walker and I wouldn’t want to be the man who called him a liar. The Kid’s real good with that ole Dragoon Colt he totes, and don’t you let nobody tell you no man’s good with the old Dragoon. The Kid is, but he’s better with his bowie knife and there’s few who can touch him with a rifle. Down on the Rio Grande they say that when you see the Kid make a hit with his rifle it’s plumb ordinary, but happen you see him miss his mark, you done seen a miracle, and I’m not dou
bting them any. The Kid’s bad medicine. He can move through thick brush quieter’n a buck Apache and follow sign like no other man I know. The other one’s a boy called Waco. It’s his only name, but he handles his guns like to beat most folks with a whole flow of words to their names. One time he rode for Clay Allison, did Waco, and the man, or boy, don’t live who rode for Allison without being a regular snake with his guns. That boy alone, he’d take some moving happen he dug his heels in.’

  ‘You only mentioned three names, doesn’t the other matter among all that torrent of talent?’

  ‘That depends, Boss,’ replied Acre dryly. ‘He was a Confederate Army captain at seventeen, one of the best cavalry leaders in the war, on either side. Since then he’s been Ole Devil’s segundo at the O.D. Connected, a trail boss with the best of them. He was the man who tamed Quiet Town i when she rode wild and woolly just after the war. Comes to a point he’s just about the fastest man alive.’

  Acre paused as if he thought he’d said all that need be said and Drinkwater must know who he meant.

  ‘And who might this wonder-man be?’ asked Drinkwater, with the lofty disdain of a big city man dealing with a country dweller.

  ‘You mean you’ve never heard tell of Dusty Fog?’

  The smile left Drinkwater’s face. He looked at Acre, trying to decide if the big man was joking. Yet never had Acre appeared more serious. Drinkwater stopped toying with his watch chain. Of course he had heard of Dusty Fog, ex-Captain of the Texas Light Cavalry and, as Acre said, one of the most outstanding cavalry officers produced by the Civil War.

  ‘I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘I tell you, Boss. I’ll stack up against ordinary cowhands or hired guns. But I’m sure not locking horns with Cap’n Fog and his amigos. And, happen you’ve got the good sense I credit you with, you’ll steer clear of them too, Boss. I can name you maybe a dozen places we could get in Texas with nowheres near the trouble we’ll get if we tie into the Rio Hondo country.’

  ‘And would they compare with the Rio Hondo country for good grazing land, and a clear right to the title?’ asked Drinkwater.

  ‘Maybe not, Boss. But they’d be a damned sight easier to handle.’

  With a thrust like a duelist driving home his rapier Drinkwater shot the tip of the pointer once more into the center of Rio Hondo County.

  ‘Look here!’ he snapped. ‘This part of the Texas range is fine grazing land. It is held on a clear title by a clan, by three families for their services to Texas during the wars with Mexico and after. Their strength lies in their unity and I plan to destroy that unity, set them at each other’s throats, then move in and take the pickings, just as we did in Uvalde. Uvalde was the testing ground, Bill, the training ground where we learned the technique. Now we know how to do it and we can go after the plum prize. The Rio Hondo country. I need your help, Bill.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Boss,’ Acre replied, shaking his head. ‘Any other place I’d go for. But not Rio Hondo County. It’s just not worth the risk.’

  Drinkwater shrugged his shoulders. ‘Very well, Bill, I go on my own.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re finished, Boss?’

  ‘No. Go back to Uvalde and run things until you see that I’ve the situation in hand. Then you can come down and take over.’

  ‘I can make the westbound if I go now,’ Acre replied, glancing at the clock.

  ‘Very well. Do you need any expenses?’

  ‘Got all I need, thanks, Boss.’

  With that Acre walked towards the door, took up his hat and set it right on his head. Just before he left the room, the big man turned to Drinkwater and made a last try at preventing what he knew to be a grave mistake.

  ‘Don’t do it, Boss,’ he said.

  He turned and left the room. Now it all depended on Drinkwater, he mused as he walked towards the main doors of the building. He had given his warning and he could do no more. Drinkwater was right about one thing, the way the Hardin, Fog and Blaze families came by their land. It had been given to them for their part in the fight to free Texas from Mexican rule. They did not receive the land for sitting on their butt-ends and talking, but for fighting, guts and hard, cold courage.

  Acre was walking along the drive towards the gates when a fine looking coach pulled in. A beautiful face peered at him in passing and he nodded a greeting but did not return to speak with the guests. He hoped that they might talk sense into his boss.

  ‘Mr. and Miss Defluer to see you, sir.’

  Drinkwater turned as his butler entered the room. He walked forward to greet his guests with a smile of welcome on his face. Nor was the welcome feigned, one put on for clients, for Drinkwater genuinely liked Aristes Defluer and felt more than a liking for the man’s daughter.

