The Floating Outfit 59 Read online

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  By tradition all Texans are giants among men, with the capacity for performing great deeds. Take the

  Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, as an example.

  At seventeen he commanded a company of the Texas Light Cavalry. With the Civil War ended he

  became segundo of the biggest ranch in Texas, trail boss with few peers, town-taming lawman of the

  highest order, and the fastest and most accurate of the quick draw breed.

  That then was Dusty Fog—a Texan of the classic mold.

  Except that Dusty Fog stood a mere five foot six inches in height.

  Yet when the chips were down and folks needed a leader in desperate times or situations, Dusty Fog, the small Texan, stood tallest of them all.

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 59: THE SMALL TEXAN

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Brown Watson Publishers in 1969

  Copyright © 1969, 2021 by J. T. Edson

  First Electronic Edition: May 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

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  DEDICATION

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT SERIES

  For Audie Murphy, to whom Dusty Fog owes so much.

  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.

  Part One

  The Evidence of His Own Eyes

  General Frank G. Mansfield had only been appointed as Governor of Kansas a month before, but from all appearances his term of office might come to a sudden and painful end.

  When three of the hounds broke away from the line taken by the remainder of the pack, he followed them convinced that they were pursuing an almost full-grown cougar cub which had separated from its mother under the pressure of the chase. None of Mansfield’s escort or companions saw his departure, as he discovered on looking behind, but that only added spice to the situation. If the hounds treed the cougar, he could claim it as his prize. Having hunted cougar on a number of occasions, he did not subscribe to the many highly-colored legends of their ferocity and menace to human life. However, the three he was helping to hunt—a mother and two cubs—had developed too strong a taste for horse flesh to be left alive.

  The trouble was that, instead of a one hundred and twenty pound Great Plains cougar, he found himself confronted by maybe six hundred pounds of very angry Ursus Planiceps. What set of circumstances brought a flat-headed grizzly bear from the Mineral country of Colorado into West Kansas, Mansfield could not imagine. It might have been a hard winter, following migrating game, or pushed that way in the course of a hunt. Whatever its reason for being there, the bear stood backed up against a blueberry bush and held off the hounds as Mansfield burst into view through the trees surrounding the clearing in which it decided to make its stand.

  Steady though it might be under normal hunting conditions, the horse Mansfield sat showed a strenuous disinclination to facing that bristling, raging apparition. The unexpected sight also shocked Mansfield at a moment when he needed all his wits about him. With a roaring snarl, the bear charged at its new enemy and the hounds flung themselves aside to avoid its rush. Skidding to a halt, Mansfield’s horse reared high on its hind legs. Before Mansfield realized what was happening, he slid backwards over the cantle of his saddle, from the horse’s rump and to the ground. How he missed catching the rear hooves in his face as the horse whirled around and fled, he never knew. What he fully understood, despite being winded by the fall, was that his mount was racing away carrying his powerful Sharps hunting rifle in its saddle boot.

  No three dogs, even trained bluetick big game hounds, could hope to tackle and hold a full grown grizzly bear. However the trio sprang forward gallantly. One clamped its teeth on to the side of the bear’s face, clinging there for a moment before a jerk of the great head flung it away. Attacking from the rear, the other two bit into the long hair on which they could obtain no grip. So the combined efforts of the hounds did nothing to slow down the bear’s charge.

  A man did not reach the rank of brigadier general at thirty-five, even in time of war, without the ability to think and act fast in the face of danger. Mansfield had attained his rank through courage, ability and presence of mind on a number of occasions. Confronted by as great a threat to his life as any from the late Confederate States’ Army, he did not panic. With a desperate rolling thrust, he avoided the bear’s attack, hearing its powerful jaws chop together behind his back and feeling one of its forefeet brush against his legs. Carried on by its momentum, the bear shot by him. Instantly he rose and raced across the clearing. If he could reach and climb a tree, he might be safe until his companions arrived or the bear decided to depart.

  Behind him as he ran, the hideous grunting snarls of the bear mingled with the growling of the hounds. They still failed to halt the grizzly, for he could hear the approaching thud of its feet as it came after him. Darting a glance over his shoulder, he saw that he could not hope to reach a tree and climb high enough to save himself. While a Remington Model 1875 Army revolver rode butt forward in the cavalry-style holster on his belt, its twenty-eight grain powder charge lacked the power to propel a .45 bullet with sufficient force to save him.

  Suddenly rifles started to crackle among the trees. The bear bellowed in pain and Mansfield saw it stagger under the impact of the bullets. Yet it neither fell nor wavered in its charge, being determined to repay the hurts it suffered on the closest living creature—and Mansfield qualified for that honor. Twisting around with his back to the trunk of a slippery elm tree, he watched the bear rushing nearer and could not spare so much as a glance at the men using the rifles. Yet he knew they were not members of his hunting party. At least three Winchester rifles and a carbine from the same company poured lead at the bear. Only one of his party carried a Winchester, the rest being armed with Springfield, Remington or Sharps single-shot sporting guns.

