The Floating Outfit 66 Read online

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  Belle Starr, lady outlaw, had been murdered, cut down from behind by a double charge of buckshot. Nobody knew who had killed her.

  But Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid swore they would bring in the murderer.

  Getting whoever killed Belle meant a lot to the three Texans.

  It meant more than ever to Mark, for he had planned to ask the girl to be his wife.

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 66: GUNS IN THE NIGHT

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1968

  Copyright © 1968, 2021 by J. T. Edson

  First Electronic Edition: December 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.

  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 – Thunder in the Night

  DOWN TO THE south, in the far distance, thunder rolled and a flicker of lightning ripped the storm-laden heavens, creasing the sky momentarily then fading into nothing. None of the trio of riders heading south from Kansas showed the slightest sign of concern at the sight, although they were far from human shelter, for they knew the storm would not come their way.

  ‘Ole Ka-Dih’s riled tonight,’ said the Ysabel Kid as his wild-looking, seventeen-hand-high white stallion eased itself with cat-footed grace down a cut-bank’s slope.

  ‘Damned if at times you don’t believe in that Comanche Great Spirit, Lon,’ answered Mark Counter, sitting his huge bloodbay stud casually, a light rider despite his giant size. ‘What do you reckon, Dusty?’

  Dusty Fog smiled. ‘Ka-Dih, Great Spirit, God. It’s all one and the same. A man needs something to believe in. Especially on a stormy night.’

  And with that Dusty gave the pack-horse’s hackamore a gentle twitch as a reminder to stay close to his big, magnificent paint stallion’s flank while they crossed the cutback.

  ‘We won’t make the Starr place tonight, that’s for sure,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Not without riding through that storm. Which same, I hate water except for drinking and washing in; and if I wash, I don’t want to do it dressed.’

  ‘We’ll bed down soon as we can then,’ Mark replied.

  One might have expected Dusty Fog to make such a decision, being the other two’s employer. However, the matter on hand was Mark Counter’s concern and Dusty willingly allowed his good amigo full say in whether they halted or pushed on to the Starr ranch through the night and the storm.

  ‘There’s a spring, about half a mile on,’ remarked the Kid, his part-Indian ability to follow a path, or remember a strip of land in darkness or daylight, locating their position on the Oklahoma range. ‘Be the best place to bed down. What do you reckon Belle wants with you, Mark?’

  ‘Sounded real urgent,’ Dusty agreed.

  ‘She just said for us to get down here as quickly as we could,’ Mark replied, his voice a deep, cultured Southern drawl.

  ‘Could be she wants to marry up with you at last, Mark boy,’ grinned the Kid. ‘Only I don’t reckon you’d be riding towards her if you thought that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ asked Mark.

  Something in the way his big amigo spoke brought Dusty’s eyes jerking in Mark’s direction. A man did not share food, fun, danger and work with another for ten years without getting to know how the other thought, felt and acted; so Dusty noticed Mark’s tone more than would a stranger. During their quartet of days in Mulrooney at the end of a cattle drive, Mark had been somewhat quiet and subdued, although again, only a good friend would have noticed it. Dusty had been inclined to put Mark’s behavior down to the knowledge that this would most likely be the last of the great inter-state drives. The way railroads were being driven south into Texas, next year a man would not need to make the long drive north to the Kansas trail-end. As working cattleman and the segundo of the biggest ranch in Texas, Dusty approved of the change, but also regretted it a little too. Driving a herd of around three thousand head of half-wild longhorn Texas cattle through the danger, against inclement elements, in the face of a hundred and more problems, without losing many head, had been an achievement. After the long days on the trail, the arrival at the shipping pens had been greeted with such joy that only a man who experienced it could understand. It was a time for fun, wild horse-play, reckless spending of hard-earned money, drinking and love-making—or what passed for love-making in most cases.

