The Floating Outfit 31: Set A-Foot (A Floating Outfit Western) Read online

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  In the days of the open range, a cowhand’s most vital possession was his horse. When a cowhand left a spread with no mount of his own, the rancher would usually allow him to borrow one from the remuda. But sometimes, if they parted on bad terms, this loan would not be made…

  There was no greater disgrace for a cowhand than to be set a-foot. It meant he was untrustworthy, and once the news got around, he would find it almost impossible to get a job. So when a cowhand was set a-foot, there was usually trouble … and gunplay.

  Dusty Fog knew this, but he still set a-foot the man he blamed for the loss of an OC Connected trail herd and the injuries to some of his crew. He knew too that the cowhand he was disgracing was real fast with a gun—and knew that gun might be turned against him.

  The cowhand’s only name was Waco …

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 31: SET A-FOOT

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1977

  Copyright © 1977, 2019 by J. T. Edson

  First Kindle Edition: January 2019

  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.

  For Penelope Wallace with thanks for letting me publish

  CAP FOG AND J. G. REEDER

  Table of Contents

  Publisher’s Note:

  One – It Wouldn’t Have Hurt Him!

  Two – He Was Asking About Hired Guns

  Three – Handle It Carefully

  Four – I Don’t Like the Way You Play!

  Five – He Must’ve Seen It

  Six – Those Holes Could’ve Been in You

  Seven – Something, or Somebody?

  Eight – Maybe They’ll Want to Lynch Him

  Nine – You Could’ve Gotten Killed

  Ten – He’s Been Dead For At Least A Month

  Eleven – He’ll Six His Zombie on You

  Twelve – Do Any of Them Know Us?

  Thirteen – You’ll Not Set Me A-Foot

  Fourteen – That’s Why I Saved Your Life

  Fifteen – I Don’t Aim to Take Chances

  Sixteen – Leave Them to the Zombies

  About the Author

  One – It Wouldn’t Have Hurt Him!

  ‘Well, we-all’ve found the Rio Grande I reckon, Lem,’ the young Negro who answered to the name ‘Tarbrush’ remarked as, having quenched his own thirst, he stood waiting for his big brown mule to finish drinking. ‘Only thing now is, which way do we head for Bannock’s Ford?’

  Close to six foot in height, with a lanky yet wiry frame, Tarbrush had a good looking face which usually had a cheerful expression. His garments—a low-crowned, wide-brimmed gray J. B. Stetson hat, black wolf skin jacket, dark blue shirt, Levi’s pants with the legs outside sharp-toed, high heeled boots—were indications that he was employed in the cattle industry which was chiefly responsible for a return to economic stability in Texas after the financial distress caused by having supported the Confederate States in the War of Secession. [1] There was a Ballard Single Shot Cartridge carbine in the boot attached to the left side of his low homed, double girthed [2] range saddle and he had an old Colt 1851 Navy revolver tucked through his trousers’ waistband.

  As he was travelling in search of work, he was carrying the rest of his worldly goods in the bedroll strapped to his rig’s cantle.

  There was good cause for Tarbrush’s comment. Hitherto his life had been spent further north in Texas and he was paying his first visit to the border country. While the three-quarter moon gave sufficient illumination for him to be able to look across the Rio Grande to the Mexican shore, there was thick woodland on either side of him. This, together with a bend in the river, prevented him from seeing even a glow of lights to suggest whether his destination lay up- or downstream of his present position. Nor was he close enough to hear anything which might have served as a clue.

  Mounting the mule, the young Negro rode back towards the trail which ran parallel to the river. Hearing the sound of hooves as he was emerging from the bushes, he glanced around. In spite of the trees which fringed it, there was enough light for him to have a clear view along the trail. As yet, the riders were not in sight. Bringing his mule to a halt, he waited to ask for directions and hoped that he might have company on the rest of the journey. What he observed a few seconds later suggested that the latter might prove undesirable, or even dangerous, if it materialized.

  Spread in a line across the trail, the three riders who appeared were behaving in a manner which was calculated to disturb a solitary Negro travelling at night through thick woodland and far from the nearest human habitation. While the worst abuses of the Reconstruction period had been brought to an end, the animosities they had created were not forgotten. There were men, black and white, who would take every opportunity to exercise their hatred of the other race.

  Born and raised in the Texas range country, reasonably skilled at handling the revolver and the carbine, Tarbrush was neither a coward nor a reckless hot-head. So, although the trio displayed surprise at seeing him, he was careful to avoid making any gesture which might be construed as attempting to reach for either weapon. Instead, he continued to lounge on the motionless mule’s saddle and kept his hands in plain sight. For all that, he was ready to take any add-on that became necessary as he watched them riding closer.

