The Floating Outfit 35 Read online

  Ever curious, Waco had asked why the original settlers had selected such an inhospitable region for their home. The Kid had suggested that they were Spanish colonists. Adobe was a building material with lasting qualities and, apart from various repairs which had been carried out recently, the houses looked to be of considerable age. Going by the absence of a church, normally the first thing erected by the priest-ridden Spanish colonists, Dusty had concluded that the settlers had been non-believers driven by religious persecution to take refuge in the Palo Duro country.

  Returning to the hotel at the conclusion of their inspection, the trio had exchanged gossip with le Blanc in the barroom. Then they had gone to their rooms where they had rested and tidied up ready for the night’s celebrations.

  Before coming downstairs, Dusty had given Waco and the Kid instructions as to how they were to act when they arrived at the saloon. By doing so, they would help him to convince Lampart that they too would be of the greatest use to him.

  Like his equally duded-up companions, Dusty now sported a neatly trimmed chin beard and moustache which he hoped would continue to serve as a disguise. Looking around the crowd of guests, he saw nobody whom he recognized from other towns and wondered if it would be mutual. Some of the male faces appeared to be familiar, but only because he had seen them on wanted posters. Others belonged to townsmen who had been at the livery barn that morning.

  To Dusty, it was obvious that the citizens had started to form into two factions. Those who supported Lampart stood slightly apart from Basmanov’s group. Although the mayor seemed to have the largest number on his side, Dusty guessed that some of them would be fence sitting and waiting for a definite show of strength before declaring on his behalf. Having the backing of the acknowledged fastest gun in town would be tremendously in Lampart’s favor. Which probably accounted for the way the mayor left his companion on seeing the small Texan arrive in the dining room.

  Although Dusty had devised an excuse for wearing his guns, he soon discovered that there would be no need for him to make it. Every man in the room, with the exception of Lampart, carried at least one revolver on his person.

  ‘Ah, Edward!’ the mayor greeted, coming over and extending his right hand. ‘Let me introduce you to the other guests before my wife gets here.’ He indicated a tall, handsome Mexican in an excellently tailored charro costume and wearing a low-hanging 1860 Army Colt with a set of decorative Tiffany grips. ‘This is Don Miguel Santiago. You already know Jean here. These are Doctor Connolly, our medical practitioner, and our undertaker, Emmet Youseman.’

  ‘I hope you can guess which of us is which,’ boomed the big, red-faced, cheerful man in the loud check suit. ‘In case you can’t, I’m not the doctor.’

  There was, Dusty decided, good cause for the comment.

  Tall, cadaverous and dressed in sober black, Doctor Connolly fitted the popular conception of an undertaker far better than the hearty, extroverted Youseman.

  ‘It’s looking the way I do that made me settle here,’ the undertaker went on jovially, shaking hands with the small Texan, ‘Fellers I get here don’t have kin-folks to object. I reckon Doc helps my business. When a wounded feller sees him, he figures he’s so close to the grave that he might’s well go the whole hog and get into it.’

  ‘It’s no matter for levity,’ Connolly declared in a high, dry voice and turned to walk away without acknowledging Lampart’s introduction.

  ‘Don’t pay him no never-mind, Ed,’ Youseman advised. ‘He’s riled because you boys gave me all the trade instead of him.’

  ‘I’ll mind it, happen I have to shoot anybody else,’ Dusty promised. ‘Only I’ve always been taught that any man who’s acting bad enough for me to draw down on him is acting bad enough to be killed for it.’

  Even as he finished speaking, Dusty realized that his words had come during a lull in the general conversation. Not that he regretted them for he realized that such a flat statement might do some good.

  With the casual ease of an experienced host, Lampart steered Dusty onwards and rattled off other introductions. Nine of the men, like Santiago, could be found prominently—if not honorably—mentioned in the ‘Bible Two’, the Texas Rangers’ annually published list of fugitives and wanted persons, which most peace officers in the Lone Star State read far more regularly than the original bible. Wary eyes studied Dusty, but the greetings and handshakes were cordial until he reached the man who stood by Basmanov. Tall, handsome, well dressed, he had a pearl handled Colt Artillery Peacemaker in a fast-draw holster tied to his right thigh.

  ‘And Andy Glover,’ Lampart concluded.

  ‘You’re the hombre who dropped Ben Columbo, huh?’ Glover growled, keeping his right hand at his side. ‘Ben was real fast.’