  On previous drives Mark could always be found in the thick of the fun and frolics, ready to dance all night, get involved in a fight or make even the most blasé dance-hall girl’s pulse beat the quicker with his adroit love-making. Not so on their last trip. Mark showed, if only to Dusty, a remarkable lack of interest in the high times offered by Mulrooney. However, Dusty had for once been too busy with his own affairs to wonder at Mark’s unusual lassitude and preoccupation. Freddie Woods, lady mayor of Mulrooney, leading citizen and saloon-keeper, and Dusty were old friends, in fact on his previous visit had become really close. i After the first day, by tradition given over to helping his trail drive crew to whoop up a storm celebration, Dusty spent most of his time with Freddie and so did not become fully aware of Mark’s changed attitude until the third day. Things had progressed far with Freddie during that time and might have gone much further had Mark not received a request from Belle Starr to visit her as soon as possible.

  That the famous lady outlaw should contact Mark in no way surprised the blond giant or his friends. Belle and Mark’s path had crossed more than once; the last time some three months before when Mark came across her while handling a lone chore for his boss, Ole Devil Hardin. Just what happened on that meeting only Mark and Belle knew, but Dusty noticed a growing change in his friend and wondered at it.

  Knowing how things stood between Dusty and Freddie, Mark hesitated before asking his two friends to ride with him. However, Freddie was shrewd as well as very beautiful and read the problem. Coming from a stock which never hesitated to accept its responsibilities—she was, in fact, a titled English lady whose yen to travel brought her out West and love of adventure established her as joint owner of the biggest and best saloon in Mulrooney—Freddie did not hesitate. She and Dusty discussed the matter and another very serious subject, one which might affect their whole lives. Calmly, without histrionics or emotions showing, Freddie stated that Dusty must ride with Mark as they had ridden into danger so many times before. At the conclusion of whatever trouble lay ahead of them, Dusty could make his decision.

  ‘If you want me, Dusty,’ she told him, ‘send
word and I’ll come.’

  Dusty knew full well what Freddie meant. With the trail drives in the process of coming to an end there would be little to bring Dusty north to Kansas and Mulrooney’s golden heyday had ended. Having proved herself capable of making a financial and actual success, Freddie was now willing to fulfil her destiny as a woman. Riding south with Mark and the Kid, Dusty thought long on the matter, wondering if he could marry and settle down. Yet so many of the old wild bunch with whom he spent so many happy times had slipped gracefully and uncomplaining into the bonds of matrimony over the last few years and all appeared to be highly satisfied with their lot. It would be marriage if he sent for Freddie, neither she nor he would accept less.

  And now, as he listened to Mark’s two-word response to the Kid’s comment, Dusty wondered if the blond giant was going the same way as Red Blaze, Johnny Raybold, Stone Hart, Doc Leroy and even young Waco. Stranger things had happened on the great cattle range which spread unfenced and free from the Mississippi to the Pacific shore. Belle Starr was a beautiful, intelligent young woman and had never gone so far beyond the law’s fringe that she could not chance settling down into matrimony. Once in a while Belle had descended into bloodless hold-ups, but only if the reward be high enough and the chance of endangering lives all but non-existent; she specialized in carefully thought-out and planned swindles, choosing her victims with care and leaving them poorer but never destitute. If Belle decided to settle down, and Mark agreed, Dusty reckoned they would make an ideal man and wife.

  Knowing Mark as well as did Dusty, the Ysabel Kid also noticed the blond giant’s tone. From the look of things, the Kid figured he might be seeing his two best friends, men closer to him than any brothers, slide away into married life. A slow grin creased his face, yet in his heart the Kid felt a little sad. Life would be very dull without Dusty and Mark’s presence—for the Kid knew marriage and riding as a member of a trouble-shooting floating outfit did not mix.

  Ahead of them, water glinted dully in the darkness. The spring welled up into a small lake, trickled off in a stream which disappeared into a large clump of scrub-oak and piñon trees. Ignoring the storm which still raged far to the south, the three friends swung from their saddles and prepared to settle down for the night. Leaving the other two to tend to their saddle horses and the pack animal, the Kid faded off into the clump of trees, a bosque as it would have been called in Texas and the South-West territories. With an almost cat-like ability to see in the dark, the Kid gathered dried wood and soon returned to the spring with enough to light a fire.