  Not that Mansfield wasted time debating the matter. He could see the bullets striking, causing the long guard hairs of the bear’s coat to jerk and wave as they arrived. Then he flung himself aside at exactly the right moment. Unable to stop itself, the bear crashed into the tree, teeth and claws sending chunks of bark flying in blind rage.

  At which point Mansfield’s luck seemed to run out. Catching a root as he moved aside, his foot slipped and he went sprawling. After clawing and biting its way erect up the tree’s trunk, the bear loomed above him on its hind feet. Even as he grabbed at the Remington’s butt, he saw a sight he would remember to his dying day.

  A figure appeared, approaching from behind the bear; a man who definitely did not belong to the General’s party. Six foot three at least in height, with a tremendous spread of shoulders that tapered down to a lean waist, curly golden blond hair and an almost classically handsome face, he might have been an old-time Grecian god. Except that no Grecian god ever wore a costly, wide brimmed, low crowned white Stetson hat, tight rolled scarlet silk bandana, expensive tan shirt, made-to-measure Levi’s pants with turned-back cuffs hanging outside high-heeled, fancy stitched boots and a gunbelt with ivory handled Colt Cavalry Peacemakers hanging just right for a real fast draw in its contoured holsters.

  Instead of attempting to draw his revolvers, the blond giant sprang forward. His hands went up under the bear’s forelegs like a wrestler seeking a full nelson hold. At the same moment he spiked his boot heels into the earth and braced back with all his strength. Ample though the shirt’s sleeves were made, they stretched almost to bursting point as his enormous biceps and shoulder muscles swelled and throbbed under the strain.

  To Mansfield’s amazement, the bear was halted in its tracks. Snarls of baffled fury rose from it and it shook its great frame to try to throw the man from its back. Mansfield realized that he must do something to help his rescuer for it seemed unlikely that even the blond giant’s muscles could continue to hold the bear.

  Then another man appeared, running towards the struggling man and bear. While a Texan like the big blond, the second rescuer seemed small and insignificant in comparison with the other. Not more than five foot six inches tall, the second man wore range clothes as costly as his companions’ yet gave them the appearance of being somebody’s c
ast-offs. Good looking, his face had strength and power if one chanced to notice it. Nor did the lack of inches imply a puny build. That small frame packed muscular development which would have equaled the other man’s had they both been the same height. Around the newcomer’s waist hung an exceptionally fine gunbelt, bone handled Colt Civilian Peacemakers pointing butt forward in its holsters. Small the dusty blond haired cowhand might be, but he acted fast and with decision.

  With a surging heave, the big blond swung the bear away from Mansfield and towards the small cowhand. Skidding to a halt, the second man dropped his Winchester Model 1873 carbine. His hands crossed to the butts of the Colts and fetched the guns from leather in a single flickering blur of movement. Before the carbine landed at his feet, the small Texan’s Colts roared. Held at waist level, aimed by instinctive alignment, they sent their bullets upwards to strike under the bear’s snarling jaws and drive on into its brain. So close did the two shots come together that they could not be heard as separate sounds. Another rifle cracked in echo to the Colts’ twin roar and its .44 bullet ripped into the bear’s skull. The big body went limp, crumpling to the ground as the blond giant opened his arms and released his hold.

  Slowly Mansfield turned his eyes from the quivering body and studied the men who gathered around it. He found his estimate of three rifles and a carbine to be correct. The owners of the other Winchesters proved to be Texas cowhands also and one of them was as eye-catching in his way as the blond giant.

  Six foot tall, the man in question lacked the big blond’s terrific physique. Yet, lean as a steer raised in the greasewood country, he gave an impression of whang-leather toughness and controlled, latent, deadly speed. Under the black hat lay hair as black as a raven’s wing and a face as dark as an Indian’s yet young and almost babyishly innocent in features. His red hazel eyes did not go with the rest of the face. Those eyes had seen life—and death. He wore all black clothing, from Stetson, through bandana, shirt and Levi’s pants down to his boots. Even his gunbelt followed the same somber hue, supporting a sheathed ivory hilted James Black bowie knife at its left side and an old walnut handled Colt Dragoon butt forward in the twist hand draw holster on the right. In his hands he carried a magnificent Winchester rifle. As he walked, he gave one the feeling that he could cross a pile of eggs without breaking a shell.

  Equaling the black dressed youngster in height and build, the fourth of Mansfield’s rescuers had a pallid, tan-resisting face of studious, almost mild aspect. Like his companions, he wore the dress of a working cowboy and bore the indefinable air of a top hand. He had on an open jacket, its right side stitched back to leave access to the ivory handled Colt Civilian Peacemaker hanging in the carefully designed holster on his off thigh.