  ‘Sure,’ Dusty conceded. ‘There was only one thing wrong. Just the once, he wasn’t fast enough.’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve heard your name,’ Glover said sullenly, conscious that every eye had turned towards him and the small Texan.

  ‘I’ve heard yours,’ Dusty answered. ‘Seen it on wanted posters, too. That’s the difference between us, Mr. Glover. I’ve been too smart to get myself wanted until the stakes were worth it.’

  ‘They say you robbed an Army Paymaster,’ Glover gritted, not caring for the chuckles which greeted ‘Caxton’s’ response. ‘I’ve never known the blue-bellies sent their money about thataways.’

  ‘Happen a secret gets known to too many folks, it stops being a secret,’ Dusty countered. ‘I just happened to have been in a position to get to know. That’s how me and the boys managed to pull it off, mister. We knew where, when and how to do it.’

  ‘And you’re still on the dodge.’

  ‘So’re you, mister. Only I’m willing to bet that I brought in more money with that one robbery than you and your bunch were toting when you hit Hell.’

  More laughter rose from the majority of the guests. It was common knowledge that, due to the Rangers’ continual harassment, Glover’s gang had been compelled to leave behind most of their loot. The bank robbery at Wichita Falls had been their last throw of the dice and had failed to come anywhere near their expectations in the amount of money it had produced. Dull red flooded into Glover’s cheeks, but he had noted ‘Caxton’s’ repeated use of the word ‘mister’. No Texan said it after being introduced, unless he wished to show that he did not like the person he addressed it to.

  ‘I see that you prefer the cross-draw, señor, Santiago remarked. ‘The same as Dusty Fog.’

  ‘Why sure,’ Dusty agreed, wondering if there might be some hidden meaning behind the Mexican’s words. ‘Fog’s real fast, they do tell. So I figured the way he totes his guns must be something to do with it. That’s why I wear them like I do.’

  ‘Makes you fast, huh?’ Glover muttered sullenly.

  ‘Ben Columbo, Joey Pinter and Topple likely wondered that self same thing, mister,’ Dusty drawled, looking straight at the big outlaw. ‘They learned. If anybody feels so inclined to find out, I’m willing to step out on to the street and accommodate them.’

  Gently spoken the words had been, but everybody present knew that they put the gauntlet straight into Glover’s teeth. The remainder of the guests began to draw farther away, waiting silently to see what developed. Despite being the host, Lampart made no attempt to intervene. Nor did Basmanov, in his capacity as head of the Civic Regulators, do anything to try to keep the peace.

  Almost thirty seconds ticked away, although they seemed to drag by for Glover. Much as he wanted to, the tall gang leader could not look away from his challenger. The big blond Texan’s gray eyes held his own and appeared to be boring through and reading his innermost thoughts.

  One thought beat at Glover. Before him stood the man who had simultaneously out-drawn and -shot Columbo and Joey Pinter, killing Topple an instant later. That put him into a class of pistolero-skill to which Glover could not hope to aspire. Yet if Glover backed down, he was finished in Hell. The story would be all around the town by
morning and might even lose him the control he had previously exerted over the men in his gang.

  Although determined to stand up against any man who tried to ride him, a good way to stay alive in such company, Dusty did not particularly want to kill Glover. So, having asserted himself, he sought for a way in which he might avoid taking the affair to a fatal conclusion. Sensing that Glover wanted to back off, Dusty saw an opportunity to let him do so. It had a certain amount of risk to the small Texan, but he felt sure that other issues swayed it in his favor.

  Giselle Lampart stood at the open door, looking into the room. Jewelry sparkled at her fingers, wrists and neck, while the dress she wore leaned more to daring than decorous. Turning his back on Glover, Dusty swept off his Stetson with his left hand and walked towards the brunette.

  ‘Good evening, ma’am.’ the small Texan greeted, his whole attitude suggesting that he regarded the incident with Glover closed. ‘My thanks for your kind invitation.’

  Sucking in a deep breath of mingled anger and relief, Glover glared after the departing Texan. The outlaw’s right hand hooked talon-like over its revolver’s butt, almost quivering with anticipation as he tried to decide whether to draw or not. Commonsense, and a knowledge of the other guests’ feelings, supplied him with the answer. If he started to pull the gun, one of his rivals might warn ‘Caxton’. In fact, somebody was certain to do it for Glover’s action would endanger Giselle Lampart. Given the slightest hint of what Glover was planning, ‘Caxton’ would turn to deal with the situation. Glover could not forget the big Texan’s earlier comment on how he would treat any man who made him draw.

