The Floating Outfit Book 26 Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One – A Special Kind of Man

  Chapter Two – Cowhands Are Only Part of It

  Chapter Three – Prevention Licks Trying to Find a Cure

  Chapter Four – Pick Out the Leaders

  Chapter Five – You’ll Never Know How Lucky

  Chapter Six – Innocent as Lon Looks, or Guilty-Looking as Hell

  Chapter Seven – Maybe You Didn’t Ask Him Right

  Chapter Eight – Nobody’s Taking My Guns

  Chapter Nine – Just A Half-Smart Lil Texas Boy

  Chapter Ten – You’re Not What I’d Call Welcome

  Chapter Eleven – It Goes With Wearing the Badge

  Chapter Twelve – All In The Line of Duty

  Chapter Thirteen – Lord, What a Fool Mistake

  Chapter Fourteen – I Figure I Owe Him That Much

  Chapter Fifteen – I’ll Stop You If I Have To

  Chapter Sixteen – He Walked Right By Us Into Town

  Chapter Seventeen – That Was Real Smart Advice

  About the Author

  The Floating Outfit Series

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  Waco was a product of the times. Left an orphan in a Waco Indian attack on a wagon train, he grew up among the large family of an impoverished rancher. Although treated as one of the family, some urge set him drifting at the age of thirteen. Even then he carried a gun, a battered but operational old Navy Colt. Four years later he wore a brace of Army Colts and bore a log-sized chip on his shoulder. His truculence might have sent him on the trail of Wes Hardin, Bad Bill Longley or other fast-handed Tejano boys running from the law after a killing too many.

  Then fate stepped in. Waco met Dusty Fog, the fastest of them all.

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT BOOK 26

  THE MAKING OF A LAWMAN

  J.T.EDSON.

  For Mike Legat, who agreed to try my Rockabye County stories.

  Author’s note:

  While complete in itself, the events in this book run concurrently with those in The Trouble Busters.

  Chapter One – A Special Kind of Man

  “To all this I swear, so help me God,” said the boy whose only name was Waco, completing the oath which made him a deputy town marshal of Mulrooney, Kansas.

  While pinning the badge to his black and white calf-skin vest, the youngster could hardly hold down a faint, unbelieving grin. Six, or even three, months ago the suggestion that he might become a peace officer would have been met with derision. Yet there he stood, faced by Mulrooney’s mayor and town marshal, a member of the civic law enforcement body.

  Just over six foot in height, with a frame developing to its full power, Waco dressed and looked what he was, a Texas cowhand. His black J.B. Stetson hat, distinctively shaped, gave as clear an indication of his place of birth as did the star motif carved on his high-heeled boots. The hat hung on a peg by the door, exposing his curly blond hair to view. Tanned by the elements, his handsome face had strength, although the blue eyes no longer bore a wolf-cautious glint and his mouth smiled more easily than previously. Tight-rolled and knotted about his throat, the scarlet bandana trailed long ends over a blue shirt almost to the waistband of the levis pants. The gunbelt around his middle had been tooled to his fit and carried a pair of staghorn-handled 1860 Army Colts in holsters designed for speed on the draw. Something in the way he wore the rig warned it was no mere affectation.

  Looking at Waco, Mayor Woods felt a momentary doubt at his suitability for the post. The town was one of those which had grown up along the transcontinental railroad, hoping to gain its livelihood from the almost numberless longhorn cattle brought north in search of a market. Being Mulrooney’s leading citizen and partially responsible for its conception, the mayor wanted it to prosper. In which case the correct kind of law enforcement would be essential.

  Could a boy not yet eighteen give the type of service required?

  Only the previous day Mayor Woods had seen Waco draw his right hand Colt with blinding speed and kill a man trying to shoot a friend. Yet, inexperienced in such matters, the mayor realized that being an efficient peace officer called for more than a fast draw and accurate shooting. True some trail-end towns asked no more of their marshals than gun-skill, but Mayor Woods thought that to be a short-sighted policy and not what Mulrooney required.

