The Floating Outfit 51 Read online

  Gliding swiftly forward as he saw what Yorath was doing, Red started to counter the threat. His left hand caught and gave the hard-case’s bent right elbow an outwards and upwards thrust. Nor did he rely upon this alone to save him. Although his action had put Yorath in an awkward position, he knew he was still not out of danger. Therefore, he passed his right hand between the one he had struck and the hard-case’s body. Working in smooth co-ordination, he contrived to grasp the wrist with both his hands. He was too late to prevent the weapon being freed from the waistband, so gave a quick snapping motion to jerk it downwards and back. Continuing the rearwards movement, which locked the hard-case’s elbow and wrist, he ensured the barrel was at no time pointed in his direction.

  Competently as the red head was acting, it seemed he was not going to have everything his own way!

  Caught unawares by the speed and efficiency with which he was being tackled, Yorath recovered sufficient of his presence of mind to resist. His torso was inclined forward by the twisted right arm being raised, but he was still contriving to retain his hold on his revolver. What was more, he sent a kick with his right foot which reached the inside of his captor’s left leg. As it landed, he felt the grip upon his trapped wrist loosen a trifle. Not enough for him to jerk it free, but he was able to twist and slam his left fist into the Texan’s ribs. Despite the awkward position from which it was thrown, the blow caused him to be released.

  Having escaped, a realization of how close he had come to the humiliation of being disarmed in public filled the hard-case with an uncontrollable rage. Moving away from his surprisingly capable assailant, he was determined to take revenge. Without a single thought for the possible consequences if he succeeded, he straightened up and started to bring his Colt towards where the unarmed Texan was preparing to resume the attack.

  Before the weapon could be turned into alignment upon Red, Stan Markham appeared in the front entrance. Giving a bellowed command for the gun to be dropped, he hurtled forward. Hearing the words and catching a glimpse from the corner of his eye of the massive figure approaching like a living projectile, Yorath could not resist his reaction to try to deal with the new threat. Nevertheless, part of him still insisted upon taking revenge upon the cause of his humiliation. Therefore, he vacillated between the peace officer and the cowhand instead of moving with the deadly speed and decision he would normally have employed. Before he could select which of them to deal with first, the matter was taken from his hands in no uncertain fashion. Granted time to come into range, the peace officer drove out his big left fist. Caught on the side of the jaw, Yorath was pitched sideways in a headlong sprawl. The Colt flew from his unheeding grasp and he went down unconscious.

  ‘I warned him not to carry a gun in my bailiwick!’ Markham announced, going to pick up the short-barreled revolver. Asking what had caused the trouble and being told that Red had tried to avoid it, he went on, ‘I can’t blame you for defending yourself. A couple of you fellers tote this jasper down to the jailhouse for me. We’ll see if a night in a cell and a fine from the judge comes morning’ll make him realize we aim to have the “No Guns In Trail End” ordinance obeyed.’

  ‘It couldn’t’ve worked better had we told ’em what we wanted them to do,’ Red Blaze enthused, riding up through the darkness to where Jessica Front de Boeuf and Mark Counter were sitting horses at the edge of a trail. ‘Following Mr. Bruce and that skinny sod-buster was easier than it’d likely’ve been had Yorath been along.’

  ‘So you’ve seen where they’re holding Trudeau?’ the woman asked and the relief in her voice was genuine.

  ‘Seen and scouted it, ma’am,’ the fiery haired Texan confirmed. ‘Trouble being, it won’t be easy to pry him loose.’

  Not only had Jessica guessed what Red had in mind when looking from the wardrobe to her nephew, but having heard that her son’s property had been collected by them, she had had a similar scheme in mind when coming to pay them a visit. However, while willing to help her, Mark had insisted that Stan Markham must be informed. Despite his aunt’s obvious misgivings and disapproval, this had been done. Much to her surprise, in addition to having offered his support willingly, the town marshal had kept his questions to a minimum and avoided raising points regarding her part in the affair which could have proven embarrassing or even incriminating.

  Friendship, mutual respect, trust and gratitude for help given in gaining acceptance for the ‘No Guns In Trail End’ ordinance were not the only reasons for Markham adopting such an attitude when approached by the blond giant!

