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  The towns at the end of the cattle trails north from Texas called for a special type of lawman. None of the peace officers available struck the Governor of Kansas as suitable to clean out the worst, most corrupt town of all. Yet it must be done before Kansas was plunged into the bloodiest strife since the end of the Civil War.

  So the Governor called on five Texans who had already brought law to two tough towns. Led by the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, Mark Counter, the Ysabel Kid, Waco and Doc Leroy pinned on their badges in Trail End. Then they went to work in the face of opposition from corrupt civic officials r and crooked businessmen, risking their lives to tame the town.

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 60: THE TOWN TAMERS

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Brown Watson Publishers in 1969

  Copyright © 1969, 2021 by J. T. Edson

  First Electronic Edition: June 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

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  The Floating Outfit Series

  Part One – Governor Mansfield’s Prerogative

  Part Two – Jordan’s Try

  Part Three – Bellamy’s Try

  Part Four – May’s Try

  Part Five – Coulton’s Try

  Part Six – Eggars’ Try

  For ‘Mum’ Thompson, to help her convince people I really am her son-in-law

  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.

  Author’s Note

  These stories originally appeared as a strip-cartoon in The Victor and I extend my gratitude to Messrs. D. C. Thomson & Co. Ltd., for allowing me to turn them into a book.

  Part One – Governor Mansfield’s Prerogative

  ‘THEY’RE COMING, Mr. Galt!’

  After running the length of Trail End’s main street the excited youngster could no more than gasp out his news on arrival. For all that his words carried to more ears than those attached to the fat, pompous skull of Mayor Joseph Galt. Even those of the people lining the main street who could not hear the message received it from other citizens closer to the speaker. Hushed expectancy settled on the assembled population as they waited to witness what promised to be a momentous occasion.

  For the first time in living memory the Governor of Kansas had exercised his prerogative by appointing the entire marshal’s office staff into one of his State’s towns. Normally the election of civic law enforcement officers rested in the citizens’ hands; which had brought about the conditions that called for the Governor’s intervention.

  Born as a shipping point for the great herds of cattle brought north from Texas to the railroad, Trail End competed with other such towns in Kansas and was, by repute, the most evil of them all. Its current marshal, a hulking, dull-witted brute named Jackley, lacked every quality needed to make even a moderately good peace officer. While capable of working over a very drunk cowhand or other visitor, he made no attempt to check the blatant exploitation and dishonesty practiced by many of the citizens.

  It had been Jackley’s sole talent which brought about Governor Mansfield’s intervention. After taking a brutal beating from the marshal while in jail, a young Texas cowhand had died. True, an obliging coroner affirmed that a heart-seizure caused the inconsiderate cowhand’s death. So the matter ought to have ended there.

  Unfortunately the deceased cowhand possessed a number of loyal kin-folk, the most prominent being one, Shanghai Pierce, respected rancher and very influential in the affairs of the Lone Star State, a man whose many friends included several of Texas’ top-grade fighting sons. Word had it that the dead cowhand had been the rancher’s favorite nephew, come north as a trail hand to gather practical experience in the family’s business.

  General Mansfield foresaw grave repercussions as a result of the murder—for the cowhand’s death amounted to nothing less than that. Unlike the more liberal—and therefore more bigoted—members of the State Legislature, Mansfield recognized just how much the prosperity of Kansas depended on the Texas trail herds. Unless steps were taken, and taken rapidly, that vital source of wealth might be lost. Even if the Texans could not find another way of shipping their cattle to the East, tensions between them and the Kansans were sure to be at boiling point. One incident, sparked off by either side, might see the Sunflower State involved in the bloodiest strife since the end of the Civil War.

  With that in mind, Mansfield looked over his crop of lawmen and found none who might satisfy Shanghai Pierce that he truly intended to purge the plague spot. No Texan would trust the Earp brothers. Bat Masterson held down Dodge City too well to be removed. Nor could Wild Bill Hickok be pulled out of Abilene, even if his reputation among the trail crews had made him acceptable.

  Then Mansfield remembered a name, a man to fit his needs. Probably the only person Shanghai Pierce would regard as proof of the Governor’s good intentions. The man Mansfield selected to clean up Trail End ranked high on the Texans’ roll of honor. During the war, as a cavalry captain only seventeen years old, he built a fame equaled only by Dixie’s other pair of master military raiders, Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby. When peace came, he took over as segundo on the great OD Connected ranch, only to be sent on a dangerous and delicate mission into trouble-torn Mexico. By bringing it off successfully, he helped avert a clash between the two countries. i Since then he had carved his name as master cowhand, trail boss second to none. More than that, he possessed experience as a peace officer gained wearing a badge in two tough wild towns. ii Texans boasted of his uncanny bare-hand fighting skill and told many tales about his amazing dexterity in the use of a fast-drawn brace of Colt Peacemakers. Many called him the Rio Hondo gun wizard—his name was Dusty Fog.