  ‘Come and sit down, Andy,’ Basmanov said in a loud voice. ‘We don’t want any unpleasantness.’

  Never had the Russian barn owner’s voice sounded so delightful to Glover. Yet the outlaw could sense a tinge of disappointment in it. Refusing to let that disturb him, he swung on his heel and walked with Basmanov to the long table that had been laid for the dinner.

  ‘It looks as if nobody feels inclined to find out, Edward,’ Giselle remarked with a mischievous smile. ‘You may escort me to the table. I’ve had you placed next to Simmy and myself so that I will have a handsome man on each side of me.’

  The tension had oozed away with the entrance of the brunette and Glover’s retreat. Talk rose again and there was a general movement in the direction of the table. Guided by Giselle, Dusty went to the end of the table presided over by her husband. On the other end, Basmanov stood scowling from Dusty to the mayor. Going by the knowing looks thrown at him from various gang leaders, Dusty sensed that he was being awarded a place of honor. Perhaps the last time the Lamparts had given a dinner, Ben Columbo had occupied it. Dusty refused to let that thought worry him. To his left were Giselle and her husband, with Santiago on his right and le Blanc facing him across the table.

  Moving with well-trained precision, Goldberg’s Mexican waiters started to serve the meal. The food and wine proved to be of excellent quality, which did not surprise Dusty in the light of what he had already seen around the hotel. Soon conversations were being carried on and laughter rolled out. Although apparently at ease, Dusty remained constantly alert. Carefully he guided the talk in his group to the presence of the town in the Palo Duro.

  ‘That was Simeon’s doing,’ le Blanc declared. ‘Why not tell Ed how it happened, Simmy?’

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ the mayor replied, in a mock depreciatory tone and went on in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘The first time the Kweharehnuh saw me, I was sawing my wife in half.’

  ‘Huh?’ Dusty grunted, genuinely startled.

  ‘That’s right, Ed,’ Giselle confirmed. ‘And it wasn’t the first time. He’d done it to me twice a night for years.’

  ‘You’re a magician!’ Dusty ejaculated, staring at Lampart with a growing understanding.

  ‘One of the best, if I do say so myself,’ the mayor agreed. ‘A most useful talent, I’ve always found it. And never more so than that night. We, the present citizens of Hell, were on a wagon train making its way down from the railroad in Kansas to Santa Fe. Our scout rode in to say that we were surrounded by Indians and they would attack our camp at dawn. We wouldn’t have stood a chance in a fight, so I decided to try something else. Luckily I had all my props along. So Giselle and I put on our entire performance by fire- and lamplight. Of all my extensive repertoire, sawing Giselle in half went down the best. Ten Bears had never seen anything like it—’

  ‘Or me, the way I dressed for the act,’ Giselle put in, eyeing Dusty in a teasing manner.

  ‘The whole band came down to watch,’ Lampart continued. ‘Next day, instead of attacking, they brought the medicine woman to see and, I suspect, explain the miracle. When she couldn’t, Ten Bears decided that I must have extra powerful medicine and made me his blood-brother. After that, getting permission for us to make our homes here was easy.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know why we chose to settle here, Ed?’ asked Youseman, sitting between the mayor and the barber.

  ‘I figure that, happen he reckons it’s my business, Mr. Lampart’ll tell me about it,’ Dusty replied, guessing that no further information would be forthcoming right then.

  ‘I always feel so immodest when I talk about it,’ Lampart remarked, placing a hand over his glass as the wine-waiter offered to fill it. ‘No more for me, thank you.’

  ‘If a man’s done something as smart as starting this town, I don’t see why he needs be that way about telling it,’ Dusty praised. ‘Fact is, the only modest fellers I’ve ever met are that way because they’ve never done anything and don’t have any other choice.’ He looked up and shook his head at the wine-waiter. ‘I’ll pass this deal, amigo.’

  ‘You don’t drink much, Edward,’ Giselle commented. ‘Aren’t you enjoying yourself with us?’

