The Floating Outfit 14 Page 10

  Nine – The Secret of the Barrels

  While Bragg kept watch on the crowd, Mark swung to face the door. The blond giant measured the distance as he flexed his left knee, raised his right leg and drove its boot at the door. Following the method taught to him by Dusty Fog, Mark crashed his foot into the door just below its lock. He did not try to burst open the door, but to spring the lock. Provided that the door did not also have bolts on its inside, he felt he should be able to do so. As his boot collided with the door, his full weight and power went behind it. Immediately the lock cracked and the door flew inwards. While the action took only a few seconds, it could not have been performed in full view of the crowd without attracting attention. Engrossed in the fight, nobody saw Mark make his move.

  Stepping through the door, Mark found himself at the head of a flight of stairs. Possibly Runcorne expected the arrival of another consignment of silver. Whatever the reason, lamps lit the stairs and cellar. On the surface everything seemed normal enough. Across from the stairs, a chute ran down from the outside entrance. While Mark knew of the chute, it was used for carrying barrels and other items from the side alley into the cellar, he could not make his entrance by it. On reaching the saloon, he and Bragg looked down the alley and saw a pair of armed men standing guard over the cellar door. That fact gave added credence to Belle’s story for it seemed unlikely Runcorne would trouble to hire guards over an ordinary cellar’s contents.

  Cases of whisky, gin and rum bottles were stacked against the walls along with barrels and kegs of beer. Incongruous, considering the type of clientele the Lone Rider attracted, three huge wine barrels rested on racks by the goods chute. According to Belle’s informant, the silver and merchandise to be traded to the Indians ought to be inside those big barrels. With such proof Mark figured he could learn all he needed from the saloonkeeper as the price of his silence. Not that Mark intended to allow the trafficking in whisky and arms to the Indians to continue. A hint in the right place would see Jules Murat starting an investigation that ought to put an end to the evil business.

  At the foot of the stairs Mark and Bragg started to walk in the direction of the wine barrels.

  ‘Hey, you there!’ yelled a voice from behind them.

  Turning, they saw a pair of bouncers at the door. One of the burly men started down the stairs but his companion turned to call something in the direction of the bar room. Although he turned to follow his companions, the other had already reached the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Get set, boy!’ ordered Bragg and lunged towards the bouncer.

  While tough and capable, Bragg was no fool. He knew that he stood no chance should the bouncer lay hands on him. So he planned his move fast. Stout wooden pillars rose from the cellar to support the floor above. Before the bouncer could lay hands on him, Bragg caught hold of the nearest pillar and used it to swing himself clear of the danger. Nor did he allow the matter to end there. Continuing his swing, he came up at the man’s rear. Still using his momentum, Bragg brought up both feet and drove them into the man’s back. Taken by surprise, the bouncer went shooting forward to where Mark waited. Around lashed the blond giant’s fist in a smooth punch to the side of the bouncer’s jaw. The blow caused an involuntary and hurried change of direction. Unable to help himself, he went sprawling across the cellar and crashed into a pile of empty crates.

  Bouncing down the stairs, the second man flung himself at Bragg. Before the big hands clamped hold of him, Bragg sidestepped. He snapped up his right foot with all the ease of a French-Creole savate fighter, sending the toe of his boot into the bouncer’s belly. A croak of agony burst from the man and he doubled over as he blundered by Bragg. Pivoting around, the foreman placed his boot against the other’s rump and shoved hard. Shooting forward, the man rushed towards Mark. Down came Mark’s hand, catching the bouncer by the scruff of the neck and heaving to send him flying after his companion. Colliding with the wall, the man crumpled and collapsed limply.

  ‘Let’s get to those barrels, pronto!’ Mark suggested.

  ‘Hold it right there!’ ordered a voice from the head of the stairs.

  Followed by two of his men, Runcorne started down into the cellar. He came with a face showing fury and a gun in his hand. Glancing at Bragg, Mark saw he did not need to pass any warning. The foreman realized the danger just as well as Mark and did not plan to make any wrong moves.

  ‘Howdy,’ Bragg greeted politely.

  ‘What’re you doing in here?’ Runcorne demanded.

  ‘Looking for the way out,’ answered Bragg.

  ‘That door was locked!’