  The girl who entered the room on her father’s arm was beautiful. Her raven black hair, cared for at the hands of a master in tonsorial art, framed a face as near perfection as a man could ask for. Her figure appeared faultless and the green dress under her evening cloak showed it to full effect. Paulette Defluer not only looked beautiful but had been trained to do all the things a lady of her class needed to know. She could keep a conversation going even if she did not understand it, using the words yes and no to great effect. She could act as hostess at a dinner party, organize a house party, rode side-saddle very well, discuss art, music or the theatre with the air of one who knows what it is about.

  Her chief charm in Drinkwater’s eyes was that she, while an inch taller than himself, contrived to make him feel he stood much taller than her.

  Having removed her cloak, Paulette swept forward, offering a cheek for him to kiss. To match her dress the jewelry she wore had an emerald motif, worn with just the correct amount of splendor to remain good taste. The green of the dress set off the smooth white of her arms and bosom, and filled Drinkwater with yearning.

  Aristes Defluer was a big, heavily built man, inclined to be pompous and a trifle overbearing. In a lesser person this might have been regarded as a serious social failing, but Defluer carried it off with the air of a man who had the power to make or break a business with a word or pen stroke. On Wall Street Defluer’s name spelt power and wealth. He was always on the lookout for other ways in which to increase his fortune and there were few shrewder operators on the stock exchange than Drinkwater’s visitor. Defluer’s clothes were cut to the height of fashion and he appeared as much at home in the room as Acre had looked out of place.

  ‘I just saw Mr. Acre,’ Paulette said, disengaging herself from Drinkwater’s arms and moving back with a smile. ‘He looked positively grumpy.’

  Due to the arrival in New York of several members of the British aristocracy all Paulette’s social set had adopted English words and sayings. Paulette was ever in the forefront of any new social development as she showed in her way of speaking.

  ‘He’s worried that we might have trouble during our vacation in Texas,’ replied Drinkwater.

  Delight showed in Paulette’s eyes. ‘You mean you have persuaded Papa to forget his old business and take me on vacation. That’s absolutely ripping.’

  ‘I think I might have,’ smiled Drinkwater, for he knew Defluer’s weakness. The man could refuse his daughter nothing.

  ‘When do we leave?’ she asked.

  ‘On Monday. Travel west to Chicago, then down to Texas on one of the branch lines. From there by stage to Diggers Wells.’

  ‘On Monday?’ she almost shrieked. ‘That’s impossible. I haven’t a thing to wear.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve something,’ Drinkwater replied. ‘Some little thing. You know how it is with businessmen, dear. If we stay any longer there’s a chance either your father or I might become involved in some deal which will take weeks to clear and so lose our chance of getting away.’

  Drinkwater showed his considerable knowledge of human nature in that the argument he used would be the one most likely to win Paulette over. The girl wanted to see his ranch in Texas very much, so much she would be willing to select from her
considerable wardrobe to make the journey instead of having an entirely new outfit tailored, which would take time and might cost her the trip.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll do as you say. Of course there won’t be any of our set there so it won’t really matter.’

  ‘Where would you like to go tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘How about Harry Miller’s cafe?’ Paulette replied.

  The two men exchanged startled glances and Drinkwater asked, ‘Where did you hear about Miller’s place?’

  ‘All the girls have been talking about it. They’re positively gloating because I haven’t been there.’

  ‘Then Miller’s it is,’ Drinkwater chuckled. ‘Now pop off and do what you ladies do before going out. I want to talk with your father.’

  Paulette could take a hint and left the room. The two men faced each other and Drinkwater poured out a couple of drinks.

  ‘Acre doesn’t think too highly of our plans,’ he told the financier.

  ‘Your plans, Basil. I’m in no way committed as yet. I don’t like it, if Acre has turned you down.’

  ‘You haven’t had the experience I have with these westerners,’ Drinkwater pointed out. ‘They hear a story, embroider on it, pass it around, until a commonplace killer becomes regarded as something like an avenging angel and more deadly than bubonic plague. Acre’s brave enough, but he’s also intelligent enough to have just enough imagination to believe in fairy tales.’

  ‘You’re asking me to throw in a large sum,’ answered Defluer. ‘More than I can afford with the current state of the market.’

  ‘One of the Rio Hondo men is Captain Dusty Fog.’

  ‘C-Captain Dusty Fog?’ croaked Defluer, allowing his glass to fall unheeded to the floor. ‘You mean...’

  ‘I mean the man who killed your son during the war.’

  All too well Drinkwater knew the story of Aristes Defluer junior. In the War Between The States the young man, Defluer’s only son, had insisted on joining the Union Army. With his father’s backing he became a captain in the volunteer regiment without such formalities as West Point training, rising from lowly second lieutenant and learning his military duties on the way up.