  The worry over the age side of the matter might also apply to another of the three deputies—and even to the man Mayor Woods had selected to be the town’s first marshal.

  Almost as tall as Waco, and lean as a steer reared in the greasewood country, the Ysabel Kid seemed even younger. At first glance the sight of his handsome, almost babyishly innocent face, the all black clothing, walnut-handled Dragoon Colt butt-forward in the low cavalry draw holster at the right side of his belt and ivory-hilted James Black bowie knife sheathed on its left, might tend to raise a mocking smile. Then one noticed the Indian-dark features, red hazel eyes—and rapidly reached the conclusion that here stood no mere dressed-up boy trying to pose as a tough, mean man. Young he might be, but the years had been spent learning hard lessons that had prepared him well for the future. However, he too failed to comply with the popular conception of a trail-end town lawman.

  While the third deputy certainly seemed fitted for the part, it was a specialized one. Big Sarah Shelley wore a plain gingham dress instead of the garish costume she used when serving behind the bar of Mayor Woods’ Fair Lady saloon. Red-headed, good-looking, tall and buxom, although hard-fleshed and far from flabby, she looked ideally suited for her work as matron in charge of handling female prisoners.

  If the two male deputies appeared an unusual selection, the man chosen by Mayor Woods to be marshal—chief law enforcement officer of the town—seemed, on the face of it, even more so.

  At most he stood no more than five foot six, with dusty blond hair and a pleasantly good-looking face. Although dressed in expensive, well-made range clothes, he gave them the appearance of being somebody’s cheap cast-offs. Nor did the excellently handled Army Colts in their two cross draw holsters, greatly add to his stature or noticeability. All in all, at first glance, he looked like an insignificant nobody. Closer inspection revealed that his face had strength of will and intelligence, while his lack of inches failed to prevent him from possessing the muscular development of a Hercules.

  During the Civil War, as a seventeen-year old Confederate States cavalry captain, that small, insignificant cowhand built a reputation equaled only by the great Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby; although he gained it on the less-publicized Arkansas battle-front. After the War ended he had been called from his work as segundo of the biggest ranch in Texas and sent into Mexico on a dangerous, exceedingly delicate mission which he had carried out successfully. Since then his name had gone out as a cowhand of the first water, trail boss second to none, the lawman who tamed a wild Montana gold town after three less able officers had died trying. Texans boasted of his uncanny bare-hand fighting skill which rendered bigger men helpless; or told about his wizardry in the matter of rapid drawing and straight shooting with his two long barreled Army Colts.

  Small he might be, but nobody ever thought of Dusty Fog in a matter of mere feet and inches. In reputation or actual deeds he stood as tall as any man.

  In addition to acting as the OD Connected’s segundo, Dusty also rode with its floating outfit. On the large spreads of the great open-range grazing days, a group of six or so cowhands were employed to work the extremities of a ranch. Accompanied by a chuck wagon, or taking food along on mule-back, they acted as a mobile ranch crew. During his trip into Mexico, Dusty had met and hired the Ysabel Kid and Mark Counter to form the nucleus of the OD Connected’s floating outfit. However, the general state of unrest in Texas caused them to spend more time trouble-shooting in various places than riding their ranch’s ranges.

  Bringing the OD Connected herd north, Dusty heard rumors of the two new towns and saw one or the other would shorten his drive. So he and the Kid headed for Brownton while Waco and the fourth member of the floating outfit came into Mulrooney. From what Dusty saw, Brownton was no place to take his herd. Despite the fact that Mark Counter had received a wound in the Fair Lady Saloon, Dusty concluded that Mulrooney offered his trail crew a fairer deal than its rival metropolis. His decision struck Mayor Woods almost as a god-sent gift. Being fresh from the East, none of the citizens knew enough to handle the law. In the mayor’s opinion, Dusty Fog ideally filled her needs. Especially with the backing of his friends.

  Take the Ysabel Kid as a start. There stood a man whom any honest peace officer would count fortunate to have at his side.