  ‘Could be we’d heard how good a wine you sell and figured to try some,’ Mark interrupted.

  Emotions flickered across the man’s face as he drew closer. Anger, a hint of fear and some curiosity warred with each other. Yet Runcorne retained sufficient control of himself not to make the mistake of coming too close to Mark or Bragg. Unless Mark missed his guess, the saloonkeeper knew more than a little about gun-handling. Enough to make taking fool chances a mighty dangerous proposition.

  ‘Maybe I’ll get some answers when my boys start asking the questions,’ Runcorne hissed.

  ‘Two of them already tried,’ Mark pointed out, nodding to the first pair of bouncers as they lay groaning at the sides of the room.

  ‘These two have an advantage,’ Runcorne replied, making a small but significant gesture with his revolver. ‘I’m on hand to slow you two down a mite.’ He paused to let the words sink in. ‘All right, what’re you doing down here?’

  ‘That’s a real good question,’ came Murat’s voice from the head of the stairs and he stepped into view. ‘Put up the gun, Runcorne.’

  ‘Damn it, sheriff, I caught this pair down here—’

  ‘Like we-all told the gent, when the fussing started upstairs we just natural-like come down here out of harm’s way,’ Bragg drawled. ‘Us being such peaceable souls and all.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Murat said dryly, having examined the door and noted the signs of forced entry. ‘Put up that pint-sized hawg-leg, Mr. Runcorne—as a special favor to me.’

  Slowly and reluctantly Runcorne slid the Colt Police Pistol across into its holster under the left side of his jacket. Even if he did not know that Murat distrusted him, the use of the word ‘mister’ would have served as a warning. A Texan only said that word when he disliked an acquaintance. So Runcorne obeyed the order and awaited developments.

  A shrewd peace officer, Murat suspected Runcorne of being involved in illegal activities of various kinds but lacked proof. Coming to help the town marshal’s deputies break up the fight, he saw Runcorne leading two bouncers into the cellar. The sight aroused Murat’s interest and sent him across the room to investigate. He wanted to learn why the saloonkeeper had considered the cellar’s contents so valuable that he’d ignored the damage to the bar room. More than that, the saloonkeeper had taken along his two toughest bouncers when they could hardly be spared from their work in quelling the brawl. Finding that the door had been kicked open added to Murat’s desire to learn more. On seeing Mark and Bragg in the cellar he felt that at last there might be a chance to nail Runcorne’s hide to the wall.

  Watching Murat come down the stairs, Runcorne scowled. The mention of the wine’s quality rang a warning bell for him. If the intruders knew something about the barrels’ contents—and their presence hinted that they might—he did not want the matter brought up in Murat’s hearing.

  ‘They could be telling the truth, sheriff,’ he said. ‘Anyways, there’s no harm been done.’

  ‘Except for the way the door was opened,’ Murat answered. ‘It takes a strong man to do it, and one trained as a peace officer. All right, Mark, what brought you pair down here?’

  ‘Maybe Tule told you the truth.’

  ‘And maybe he didn’t. You pair wouldn’t run out on the chance of a fight without good reason.’

  ‘We thought we’d got it,’ Mark admitted. ‘A feller passed word to me that R
uncorne’d been trading guns and whisky for silver with the Kaddos and that it tied into Sam’s death, so we came along to see if the story was true.’

  ‘Me trading with the Indians?’ yelped Runcorne in a tone oozing with contemptuous indignation. ‘That’s likely, isn’t it?’

  ‘The proof’s in the whisky barrels,’ Mark said.

  ‘Is it, Mr. Runcorne?’ asked Murat.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ the saloonkeeper answered and walked across to the barrels. Taking a wooden dipper from the top of the first, he held it under and turned on the tap. Liquid trickled down into the dipper and he offered it to the sheriff. ‘Taste the “proof”.’

  ‘It’s wine all right,’ Murat said, after obeying, and he sounded a mite disappointed. ‘How about the other two?’

  Watching the saloonkeeper’s face, Mark noticed a glint of self-satisfied amusement creep across it. Certainly Runcorne exhibited no concern as he went to the next keg, turned on its tap and filled the dipper with more of the red fluid. After allowing Mark and Murat to taste the contents, Runcorne walked across to the last keg. Once again a flow of wine filled the dipper and the mocking expression grew broader on the saloonkeeper’s features.

