The Floating Outfit 21: The Fast Gun (A Floating Outfit Western) Read online

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  To Gavin Gartree’s bunch of hardcases, “work” was a cussword, “innocent” was a come-on, and a young pilgrim girl was an invitation to a molestation. But nothing was quite as it seemed. For a start, the young pilgrim girl in question was accompanied by a small and seemingly inconsequential Texan by the name of Dusty Fog. But that was the thing about Dusty Fog. Though small in stature, he was a giant when it came to fighting, and he always made his first shot the last shot as well …

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 21: THE FAST GUN

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1968

  Copyright © 1967, 2018 by J. T. Edson

  First Kindle Edition: March 2018

  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.

  Table of Contents

  One – The Son of a Prominent Citizen

  Two – Gavin Gartree’s Mistake

  Three – Baines Gartree’s Hired Man

  Four – Bainesville’s Blacksmith Shows Caution

  Five – A Killer Stalks His Prey

  Six – Travelers on the South-Bound Trail

  Seven – Two Heroes Develop Feet of Clay

  Eight – Captain Fog Speeds Departing Guests

  Nine – The Travelers

  Ten – Mighty Strong Iron

  Eleven – The Customs of the Country

  Twelve – Tracks of Unshod Horses

  Thirteen – Vaza’s Change of Mind

  Fourteen – The Peaceful Valley

  Fifteen – The End of a Peaceful Day

  Sixteen – A Dream?

  About the Author

  One – The Son of a Prominent Citizen

  The four young men in the General Sheridan Saloon looked like trouble, or the well-travelled and experienced bartender had never seen it. Although the wall clock’s hands stood at only ten o’clock in the morning, the quartet showed signs of carrying enough Old Stump Buster to make them truculent. At the pool table, three of the four played a rowdy game and seemed to be doing their damnedest to cause mischief and damage. The fourth member of the group stood just inside the main doors and watched Bainesville’s main street in the hope of finding fresh devilment into which he could steer his companions.

  Tall, lean, wearing cowhand clothes, although without the tanned face long exposure to the elements gave most members of the cattle chasing profession, sporting an 1860 Army Colt in a low cavalry-twist draw holster, the street watcher’s expression was one calculated to convince people of his salty, uncurried nature. Turkey Cooper wanted very much to build himself a name; and spent most of his waking hours working towards that end.

  Like Turkey, two of the remainder spelled trouble to Western eyes. Clad in range clothing, looking like cowhands to untutored eyes, their appearance fooled nobody who knew the West. Looking a younger version of Turkey, Coop Cooper cultivated his elder brother’s habits, although making sure that he never eclipsed the other; to do so called down painful repercussions. Shorter and slightly heavier built, Lanny Bulmer followed the general style and habits of the brothers. All in all, the trio looked and acted like many of the type throughout the cattle country.

  Maybe once in a while, when driven to it by force of circumstances, their kind might take employment on a ranch; but never stayed for long and mostly left under a cloud. Their normal occupation consisted of loafing about any town that would put up with them, joining in any fun or fuss that happened to be going and terrorizing much of the citizens who failed to show courage in facing them. Occasionally, when largesse from real cowhands did not come, such young men stepped over the line and went outside the law, to meet a well-deserved fate at the hands of a peace officer or posse.

  The particular trio currently gracing Bainesville with their presence had little danger at that time of being forced into work or crime as a means of earning their daily bread; having found a way to supply their needs without raising either sweat or danger. In return for their company and acceptance as their leader, the fourth young man kept them in food, drink and free from interference by the local law.

  While as tall as Turkey Cooper, Gavin Gartree had a slimmer build. If one discounted a sullen mouth and narrow-set eyes, Gartree might be termed handsome. Dressed to what he fondly imagined to be the height of fashion, he too failed to fool people who knew the range. Silver conchas glittered on the band of his costly white Stetson, and a pure silk bandana knotted at his throat trailed ends over his expensive shirt, almost to the waist band of his levis pants. The gunbelt around his waist had been designed for speedy withdrawal of the pearl handled Navy Colt in its holster and Gartree believed himself to be something of a master in its use.

  Son of a wealthy, influential and prominent politician, Gartree was arrogant and possessed a vicious, carping sense of humor. His father, a man of “liberal” views, gave him everything he wanted—except for parental discipline—and used his influence in the small Kansas town to shield his son from the consequences of a number of rash actions.

  Small wonder that Gavin Gartree found the three young men so willing to act as his companions and treat him as their leader.

  Raising his cue almost perpendicular, Gartree stabbed hard at a ball and caused it to leap from the table. The tip of the cue forced up the green cloth’s nap and left a white chalk mark, coming close to opening up a tear in the surface. Coop nudged Lanny, nodded in the direction of the bartender and winked. Moving to the side of the table, Coop bent, made a bridge with his left hand, sawed his cue back and forwards with the right and slammed the eight ball so that it tore along, struck the cushion in the corner and bounced clear over to land on the floor.