  ‘I’m having a right fine time, ma’am,’ Dusty answered. ‘Only I figure a man who has to pour liquor down his throat to enjoy himself doesn’t have much to enjoy.’

  ‘You object to people drinking, señor’ Santiago inquired, but in a polite and friendly manner.

  ‘I object to me drinking,’ Dusty corrected, hoping that somebody would take the bait. ‘What other fellers do is none of my never-mind.’

  ‘From the way your brother talks,’ Lampart put in, just as Dusty had hoped. ‘I don’t think he shares your views.’

  ‘Matt talks better than he drinks,’ Dusty replied, taking the chance to impress the mayor with the Kid’s and Waco’s sterling qualities and the fact that they would be of use to him. ‘They’re good kids, him and Comanch’ both. As loyal as they come and they always do just what I tell them. Tell you what, gents, I said they should stay sober tonight. And I’ll bet a thousand dollars they’re that way if we go along to the saloon when we’re through here.’

  ‘With Emma handing out the free drinks?’ le Blanc laughed. ‘You have much faith in them, mon ami.’

  ‘Enough to make it five thousand dollars they’ll still be sober,’ Dusty offered, watching Lampart out of the corner of his eye and seeing him give a quick confirmatory nod to the barber.

  ‘You are on, mon brave,’ le Blanc declared, thrusting his right hand across the table. ‘Who will hold the stakes?’

  ‘Anybody who suits you,’ Dusty said indifferently. ‘I don’t care who I get the money off.’

  ‘You are so sure of winning then, Edward?’ Giselle asked.

  ‘So sure that I’d go up to ten thousand simoleons on it,’ Dusty declared, apparently addressing le Blanc, but actually watching the mayor’s reaction.

  ‘Not with me,’ le Blanc chuckled, as he received a negative headshake from Lampart. ‘Against such confidence, I almost wish I had not made the wager.’

  ‘Call it off, you feel that way,’ offered Dusty. ‘I know those boys and you-all don’t.’

  ‘No,’ the barber decided, after another glance in the mayor’s direction had told him what to do. ‘We shook hands on it, so the bet is on. Besides, I too have fa
ith. In Emma’s hospitality and persuasive powers. We will see what happens when we get to the Happy Man. But who holds the stakes?’

  ‘Mr. Lampart’ll suit me fine,’ Dusty stated. ‘That way, he can put your money straight into my box in his office after I’ve won.’

  Chapter Ten – If You Wasn’t Wearing Them Guns

  ‘Ed Caxton!’ Emma Nene said accusingly, bearing down on Dusty as he entered the Honest Man Saloon with Lampart, le Blanc and Santiago. ‘What have you told those two boys of yours?’

  With the dinner at an end, the party had started to split up and go their separate ways. First to leave had been Basmanov’s faction, including the scowling, still angry Glover. Dusty had noticed that two of the men who had been with the Russian earlier stayed behind. Others, whom the small Texan had marked down as fence sitters, showed a more open friendship towards Lampart. Already, it seemed, the fact that the mayor was apparently winning the support of ‘Ed Caxton’ was bringing its rewards.

  There had been some after-dinner talk, then the men had decided to make their way to the saloon. Clearly Lampart had no intention of allowing his rival to make friendly advances towards Dusty and intended to reduce the chances of a successful attempt to assassinate the small Texan. The mayor had asked Dusty, along with le Blanc and Santiago, to be his guests at the saloon after they all had escorted Giselle home.

  For all the deficiencies of its signboard, the Honest Man Saloon came up to the high standard set by the rest of the town. On a dais at the left side of the room, the piano which had guided Dusty, the Kid and Waco to Hell combined with three guitars, two violins and a trumpet to beat out a lively dance rhythm. Before the dais was a space left clear for dancing. At the moment of Dusty’s arrival, it was hidden behind a wall of laughing, cheering Mexicans, members of Santiago’s gang. Several pretty, shapely girls, white, Mexican and Chinese, in no more scanty attire than would be seen at a saloon in a normal town, mingled with the sixty or so male customers. Behind the bar counter, two Mexicans and a burly, heavily mustached white man served drinks from the extensive range of bottles gracing the shelves of the rear wall. Mexican waiters glided about carrying trays. Two tiger-decorated faro layouts, a chuck-a-luck table, a wheel- of-fortune and three poker games catered for the visitors who wished to gamble. At each end of the bar, a flight of stairs led up to the first floor.