  ‘It looks like you heard wrong, Mark,’ Murat stated after sampling the wine from the last barrel.

  ‘It sure looks that way,’ agreed Mark. ‘I wouldn’t’ve thought you’d sell much wine, Mr. Runcorne.’

  In general the Texas cowhand stuck to whisky and beer, leaving the drinking of wine to Mexicans, town dwellers and others with educated thirsts.

  ‘I ship it east, or to the coast,’ Runcorne answered cheerfully. ‘Are you satisfied that I’m not peddling firewater and guns to the Indians now?’

  Everything about Runcorne’s attitude struck Mark as being wrong. Every instinct he possessed told him that Belle’s information had been correct. A man in fear of death, desperately trying to buy his life, would not lie. Nor would Belle have risked capture by returning to the hotel unless she believed that Jacobs told her the truth. In addition, the saloonkeeper acted just a mite too sure of himself. Runcorne had the air of a man who brought off a mighty slick bluff at poker. Yet he showed concern at first hearing Mark mention the wine barrels. If they were, as now seemed obvious, filled with wine he did not need to worry.

  ‘How about it, Mark?’ demanded Murat, cutting into the blond giant’s flow of thought.

  ‘Who told you that wild story, friend?’ asked Runcorne.

  ‘Yeah, Mark, who told you?’ Murat went on.

  ‘A reliable source, most times,’ Mark answered.

  ‘Reliable!’ snorted Runcorne. ‘You tell us his name—’

  ‘A smart feller like you should know better than ask that,’ Mark replied. ‘Let’s get going, Jules.’

  ‘I reckon I ought to be told who started this pack of lies about me, sheriff!’ Runcorne insisted. ‘If it’s one of my business rivals I’ve a right to protect myself, don’t I?’

  ‘Like I said,’ Mark drawled. ‘A feller who can be relied on, most times.’

  With that he walked slowly and casually to where several small kegs of whisky were stacked against the wall. Reaching down, he raised one of the top kegs in his two hands.

  A mocking sneer crossed Runcorne’s face. ‘You don’t reckon I’ve got that stuff hid in those kegs, do y—’ he began.

  The words chopped off as Mark turned, swung up the keg and hurled it at the front of the right-side wine barrel. Wood cracked and splintered under the impact and whisky spurted from the stove-in surface of the keg—but no wine gushed out the barrel. Instead its front sank inwards.

  An explosive grunt left Murat’s lips at the sight. As the upper part of the front tilted into the barrel, its lower edge automatically came out. Fitted to the inside of the front and connected to its tap was a one-gallon keg of wine. The rest of the space held nothing but a number of stone whisky jugs. The sight so surprised Murat that for once he forgot caution. Without taking time to look at Runcorne’s party, he started to walk in the direction of the barrel.

  Probably Runcorne had no intention of making trouble. The mere possession of the whisky and other items in the remaining barrels was not, in itself, proof of illegal trading with the Indians. It was unlikely that a court would convict him just on that. At the worst he would be told to sell up his place and get out of Austin. So what happened stemmed from one of his men failing to grasp the situation correctly.

  Letting out a snarl of rage, the bouncer grabbed out his gun. Bragg flung himself forward, cannoning into the sheriff’s back and staggering him aside even as the bouncer’s gun cracked. The bullet aimed at Murat’s back missed its mark and instead raked a furrow across Bragg’s shoulders.

  While Runcorne would have cheerfully strangled the bouncer for acting in such a way, he realized what must be done. Knowing that Murat and the two intruders would assume his employee had acted under his orders, he did the only thing left for him to do. Across lashed his hand to where the Colt Police Pistol rode in its butt-forward holster.

  Just as Mark guessed, Runcorne was very fast. Not that Mark wasted time in self-congratulation over his shrewd judgment of character. Instead he flung himself backwards in the opposite direction to which Bragg had thrust Murat and, in going, sent his hands diving towards the butts of his Colts. Fast though Mark might be, other things stood in Runcorne’s favor. The Colt Police Pistol had been designed as a weapon for peace officers to carry concealed; .36 in caliber, it had only a three-and-a-half-inch barrel which meant four-and-a-half inches less to clear the holster lip than had Mark’s Army Colt. So the saloonkeeper’s gun left leather even as Mark's fingers closed on the ivory handles of his Colts.