  If any man could satisfy Shanghai Pierce of the Governor’s good intentions and earnest desire to right the wrong, Dusty Fog was he.

  No one man, not even the fabled Rio Hondo gun wizard, could tame a town like Trail End alone. He would need trusted deputies, tough, loyal, efficient backing and support. In that respect Dusty Fog could claim to be ideally supplied.

  To help work their outer ranges, the great ranches of Texas operated floating outfits. Four to six men, depending on the work involved, travelled the distant areas accompanied by a chuckwagon, or took food on mule-back, and acted as a mobile ranch crew. The OD Connected’s floating outfit supplied Dusty Fog with exactly the kind of men he needed to tame Trail End.
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  Take Mark Counter, Dusty’s right bower and able second in command. Six foot three in height, an exceptionally handsome Hercules of a man, something of a dandy in dress yet a top-hand with cattle. While his enormous strength and skill in a rough-house brawl received much acclaim, his ability in the gunfighting line gained less due to riding in the shadow of the fastest man of all. Yet practical critics with great personal experience in such matters credited him with being second only to Dusty Fog in the matter of rapidity of draw and accurate shooting. Such a man would be invaluable to Dusty in the days ahead.

  Nor would the Ysabel Kid, third in the hierarchy of the floating outfit, prove less useful. Born the only child of a wild Irish Kentuckian father and a French Creole Pehnane Comanche mother, the Kid grew up among the latter’s people. From his grandfather, Long Walker the Pehnane war chief, he learned those things every brave-heart warrior needed at his command to make a success among the toughest of the horse-Indian tribes. iii Silent movement, locating hidden enemies and avoiding being seen at the wrong moment, skill at reading sign, ability with weapons and superb horsemanship came almost as second nature to the Kid, taught well and eager to acquire the knowledge. Less of a gunfighter—in the accepted Western sense—than his companions, he claimed few peers at handling a knife and less in the accurate use of a Winchester rifle.

  No honest lawman would have despised having the remaining two members of the floating outfit at his side. Though young, Waco—he owned no other name—knew law enforcement work real well. Left an orphan almost from birth by an Indian attack, he had been raised by a North Texas rancher. At fourteen he rode the ranges and spent every cent that could be spared on ammunition for a worn old Navy Colt, gravitating to Clay Allison’s wild-onion CA crew. When Dusty Fog saved the youngster from death beneath the hooves of the stampeding CA herd, iv Waco already possessed considerable skill in drawing and shooting. Joining the OD Connected, Waco learned when to use his guns and gave the Rio Hondo gun wizard the respect that might have gone to the father he never knew. Tough, capable, shrewd, his youthful exuberance controlled by the teaching of the other members of the floating outfit, Waco was likely to prove an asset in the marshal’s office.

  Formally a member of the Wedge, an outfit of trail drivers who ran herds north for ranchers unable to make the journey themselves, Doc Leroy possessed many talents which Dusty Fog could utilize in the fight to tame Trail End. Christened Marvin Eldridge Leroy, his nickname rose from a knowledge of medical work. Although Doc never graduated from the Eastern medical school, due to family troubles, he learned all he could and probably possessed more knowledge of treating gun-shot wounds than any noted surgeon in the East. Nor did his skill end at removing bullets. When needed he could plant them home with speed and accuracy. In addition he knew much about the ways dishonest players improved their chances at gambling games and would place that specialized knowledge at Dusty’s disposal.

  All in all, given such able backing, Dusty Fog stood a better than fair chance of carrying out Governor Mansfield’s wishes; a prospect which Mayor Galt did not view with the favor one might expect of such an important civic official.

  ‘Give the boy a nickel, Elwin,’ the mayor said, for he never parted with money himself unless forced by dire necessity.

  The tall, gangling, mournful-faced local undertaker dipped a hand into his pocket. Producing a coin with an expression of distaste, Elwin passed it to the boy. Then, waiting until the youngster withdrew from ear-shot, he turned to Galt.

  ‘You’ll have to make it plain that we don’t want them running the law here, Joe. Folks’ll expect it.’

  ‘After Mansfield sent them?’ the mayor snorted. ‘You saw his letter. It’s them, or a full investigation into the running of the town. Backed by the State Militia if necessary.’

  Which point, the undertaker fully appreciated, meant trouble if not jail for both himself and Galt.

  ‘There’ll be plenty don’t like it,’ Elwin commented.

  ‘Jackley’s one of ’em,’ Galt answered. ‘When I told him, he swore that no damned beef-head fast-gun’s going to shove him out of office.’

  Turning his head, Mayor Galt looked along the wheel-rutted, hoof-scarred street to where five riders were approaching in a loose V-shaped formation. With considerable interest he studied the quintet and tried to decide their identity.