  Nursing a Winchester Model of 1866 rifle across his knees, the man on the left was tall, well built and of early middle age. There was a controlled hardness about his rugged features which was apparent even in the moonlight, and his neatly trimmed black moustache did nothing to soften it. He had on range style clothing of exceptionally good quality, the dark green shirt and matching bandana having a glossy texture suggestive of silk, with an ivory handled Colt 1860 Army revolver in a fast draw holster tied to his right thigh. Sitting a powerful bay gelding, he had neither a bedroll nor a rope attached to his saddle. Of the three, he had shown the least reaction to discovering Tarbrush in front of them. After a quick glance, he had given his attention to scanning the woodland between the trail and the river.

  Almost as tall, the rider on the right of the trio was several years younger and slimmer. Good looking, there was a sullen truculence to the lines of his face. He was somewhat more flashily dressed, although in a similar cowhand fashion and his gunbelt supported a brace of Army Colts. At the sight of Tarbrush, he had made as if to raise the Henry rifle which was cradled across the croo
k of his left arm and refrained when the man on the left made a low spoken, but clearly prohibitive comment. However, he continued to watch the young Negro.

  To Tarbrush’s range-wise scrutiny, the outer riders’ appearance suggested that they probably earned their living through skill with their weapons rather than by ability as cowhands and, unless he was mistaken, the older was much the more capable. He also deduced, from the way in which they were carrying their rifles exposed, that they might be doing something more than merely heading for the town of Bannock’s Ford in search of harmless recreation.

  While the flanking pair were dressed in a manner which could have passed without arousing too much speculation in most places west of the Big Muddy, [3] where well-armed men were the exception rather than the rule, the same did not apply to their companion. He might be displaying an equal competence at sitting a Texas-style saddle and handling a horse, but there the resemblance ended.

  Stocky of build and medium in height, the third man’s clean shaven face had the slightly Oriental cast of a Mid- European. Unlike the other two, he showed no sign of being armed. In fact, his attire was more suited to the streets of an Eastern city than for wearing on a trail in the border country of Texas. His round topped brown hat had a small and curly brim that would offer no protection from the elements. Nor was his short black jacket, white shirt, dark silk cravat, tight legged tan riding breeches and Hessian boots [4] any more appropriate raiment for such terrain. He too continued to gaze at Tarbrush.

  ‘Do you-all reckon he saw it in there, Silkie?’ asked the youngest of the three horsemen, either unaware or not caring that the dense nature of the woodland on each side of the trail created an acoustic effect which allowed Tarbrush as well as his companions to hear what he was saying.

  ‘No,’ replied the rider on the right, also apparently failing to appreciate that his words were carrying to the subject of his companion’s question. ‘If he had, he wouldn’t be sitting there like nothing had happened.’

  ‘Hell!’ protested the first speaker. ‘He’s black. It wouldn’t’ve hurt him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t’ve known that, nor stayed around for long enough to find out happen he’d seen it coming his way,’ declared the other man who was wearing range country clothing. He continued his scrutiny of the trees and bushes alongside the trail. ‘He’d’ve taken one look and took off like his butt was on fire.’

  ‘Hell yes, he would,’ the youngest man conceded and, clearly struck by a thought, swung his head towards the one who had not yet spoken. Hefting his rifle, as if wishing to make certain that there was nothing to impede him in raising the butt speedily to his shoulder, he went on, ‘Are you-all sure you can handle that blasted thing happen we find it, Mr. Petrov. We don’t have our faces bla—’

  ‘Of course I can handle it!’ interrupted the third member of the party, turning his gaze to the speaker. His voice was harsh and held a different kind of accent to the other two’s Southern drawls, so that the words emerged as, ‘Hoff gorse I gan handle it’ and suggested English was not his native tongue. Having answered, he looked in the other direction and continued, ‘What do you think he’s doing here, Mr. Roelich?’

  ‘I was wondering about that myself,’ the older of the Westerners admitted.

  ‘Quickest way to find out’d be to ask him,’ the youngster commented, eyeing Tarbrush with a mixture of truculence and disdain.

  ‘Likely, Mr. Hooper, but leave me to do the asking,’ the other range-clad man said and, politely as they were spoken, the words came out as an order to an inferior rather than a request. Bringing his horse to a halt, he addressed the young Negro in exactly the same tone. ‘Howdy.’

  ‘Howdy, gents,’ Tarbrush replied, forcing himself to sound amiable despite a growing feeling of trepidation, as the second and third riders caused their mounts to’ stop alongside the first’s and not more than fifteen feet away. He decided that something more than the bare greeting was called for and considered an explanation of his presence might not come amiss. ‘Be right obliged happen you-all can tell me how I can get to Bannock’s Ford.’

  ‘It’s maybe three miles down this way,’ stated the man who had appointed himself spokesman for the trio, nodding in the direction that they had been riding. His gaze went to the mule, studying its legs in particular, then lifted to its rider’s face. ‘You-all just come over from Mexico?’