  Once, Oklahoma Territory, the Indian Nations as it was known, had been a real dangerous area. The tribes of Indians, herded to Oklahoma as being an area the white brother did not require for his expansion, might be held on reservations, but always some bad-hat buck would be ready to slip away from his appointed dwelling place, gather a few good friends and fall back to the ways of the good old days when taking the white-eyed brother’s scalp had been a pleasant pastime. Old habits die hard, and remembering the good old days on the Indian Nations, the Kid did not build too large a fire. He and his friends had long been used to hardship and spending a night with the sky for a roof and the earth as a mattress held no terrors for them—although the comfort-loving Mark never settled to such a night’s rest without bitter complaint.

  Working fast, the Ysabel Kid lit his fire and its flames illuminated the three young men, each of whom was a legend within his own lifetime.

  Standing by the fire, laying down his low-horned, double girthed—no Texan used the word cinch—range saddle, Mark Counter towered above the other two. The firelight played on his curly, golden blond hair and almost classically handsome face, a face that showed intelligence and strength of will. Great spreading shoulders hinted at the enormous biceps under the costly made-to-measure tan shirt’s sleeves and spoke of the strength which gave Mark the name of being a rangeland Hercules. From there he slimmed down to a lean fighting man’s waist, strong hips and long powerful legs which stood him full six foot three inches over the ground. An expensive white Stetson hat, low of crown, wide brimmed in the Texas style and with silver concha decorated band around it, sat on the back of his head. His brown Levi’s pants were tailored to his fit, for Mark could not buy his size of clothing off a general store’s peg, hung cowhand style, cuffs turned back and outside his high-heeled fancy-stitched boots. Around his waist hung a gunbelt made by the dean of Texas leatherworkers, Joe Gaylin, whose master hand also built the boots, and in the holsters, contoured and set just right for a real fast draw, rested matched Colt Cavalry Peacemakers that sported ivory butts and the finest blue Best Citizen’s Finish offered by the Hartford factory, yet were still functional fighting weapons.

  All in all Mark looked, and was, a range country fashion plate. His taste in clothing dictated what the well-dressed Texan cattle worker wore, just as in the War Between the States his style of uniform had been much copied among the bloods of the Confederate Army. Yet there was more than a dandy dresser about Mark. Possibly he was the finest working cowhand in Texas, knowing every facet of the cattle business. His strength had become a legend, his skill in a rough-house brawl spoken of with bated breath wherever seen. However, few people knew just how fast and good with a gun Mark could be, for he lived in the shadow of the greatest gun fighting exponent of them all. Yet the few who knew, claimed Mark to be second only to his good amigo, the Rio Hondo gun wizard Dusty Fog. While Mark, having been left a large sum of money in an aunt’s will, could have owned his own spread, he preferred instead to ride as a member of the OD Connected ranch crew, working as part of its boss, Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit.

  Drawing the magnificent ‘One of a Thousand’ Winchester Model of 1873 rifle from its saddle boot, the Kid laid it handy by the fire. In the flames his Indian-dark, almost babyishly innocent, handsome face seemed no more than sixteen years of age. Even the red hazel eyes, which hinted of the restless, wild spirit behind the features, seemed relaxed and softened by the fiery glow. All black was the Kid, from the Stetson hat which perched on his curly, raven black hair, through bandana, shirt and Levi’s down to his boots. Around his waist hung a black leather gunbelt and only the ivory grips of the James Black bowie knife at his left side and the brown walnut handle of the old Second Model Colt Dragoon riding butt forward at the right relieved the somber tones of his dress.