  Not that such had always been the case. Until meeting Dusty that day on the Brownsville trail, the Kid had been regarded as something of a one-boy crime wave; a border-smuggler with one foot on the slippery slope that led to real law-busting. The meeting changed all that and now the Kid’s early upbringing made him a most useful member of range-country society.

  Born the only son of a wild Irish-Kentuckian and his French Creole-Comanche wife, the Kid spent his boyhood living as a member of the Pehnane band of his mother’s tribe. There he learned all those things a brave-heart warrior needed to know, skill with weapons, ability to read sign or discover hidden enemies, horse-savvy of a high degree. Fortunately for the peace of Texas he never found the need to use his training while among the Pehn
ane , although it came in handy at various times in later years. Maybe the Kid did not rate high as a gunfighter, being only fair with his Dragoon Colt, but he claimed few peers in the matter of handling a knife or a rifle.

  Like the Kid, Waco was a product of the times. Left an orphan in a Waco Indian attack on a wagon train, he grew up among the large family of an impoverished rancher. Although treated as one of the family, some urge set him drifting at the age of thirteen. Even then he carried a gun, a battered but operational old Navy Colt. Four years later he wore a brace of Army Colts and bore a log-sized chip on his shoulder. Working for Clay Allison s wild onion crew had given him truculence and might have sent him on the trail of Wes Hardin, Bad Bill Longley or other fast-handed Tejano boys running from the law after a killing too many.

  Then fate stepped in. Waco met Dusty Fog, the fastest of them all. From the time that Dusty saved the youngster’s life, hauling him clear when a stampeding herd threatened to run him down, Waco became a changed person. With Clay Allison’s blessing, Waco quit the CA and rode north as a member of the OD Connected. During the last weeks of the drive a change in him had become apparent. No longer did he regard all men as potential enemies. He smiled easier, took part in night camp horse-play. Sure he still wore his guns, but under Dusty’s tuition he restrained his eagerness to use them.

  All in all Dusty felt satisfied that he could run the law. He knew Texans, could handle them and figured he could deal with the railroad workers, buffalo-hunters or others who would also use the town. Mayor Woods and the Town Council gave him a free hand, promised no interference with his methods. Backed by the Kid, Waco, Big Sarah and Mark, when the latter recovered from his wound, he reckoned that he could make Mulrooney a decent town and one in which everybody received a fair deal. In that desire he had the blessing of the mayor.

  While there might possibly be other female mayors in the United States, it was unlikely that any of them equaled Freddie Woods in the matter of beauty. Five foot eight in height, with raven black hair topping a regally beautiful face, she would turn heads in any crowd. The sober, if expensive, black suit and white blouse she wore for performing a civic function set off a truly magnificent figure with rich mature curves. The fact that she ran a saloon did nothing to detract from her acceptance by the most influential people in town. Everybody knew the British aristocracy had eccentric ways and Freddie Woods had been born the Right Honorable Winifred Amelia Besgrave-Woodstole. Why the rich, talented, beautiful daughter of an English lord had come to the United States and wound up running a saloon in a trail-end town has been told elsewhere. She came, gained election as mayor and now worked to give the voters satisfaction.

  With the oath-taking ceremony over, Freddie looked at the young faces before her.

  “I’m not going to make a speech,” she said. “Just do what you’re hired for and we’ll be satisfied.”

  “We’ll do just that,” Dusty promised. “Lon, you’d best—”

  Hooves thundered along the street outside the office, punctuated by ringing cowhand whoops, screeches and shots.

  “Could be this’s where we start to earn our pay,” the Kid commented, crossing to the window and looking out.

  Much of what he expected to see greeted the Kid’s gaze. Galloping along came a trio of trail-dirty, unshaven young cowhands. None of them belonged to the OD Connected, which had paid off the previous night and had given the citizens of Mulrooney an idea of what celebrating trail-drivers meant. While raising a considerable ruckus, the trio did not endanger other lives, but kept to the center of the street and sent their bullets straight up into the air. Heading for the Fair Lady Saloon, they saw the marshal’s office building and brought their horses to a halt.