  ‘Nope,’ Tarbrush answered, knowing that his mount showed no signs to suggest it had crossed the river and realizing what was wanted from him. ‘Feller I asked up to Cotulla allowed I should head straight south to reach Bannock’s. When I saw the water through the trees, I figured ole Lem here ’n’ me’d take us a drink and make sure we’d hit the Rio Grande, then see if there was anything to show us which way to go from here.’

  ‘What brought you-all down he—?’ the youngest member of the trio commenced, having been listening with ill-concealed impatience, but the words faded off as his companions glared at him.

  ‘Don’t pay him no never-mind,’ the older Westerner drawled, returning his gaze to Tarbrush. For all the comment, he continued with what he clearly knew to be an intrusion upon the Negro’s private affairs. ‘Would you be going to Bannock’s to visit with your kinfolk?’

  ‘Don’t have any there,’ Tarbrush corrected, sensing the question was a trap. ‘I’m lookin’ for work. From what I’ve heard, I ought to be able to get took on as a night-hawk [5] easy enough around town.’

  ‘You ought,’ the spokesman admitted, flickering a coldly prohibitive glance as ‘Mr. Hooper’ moved restlessly on his saddle and seemed on the point of injecting a comment. ‘Only I’d’ve thought there’d be plenty of places further north where you could’ve got taken on without needing to come down here.’

  ‘Sure there were,’ Tarbrush conceded, so blandly that he managed to conceal his ever growing resentment. ‘Trouble being that all them fellers I talked to up there’re trailing herds to Kansas. I’ve done that twice already and want to try someplace different.’

  Although the young Negro considered that being subjected to such an interrogation was an unwarrantable liberty, he also appreciated that in the circumstances it would be inadvisable for him to disclose his sentiments. From the names mentioned by Hooper and the Easterner, added to what he remembered having heard in the past, he felt sure that he could identify the man who was doing most of the talking. The knowledge was an effective curb against raising a protest.

  When men noted for speed on the draw were being discussed, Lawrence Rudolph Roelich—whose sobriquet ‘Silkie’ had arisen from his predilection for wearing shirts and even, it was rumored, socks of that material—would not have been among the first to be considered. For all that, he was still regarded as being a pistolero valiente of better than average ability. Unlike the younger hard-case, he was displaying neither arrogance nor truculence. His questions were being delivered in an almost matter-of-fact tone, but his demeanor warned Tarbrush that he had every intention of having them answered. What was more, even if he had been alone, he possessed sufficient skill in the use of firearms to enforce his desire for information if it should not be supplied voluntarily.

  Distasteful as having to submit to the questioning might be, there was a second factor compelling Tarbrush to do so. All through the conversation, the man in the Eastern style garments had never stopped looking at him and he was finding the unwinking scrutiny becoming increasingly disconcerting. Only once before, when as a child he had been taken to have his ‘future’ foretold by an old conjure-woman who was reputed to possess mystical and supernatural powers, had he encountered anything to match the piercing intensity of the dark, somewhat slanting eyes. They gave him the feeling that they could probe into his thoughts and would know whether or not he was speaking the truth. It was an eerie and far from comforting sensation.

  At the conclusion of Tarbrush’s explanation regarding his presence in the area, the Easterner addressed him for the first time. However, as the words were not in En
glish, he could not understand what they meant.

  ‘I’m sorry, mister,’ the young Negro said, hoping that the perturbation he was experiencing did not show. ‘I can’t make out what you’re saying.’

  Speaking again, the man either repeated his words or made some equally unintelligible comment. On receiving the same negative response from Tarbrush, he looked in an interrogative manner at Roelich. The pistolero gave what was clearly a nod of confirmation to the unasked question. Apparently the man was satisfied by his companion’s summation. Instead of reverting to English, he rose on his stirrups and peered at the woodland to the left of the trail.

  ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble getting took on,’ Roelich drawled. ‘I’ve heard there’s at least two trail crews in town. You can ride along with us if you’ve a mind.’

  While Tarbrush felt relieved at the harsh-voiced foreigner’s eyes having left him, he was less pleased with the pistolero’s proposition. A shrewd judge of character and always susceptible to atmosphere, he had started to consider that the former could prove to be the most dangerous member of the trio. He had had sufficient experience with men like the two hard-cases to know how to cope with, or at least avoid antagonizing, them. However, their companion was something far beyond his ken. For some reason he could not entirely understand, his every instinct gave a warning that the man in the Eastern clothes was a person to be avoided. The feeling was so strong that he could not bring himself to remain in the other’s company.

  ‘Ole Lem here’s done a fair piece of travelling already today and I figured to let him rest up a spell afore we go any farther,’ Tarbrush replied, noticing that the Easterner darted a glance at Roelich as if he too did not favor the suggestion. ‘Fact being, I only come out when I heard you-all to ask you the way.’

  ‘If we say you’re coming—!’ Hooper began aggressively, but once again fell silent as the older pistolero scowled at him.