  An angry grunt left the bartender’s lips as he watched the two actions. In his employer’s absence, the bartender had the responsibility of running the business. Yet he knew that the owner allowed Gartree’s bunch a degree of latitude not extended to customers with less influential backing. It galled a man to stand watching a bunch of idle yahoos act up and yet be unable to take the appropriate action against them.

  Ignoring the noise behind him, Turkey Cooper remained at his post and watched the street. An exceptionally fine paint stallion stood at the hitching-rail of the barber’s shop across the street; its low horned, double girthed range saddle a sure sign that a Texas man owned it. Bainesville lay to the east of the great interstate trails along which the Texans drove their herds to market, but Turkey had seen enough of those trail herding men to know that he must not try any of his games with the animal. From the fact that the saddle carried a tarp-wrapped bedroll strapped to its cantle, Turkey concluded that the paint’s owner passed through rather than worked for a local outfit and came to town on a spree. Neither the coiled, hard-plaited Manila rope strapped to the saddlehorn, nor the Winchester Model ’66 carbine in the boot were sufficiently out of the ordinary as to excite any comment.

  While Turkey wondered if the Texan might be good for free drinks and fun later, he saw something which took his mind from thoughts of hoorawing the town. A much more satisfactory source of amusement had made its appearance; one he felt sure his three companions would wish to enjoy.

  The wagon coming along Cresset Street looked little different from thousands of others which roamed the great open range country, carrying travelers and their belongings from place to place over the miles between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean. Four good quality horses drew the wagon, although the man handling the reins had not the appearance of a hard-rock haulage driver. That the new arrivals attracted any interest among the few people who went about their business on Cresset Street was merely because it carried strangers and such could generally be counted on to bring news of other areas.

  Not that Turkey Cooper watched the approaching wagon with any desire for news behind his interest.

  “Hey!” he called. “Come and take a look at what’s coming.”

  At the pool table, Gartree and his companions had begun to despair of rousing the bartender to protests at their deliberate actions. Deliberately letting his cue fall to the floor and leaving it there, Gartree swaggered across the room towards the batwing doors. Tossing his cue on to the table so its tip struck the cushion hard, Coop directed a challenging grin in the direction of the fuming bartender who chose to ignore both actions. Lanny rested his cue on his shoulder and took it along as he followed on his companions’ heels.

  On reaching the doors, Gartree opened his mouth to ask why Turkey interrupted a most interesting game. He held down the question as his eyes followed the direction of Turkey’s gaze and studied the occupants of the wagon.

  Two men sat on the wagon’s box and Turkey nodded towards them. “Who’d you reckon they are, Gav?”

  “Look like Quakers, or some such,” Coop suggested, studying the
men’s sober black suits, collarless shirts, round topped black hats and bearded, solemn faces.

  “Sure looks that way,” agreed Lanny. “Hey now! Just look at that!”

  He did not need to give the advice, for eight eyes drank in the sight of the girl who emerged from the wagon’s interior and stood behind the men. Small, petite, with a perfectly formed, beautiful face that bore an expression of wide-eyed innocence, the girl would have drawn admiring glances in almost any company. Although a sun bonnet covered her hair, she had the coloration of a blonde; and not even the severe lines of the black dress she wore could hide the rich fullness of the curves below.

  “Now that’s what I call a right pretty girl,” announced Gartree and for once his companions’ muttered agreement was not entirely sycophantic.

  “Thing now being what’re we going to do about her,” commented Turkey, watching the wagon come alongside and then pass by.

  “Shouldn’t ought to let a pretty gal like that come to our fair city without us showing her some hospitality,” Coop continued.

  Most likely nothing would have come of the talk if the strangers continued on their way. The quartet’s horses were at the livery barn, requiring collection and saddling before they could be used and none of Gartree’s bunch cared to exert themselves unduly for their amusement. If following the strangers entailed any effort, the four would have returned to their efforts at baiting the bartender. However, the wagon halted outside Bixby’s General Store, not more than one building’s length from the saloon.

  “Let’s go down and make talk,” Gartree ordered and pushed open the batwing doors.

  Followed by his companions, Lanny still shouldering the pool cue, Gartree strolled along the sidewalk in the direction of the wagon. He watched the two men climb down, moving slowly and stiffly in the manner of those who travelled far on the hard box seat of a wagon. Due to having halted close to the store’s hitching rail, the travelers had to alight on the wheel and hoof-rutted center of the street, looking around them with as much interest as if Bainesville was the first town they had ever seen.

  Studying the newcomers as he approached them, Gartree noticed that neither of the men wore guns. The four young men halted on the sidewalk and Gartree hooked his forearm on the butt of his gun, supporting the upper part of his body and standing in what he imagined to be a relaxed, but ready and masterful posture. After examining the two male strangers again in an attempt to locate hidden arms, Gartree made his decision.

  “I’ll tend to it, wait here,” he said, and swung off the sidewalk to walk by the heads of the wagon team.