  Black dressed boy, studious young man and blond giant were men to be noticed. Yet, strange as it might have appeared to an unknowing onlooker, General Mansfield directed most of his attention to the last member of the quartet. However, he saw more than a small, insignificant cowhand and the devastating speed shown by the other when drawing and shooting did not alone account for that.

  Although they had served on opposite sides in the War Between the States, Mansfield agreed with the views of many Southern soldiers and regarded Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog as a man to be reckoned with. By all accounts which Mansfield respected, the small Texan called Dusty Fog had been a very able, chivalrous enemy. All unbiased reports from the Arkansas battle front confirmed that, even without Mansfield knowing that Dusty had volunteered to appear and testify at the court martial of the General’s favorite nephew who stood falsely accused of cowardice and desertion in the face of the enemy. In addition to clearing Lieutenant Kirby Cogshill’s name, the small Texan had killed a much-hated Yankee general in a duel while behind the Union lines. i As the general had been the aggressor, Mansfield did not hold that against Dusty Fog.

  More than gratitude for the saving of Kirby Cogshill lay behind Mansfield’s interest. With the War over, the small Texan had put aside his feelings about the Yankees and ridden on a very important mission into Mexico; the results of which had prevented what might have developed into open conflict between the two countries. ii Since then his name had gone far in the range country. Folks spoke of him as the segundo of the mighty OD Connected ranch, cowhand second to none, trail boss of the first water and town-taming lawman with few peers. Just how fast and well he could use his guns, Mansfield now knew. It was also claimed that he possessed strange bare-hand fighting skills which rendered bigger, stronger men helpless.

  So, to Mansfield’s reckoning, Dusty Fog could not be thought of in mere feet and inches. Mansfield had a special reason, apart from the saving of his life, for being pleased to see Dusty Fog. The fact that the small Texan’s all but inseparable companions were along increased the General’s pleasure.

  During the War, the blond giant Mark Counter had become known as a very brave fighter, while his style of uniform had been much copied—to the annoyance of many crusty senior officers—by the bloods of the Confederate States’ Army. Currently his choice of clothing dictated what the well-dressed Texas cowhand wore. Yet there was more than an enormously strong dandy to Mark. A master hand with cattle, rich in his own right, he might have been the owner or segundo of a ranch. However he preferred to ride as Dusty Fog’s right bower in the OD Connected’s floating outfit. His strength and prowess in a roughhouse brawl attracted attention wherever seen. Less known was his true capacity with his matched brace of long-barreled Colts. Men in a position to know claimed him to be a close second to Dusty Fog in both speed and accuracy.

  Anybody who believed that black-dressed youngster called Loncey Dalton Ysabel was innocent or harmless need only mention the fact anywhere along the Rio Grande border between Texas and Mexico to be enlightened. Down on the bloody border folks knew el Cabrito, the Ysabel Kid, to be just about as dangerous a man as that area ever produced.

  Only child of a wild Irish-Kentuckian and a beautiful Comanche-French Creole girl, the Kid grew up among the Pehnane—Wasps, Quick Stingers, or Raiders to the white man—band of his mother’s people. From his maternal grandfather, Long Walker, war chief of the Dog Soldier lodge, the Kid learned all the things a brave-heart warrior must know. iii Skill with weapons, ability to manage horses in almost any conditions, how to locate hidden enemies and follow barely discernible tracks, where to find food and water on the great Texas plains, all that and more he learned. The knowledge served him well as a member of Mosby’s Raiders and later when he helped his father transport supplies run through the Yankee blockade across the Rio Grande into Texas. iv After the War ended, the Ysabels planned to continue their smuggling activities. Sam Ysabel’s murder led to the Kid meeting Dusty Fog. From a youngster in a tough, illegal profession, with one foot on the slippery slope to out-and-out crime, the Kid became a useful member of Texas society. The training of his childhood served the community instead of being used against it. Not exceptionally fast with his Dragoon, he relied on the bowie knife at close quarters—being accounted a worthy successor to its designer in its use—and possessed an almost supernatural skill at handling his rifle over longer distances. The magnificent Winchester—which bore the proud, if modest, title ‘One of a Thousand’—came to him as first prize at the Cochise Country Fair and in competition with some of the best rifle shots in the West. v

  Although less known than his friends, Doc Leroy still bore a respected name among Texas cowhands. He had hoped to become a doctor like his father, but circumstances prevented him from completing medical school. Back in Texas, he took the only profession available in the years immediately following the War and worked as a cowhand with the Wedge trail crew. Very fast with a gun when required, he managed to avoid gaining a name in that respect. He still hoped one day to complete his education and learned all he could by helping doctors met during his travels. On the trail he set bones, removed bullets, attended to sundry illnesses and injuries and on occasion delivered babies. When the Wedge disbanded, Doc accepted Dusty’s offer and joined the OD Connected to ride with Ole Devil’s floating outfit.