  The tall, wide shouldered, handsome blond-haired youngster at the far left must be Waco. Tight-rolled and knotted about his throat, a bandana trailed long ends over his gray shirt and black and white calf-skin vest. His brown Levi’s pants hung cowhand style outside his boots, the cuffs turned back to act as a receptacle for nails or other small items when performing work requiring them. Around his lean waist hung a gunbelt, matched staghorn handled Colt Artillery Peacemakers in the contoured fast-draw holsters. Young he might be, but those guns were no mere decoration. He rode a huge paint stallion, sitting its low-horned, double-girthed Texas saddle with easy grace. Following without fuss or fighting the rope from it to the paint’s saddle, a pack-horse carried the floating outfit’s bedrolls and warbags.

  To the youngster’s right hand, showing just as much ease at straddling a large black horse, sat Doc Leroy. An inch shorter than Waco, he lacked the youngster’s shoulder width. Though pallid, his studious face showed strength, his lack of color stemming from possessing a tan-resisting skin. Dressed cowhand style, he wore a short jacket with the right side stitched back to leave uninterrupted access to the ivory butt of the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker hanging low on his leg.

  One did not need the powers of an Indian medicine man to guess the name of the rider on the right flank. Dressed in all black range clothes, only the walnut handle of the old Dragoon Colt butt-forward in the low cavalry-draw holster at his right thigh and the ivory hilt of the James Black bowie knife sheathed on the left of his belt relieved the somber hue. His Indian-dark, almost babyishly handsome features carried an expression of innocence only dispelled by his wild red-hazel eyes. After seeing them, nobody continued to regard the Ysabel Kid as young or innocent. Six foot tall, lean as a greasewood fed steer, tough as whang-leather, he sat his huge, magnificent white stallion with the loose-limbed ease of a Pehnane Comanche. From under his left leg showed the butt of the ‘One of a Thousand’ Winchester Model 1873 rifle he had won against some exceedingly talented opposition at the Cochise County Fair. v

  Next to the Kid rode a man who might easily be Dusty Fog. Six foot three in height, golden blond, curly hair topping an almost classically handsome face, great spreading shoulders, arms which hinted at their enormous muscular development, a slender waist and long, powerful legs. That was the appearance one might expect of the legendary Rio Hondo gun wizard. A costly white Stetson with a silver-concha-decorated band started an expensive, made-to-measure somewhat dandyish cowhand’s apparel. White ivory butted, and of the finest Best Citizen’s Finish, the long barreled Colt Cavalry Peacemakers were fighting weapons and rode in a gun-rig tooled for extreme speed. He sat his enormous bloodbay stallion with grace, a light rider despite his giant size.

  Yet if the blond giant should be Dusty Fog, Galt could not decide where Mark Counter might be, nor figure out the identity of the small, insignificant man in the center of the party.

  True, the fifth man rode a paint stallion as large and well-developed as the other four horses, but he faded into nothing compared with his companions. Not more than five foot six in height, he looked like a nobody and not even the two bone-handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemakers riding butt forward in the cross-draw holsters of an exceptionally well-designed and made gunbelt seemed to increase his stature or noticeability. A good-looking young man, although not in the eye-catching way of the others, from hat to boots he spelled Texas cowhand. Just how he came to be in the quintet, Galt could not imagine. The mayor’s mind ignored the obvious possibility. It seemed impossible that such a diminutive figure could belong to the man called Dusty Fog.

  Two prominent saloon owners watched t
he Texans’ arrival with scowling faces. Being recently arrived from the East, one of them let out a contemptuous snort.

  ‘They don’t look to amount to all the fuss there’s been made,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I thought the first time I saw them,’ his more experienced competitor answered. ‘Trouble was I didn’t stay thinking it for long. You mark my words, Eggars, this town’s done as long as they’re here.’

  ‘Maybe they won’t stop.’

  ‘I’d not hold my breath until they go, was I you. Say, I don’t reckon you’d want to buy my place, would you?’

  Clucks of disapproval rose from various of the town’s ‘good’ ladies as they gathered to view the new arrivals. To them Texan meant a wild, drunken cowhand on the spree. None of them remembered that the same men supplied them with their major source of income. As one sharp-featured female pillar of the local church put it:

  ‘I can’t see why Governor Mansfield had to ask Texans, and such young ones, into our town.’

  ‘That nice Mr. Earp and his brothers would have been much more satisfactory, I’m sure,’ another of the group went on; a view Mayor Galt and various worried businessmen might have heartily seconded.

  From their vantage point on the balcony of Eggars’ Educated Thirst Saloon, several not so good ladies also studied the Texans, although from a different aspect and point of view.

  ‘Just look at that hunk of man!’ sighed one, eyeing the blond giant with an ecstatic sigh. ‘I’d go with him for free—and like it.’

  ‘You should be so lucky,’ a second girl answered. ‘One thing’s for sure. Happen the boss don’t change his ways, we’ll be looking for another town. That Cap’n Fog don’t play around, I remember him in Quiet Town. He moves fast and real permanent.’