  A hint of annoyance furrowed Turkey’s brow, for he hoped to have his share in the fun. However, he held his objections inside him, figuring that it might be better to miss some fun. One of the things Gartree expected in return for the money he spent on his companions was to have his own way in all things large and small.

  Swaggering forwards Gartree approached the travelers and his face took on an expression of disarming charm that usually came as a prelude to an outbreak of what his father termed ‘youthful high spirits’; but which less biased people gave a different and more apt name.

  “This’ll be good,” grinned Lanny.

  “Real good,” sniffed Turkey. “Especially if those fellers show tough. Then we’ll get called in quick enough.”

  “Howdy,” Gartree greeted, halting before the trio and adopting his gun-leaning posture again to show them that they faced the real thing. “You folks come far?”

  Although all three looked in Gartree’s direction, none made any reply for a moment. It seemed that the elder of the male travelers—a venerable, white-haired and bearded man with a sober, intelligent cast of features—was thinking out the correct words to use before answering. Yet, when he finally spoke, his English, if a touch slow and precise, carried no trace of an accent.

  “We have come a long journey. Could you please tell me the name of this town?”

  “Bainesville, Kansas,” replied Gartree with a broadening grin.

  The possibilities of the situation improved by the minute. Not only did the travelers belong to some unimportant and obscure religious sect; but their leader appeared to be speaking in a foreign language. Such a combination offered almost limitless opportunities for fun of the most vicious kind; and that was the type Gartree liked when half drunk. From what he knew of the town marshal, Bainesville’s only representative of law and order, Gartree expected no interference from that source no matter how he mishandled the newcomers.

  “Bainesville, Kansas,” repeated the elder man gravely and lapsed into silence for a short time. Although he stood looking straight into Gartree’s face, the man gave no sign of being aware of the other’s presence. At last he gave a slow nod of his head and continued, “So this is Bainesville, Kansas.”

  “Sure is,” agreed Gartree, throwing a nod and wink in the direction of his watching companions. “How long’re you staying here?”

  Again came the slight pause as the old man collected his words, then he replied, “Perhaps we may stay for a time. It all depends on if we find what we came looking for.”

  “It’s a fine little town,” Gartree remarked, directing his words to the girl and stripping her with his eyes. “A whole lot of nice things happen here when I’m around.” Cool blue eyes studied Gartree with an infuriating indifference, for the local girls showed more interest in the son of the town’s most prominent citizen. Fed on the respect—real or pretended—of people in Bainesville, nothing roused Gartree’s anger more than a person who failed to accord him what he felt to be his due.

  “I doubt if we will be staying here,” the girl declared, speaking in the same precise manner as the man.

  “Not even long enough to take a meal,” asked Gartree.

  “I think not,” answered the girl definitely.

  “Not even was I to offer to stand treat for all of you to the meal?” Gartree continued. “Of course you’ll come with me, and the boys’ll look after your pappy and grandpappy there.”

  The girl did not reply for a moment. From the puzzled expression on her face, Gartree guessed that she did not understand his colloquial speech and this amused him without lessening his anger at her indifference. A half smile played momentarily as she glanced at her two companions; then she became grave faced as her eyes turned to Gartree’s face once more.

  “No, thank you,” she declined.

  “Tell you what,” hissed Gartree, his anger growing at the refusal. “You come with me for a meal, and I’ll join in your prayers before and after we eat.”

  “Prayers?” said the girl. “I don’t understand you.”

  “Come on now,” grinned Gartree. “All you glory-hunters pray real hard for the good Lord to give you what you want; and try to convert everybody to your ways.”

  “We have no wish to convert anybody,” objected the girl. “Nor do we want anything at all.”

  “Now me,” sneered Gartree, “I’m different, I want something. And whatever I want, I go right ahead and get it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the girl, her expressive face showing a hint of concern as she moved closer to her companions.

  “You know what I mean. I aim to take you for a meal.”

  Something in Gartree’s tone and attitude must have warned the girl against accepting his invitation, even if she could not fully understand the meaning of his words. Both her companions showed signs of their concern and the younger threw a glance towards the wagon. It was the elder man who made the next move.

  “Get on to the wagon,” he said to the girl. “I think we will leave.”

  “And I think you won’t!” Gartree spat out.

  “But we wish to resume our journey,” the girl said.

  “And I wish for you to stay here,” mocked Gartree. “Which same, I’m a man who likes to see his wishes come true.”

  “I do not understand,” the girl replied.

  “Maybe I’d best show you then,” Gartree told her, his lips twisting in a slobbering leer as he moved towards the girl.

  Opening his mouth as if to speak, the elder man took a step forward so as to prevent Gartree reaching the girl. Before the man could speak, Gartree laid the palm of his hand against the bearded face and shoved hard. A low mutter ran through the small crowd of townspeople who had gathered on the sidewalks, but Gartree expected no interference from the local citizens. Throwing a quick glance to make sure that his three companions stood by ready to back his plan, Gartree reached towards the girl.