  “Yeeah!” whooped the tallest of the three, a well-made, good looking youngster. “Let’s smoke the John Law’s hole some.”

  With that he threw a shot at the building. Glass shattered as the bullet struck a window. It was a most satisfactory sound, one which delighted the trio and stirred up the desire to hear more. Restraining their fiddle-footing horses, they tossed more lead at the building. Not all of it hit the windows, but enough struck home to increase their delight.

  Catching Freddie around the waist, Dusty swept her down behind the desk. At the same moment Big Sarah dived through the open door leading to the cells in the rear of the building. Out flashed Waco’s Colts and he started for the door, ready to do battle.

  “Hold it, boy!” Dusty barked.

  Reluctantly, showing his surprise, Waco skidded to a halt by the door. The building’s walls had been constructed strongly enough to stop revolver bullets and he flattened himself to the right of the door as lead drove into the thick timber. Despite the anger he felt, he stood still and waited for further orders.

  “You fixing to let ’em get away with this, Dusty?” Waco demanded.

  “Well no, I don’t reckon I am,” Dusty replied with a smile. “Only I don’t want to shoot them either.”

  “Would you mind getting off my chest, Captain Fog?” Freddie put in a mite breathlessly, still on the floor with the small Texan holding her down.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he replied and started to rise. Derisive howls and yells rose from the three cowhands. Then, having failed to produce the local law, they tired of the pastime and headed for the Fair Lady at a wild gallop. Bringing their horses to a halt, they tossed reins across the hitching rail and tramped into the building.

  “What the he—” Waco began, then rephrased his words for Freddie’s benefit. “What’re you figuring on doing about them yahoos, Dusty?”

  “Go along and remonstrate with ’em,” Dusty replied.

  “I’d toss ’em in the pokey!” yelped Big Sarah indignantly, emerging from the rear. “To hell with that there remon—whatever you said.”

  “We’ll let Dusty try it his way first,” smiled Freddie. “Mind if I come along to watch?”

  “Come ahead,” Dusty replied and walked towards the front door.

  At that hour of the morning, the Fair Lady had not yet opened for business. Only the fact that the swamper did his work inside caused the doors to be unlocked. Behind the bar, Donna—another of the girls who tended to the customers’ needs—checked on stock ready for the day’s trade. Neither she nor the swamper, a grizzled old-timer, showed any great pleasure at the trio’s arrival.

  “Were not open yet, boys,” Donna warned.

  “Let’s have some glasses then, ma’am,” the tallest cowhand replied. “Monte, you go fetch that bottle that’s done kept us warm and comfy all the way in.”

  “I surely will, Tack,” answered the shortest, who sported an early attempt at moustache-growing. “Boy oh boy, we sure showed that marshal that we’d come to town.”

  “That we did,” enthused the third member of the trio. “He never even showed his lil Kansas head outside at all.”

  Leaving to collect the bottle of cheap whiskey from Tack’s saddle pouch, Monte returned with it and news.

  “The marshal’s done coming,” he told his delighted companions.

  “We’ll have him buy us a drink, Brother Tack,” grinned the third youngster.

  “Sure will, Brother Del,” agreed Tack. “Why ’twouldn’t be fitting for him not to set them up for some of Colonel Charlie’s boys.”

  “We’ns ride for Colonel Charlie Goodnight, ma’am,” Del told Donna with an air of pride and superiority.

  “I bet he lies awake at night praying that his good luck lasts,” the buxom blonde answered and waited expectantly for the arrival of the town’s newly-elected marshal.

  If the trio felt any concern at the approach of the marshal, they failed to show it. Having just completed their first drive, they wished to give the impression of being well-traveled veterans. Fed on highly-spiced accounts of how a trail crew acted when in town, they had come into Mulrooney as they believed would be expected of them. Already, in their opinions, they had made a good start by asserting their Texas superiority over the Kansas lawmen. All that remained for them to do was buckle down and show those Kansan grasshoppers how Colonel Charlie’s crew whooped up a storm on hitting town.