  Out whisked Runcorne’s revolver but he made the fatal mistake of hesitating. While taken by surprise, Murat still started to draw while staggering from Bragg’s push. Despite his wound, the foreman also reached for a weapon, grabbing down at the Dance’s worn butt with commendable speed. Small wonder that the saloonkeeper showed indecision in the face of three possible threats to his life. Against a man of Mark's ability such vacillation was fatal.

  Flame ripped from the barrel of Mark's right-hand Colt as it lined on the saloonkeeper. An instant before Runcorne decided to concentrate first on Mark, the blond giant’s bullet caught him between the eyes. Mark shot the only way he dare under the circumstances. Against a man of Runcorne’s ability there could be no hesitation in placing the bullet where it would kill instantly. Even so, despite being thrown backwards by the impact, Runcorne got off a shot which narrowly missed Mark’s head.

  Landing on the floor, Murat cut loose on the bouncer who’d started the gunplay. Caught in the chest by a bullet, the man spun around, let his revolver drop, collided with his companion and then slid to the floor. Finding himself covered by Bragg’s old Dance, the second bouncer hastily raised his hands and yelled that he was not making any fuss.

  The rear entrance’s door jerked upwards and one of the guards looked in. Seeing what had happened, he started to raise his gun. Rolling over to face the door, Mark made sure that it offered a fresh menace to his friends’ wellbeing and then took steps to counter the threat. The sight of the lined gun and lack of a badge told him that Runcorne’s guard and not one of the deputies looked in, so he threw a shot which struck the edge of the door and sent up a cloud of splinters. The man jerked back, letting the door fall down into place. However, he had seen the sheriff and noticed his boss sprawled on the floor. So he called off further attempts at hostilities.

  ‘Close,’ Murat said, coming to his feet as two deputy marshals appeared at the head of the stairs. ‘Thanks, Tule.’

  ‘That was a fool trick you pulled,’ Bragg answered and winced as a movement caused his wound to throb. ‘Damn it, I’m shot.’

  Thrusting away his Colt, Mark sprang to Bragg's side and knelt by him. However the foreman let out an explosive snort and pointed. ‘See if Runcorne can talk. I’ll last a mite longer.’

&nb
sp; ‘How is it upstairs?’ Murat asked the deputies and, on learning the fight had been brought under control, ordered them to attend to the wounded men. Then he turned to Mark. ‘Let’s take a look at the barrels.’

  Seeing that the deputy seemed competent to care for Bragg until the doctor arrived, Mark accompanied Murat to the wine barrels. They examined the neat way in which Runcorne gave the impression that the barrels held wine.

  ‘It’s a pity that Runcorne can’t do any talking,’ the sheriff remarked as he kicked at the front of the center barrel. ‘Not that I blame you for stopping him, Mark. He was a good man with a gun.’

  ‘Sure,’ Mark answered. ‘Maybe some of his men can give us the answer.’

  Before questioning Runcorne’s staff, Mark and Murat opened the other two barrels. In one they found a number of Winchester rifles and ammunition, while the other held sacks containing raw silver.

  ‘It’s been stored a long time from the way it looks,’ Murat remarked as he opened one sack.

  ‘So I heard,’ Mark replied. ‘The feller allowed it came from some old Spanish mine the Kaddo found.’

  ‘You’d best tell me as much as you can,’ Murat suggested, knowing that only in the most exceptional circumstances would a man like Mark divulge the name of an informant who gave confidential information.

  ‘There’s not much to tell. Like I said, word came to me that Runcorne was trading with the Kaddo and that it tied in to Sam’s killing. The Wycliffes were waiting for Runcorne’s man, who fitted Sam’s description enough for them to make a mistake. So I allowed to see if it was true. Reckoned to make Runcorne talk, tell me where the gold came from. That way I’d have a start at finding the Wycliffes should we miss picking up their tracks.’

  ‘It was mighty lucky, that fight starting when it did,’ Murat commented. ‘You’d never’ve kicked open the door if all Runcorne’s men hadn’t been busy with it. Yes sir, Mark, mighty lucky.’

  ‘Sure was,’ agreed Mark. ‘And to show how grateful I am for being so lucky, I’ll pay any fines the gents up there might get.’