  Down on the Rio Grande folks still remembered the Ysabel Kid and spoke his name in whispers. He had been a wild, reckless youngster in those days, with one foot on the downward slide which led to a picture on a post-office wall the word ‘WANTED’ over it. Then he met Dusty Fog and threw in his lot with the Rio Hondo gun wizard. ii From that day the Kid developed into a real useful member of the range country society. Not so much a cowhand as his friends, his true talents lay in the business of riding scout: there the Kid claimed few peers and no betters. Son of a wild Irish-Kentuckian fighting man and a French Creole-Comanche girl, the Kid grew up with all the best qualities of those fighting breeds. Keen of eye and ear, capable of silent movement through the thickest cover, able to read tracks with the ease of a buck Apache, with the inborn ability to carry the map of area in his head or find his way across the open range, the Kid had many uses to offer in his chosen field. While he could not honestly claim to be fast with a gun—it took him all of a second to draw and shoot, and a fast man almost halved that time—the Kid acknowledged no master in the art of handling a bowie knife, nor did he know any more accomplished maestro in the use of the Winchester rifle. The magnificent gun by the fire came to him as first prize at the Cochise County Fair, when he matched his skill against some of the finest shots in the West. iii Taken all into consideration, the Ysabel Kid was a young man it paid well to keep as a friend, for he made a real bad enemy.

  The firelight also played its witch glow upon Dusty Fog; the man said to be the fastest and most accurate of all the gun-fighting breed; who rode as captain commanding his own troop of Confederate cavalry when
but seventeen years old, and made a name to equal that of Turner Ashby or John Singleton Mosby as a military raider of the finest type. With the War over, Dusty Fog had not slipped into a morass of self-pity, or brooded about the glorious future that would surely have been his if the Confederate States won. Instead he set to work, helping his uncle Ole Devil Hardin rebuild the great OD Connected ranch. Now Dusty Fog was known as the segundo, second-in-command of the ranch; a cattleman of the first-water; a trail boss in the great tradition of Oliver Loving and Charles Goodnight. Men also spoke of how his guns, cool courage, hard fists and shrewd knowledge of human nature tamed two bad wild towns when lesser men died trying.

  What kind of a man could he then be, this giant among his fellows?

  Dusty Fog stood but five foot five and a half inches in height. Yet he was far from being puny. If Dusty had been as tall as Mark, he would have shown at least as good a muscular development, but his physique did not display itself except in a moment of need. While handsome, Dusty did not have the eye-catching quality of his two good friends. Nor, though they cost as much, did his clothes look so fine as those of either Mark or the Kid. A Texas-style black Stetson hat sat Dusty’s dusty blond hair, a tight rolled silk bandana trailed long ends over his blue shirt. Cowhand style Levi’s hung outside expensive Gaylin boots. Good clothing all, yet Dusty managed to make them look like they came off the peg of a poorer-class general store. Around his waist hung a Gaylin gunbelt, its contoured holsters bearing a brace of matched, bone-handled Colt Civilian Peacemakers, the butts turned forward for a cross-hand draw. Even that finest example of leatherwork did little to make its wearer more noticeable—until Dusty Fog needed the guns for some purpose.

  Long practice at setting up a temporary camp for the night showed in the way the three friends went about their work. Without discussing the matter, each of the trio knew his duty and started working on it. Taking the coffeepot, Dusty walked to the edge of the water. A movement further along brought him turning his left hand flickering out and thumb-cocking the right-side Colt. Hooves drummed rapidly as some animal appeared from the bushes by the edge of the stream. Too small for a longhorn lost from a passing herd, Dusty noticed with relief; for a longhorn feared human beings only when they sat afork a horse, and would charge a man on foot at sight. The animal had neither the bulk of a Plains bison—few of which remained in the meat-hungry Indian Nations—nor the magnificent antler-spread of a wapiti, or elk as most folks called it; both of which could show truculence when come upon suddenly at night and on foot. Too small for a Kansas whitetail deer, certainly not a grizzly or black bear, or a cougar. Then the animal whirled and fled, a white splash showed briefly as the animal burned the breeze, not for the trees but out across the open range. From that flicker of white, and the speed at which the animal departed, Dusty knew it to be a pronghorn antelope, an old buck driven from his herd by a younger more virile male. Grinning a little, Dusty holstered his Colt and collected the water.