  Unlike Mark, the marshal had been engaged continuously in law enforcement activities for several years. He had not needed to have the true status of the man with whom they would be in contention explained. In addition to being aware that they would be up against a ruthless and successful master criminal, he had a personal reason for giving his agreement. A friend of long standing had been murdered by Kent Bruce, but every witness was either scared from testifying, or killed, and the jury at his trial had been compelled to return a verdict of not guilty. Therefore, Markham was willing to co-operate in a scheme which might allow him to be brought to justice.

  Possessing a close to encyclopedic knowledge of criminal mentality, amply backed by her own devious nature, Jessica had guessed what lay behind the kidnapping of her son. She had also formed an equally accurate assessment to how Bruce would respond if he could be led to assume this had not taken place.

  To bring about the assumption, accompanied by Mark clad in Trudeau Front de Boeuf’s usual attire, of a prosperous professional gambler—the requisite bulk around the mid-section being acquired by padding—the woman had selected a suitable position from which the illusion could be created. While giving the impression that she and her son were checking to ensure Bruce had arrived as stipulated with only one man, a precaution which would have been taken in any conditions, the alley she had chosen was sufficiently far away to prevent the deception being detected.

  Although too far away to hear what passed between Bruce and the gangling man who met him outside the railroad depot, Jessica had deduced correctly that he was acting as a go-between for the kidnappers. Before any attempt could be made to clarify the situation by approaching her and her ‘son’, also having been waiting close by, Markham had arrived as arranged to disarm David Yorath and lessen the chance of this being done. Unfortunately, due to having only recently come to Trail End, the marshal knew nothing about Michael Murdock. Nor was a deputy who had served with his predecessor able to say more than that the ‘sod-buster’ always used the trail to the south-west when visiting the town.

  Being deprived of what could have proved helpful information from the peace officers, Jessica had not been perturbed. The plan she had concocted offered another chance. However, having guessed that Bruce would take steps to learn the truth of the matter, she had taken into account how this would be done and made her arrangements accordingly. Agreeing that a man like Yorath would be too wary for their purposes, Red and Markham had been prepared to remove him. Collecting some friends from Texas who were willing to help without asking questions, the red head had provoked the incident and had given the marshal an excuse to take the hard-case into custody.

  Using the incarceration of his bodyguard as an excuse, again as Jessica had anticipated, Bruce had notified her that he would not be available for a meeting until the following afternoon. Counting upon him considering the negotiations could not be delayed indefinitely without arousing her suspicions if there had been no kidnapping, the reply she had sent was calculated to make him uncertain over whether it had happened as arranged. Justifying her estimation of his character still further, he had elected to go with Murdock and satisfy himself on the point.

  Having survived the performance of scouting missions while serving as second in command of Company ‘C’ of the Texas Light Cavalry during the War Between The States, Red had justified his claim that he would be able to follow the two men. The task had been made easier by Bruce having
waited until just after sundown before setting off. Nevertheless, he was willing to admit he was helped greatly by not being in contention against Yorath. Despite his intelligence and undoubted ability in other fields, being a city dweller, the master criminal lacked the keen perceptions of his range bred and frontier trained bodyguard. Nor, the pose of being a farmer notwithstanding, had Murdock proved any more competent in such matters.

  Finding the quarter moon more of a help than a hindrance, the red haired Texan had contrived to follow his quarry to their destination without being detected. Leaving his well trained horse ground hitched by its dangling reins at a safe distance, he had been just as successful on advancing on foot to make a thorough examination of the small house and its out buildings. All were in a state of near dilapidation. Nor, with the exception of one buckboard, were the few vehicles scattered around in any better condition. Apart from half a dozen horses of varying quality, there was no livestock and, much to his relief, no dogs. Having made a mental note of everything he believed might prove of use in the rescue bid, he had collected his mount and went to tell Jessica and Mark what he had learned. They had followed him at a distance while on the south-west trail, the woman dressed as a cowhand in clothes borrowed from the blond giant and armed with her son’s weapons. They awaited his return along the trail.

  ‘I don’t think either of us believed it would be easy,’ Jessica stated, unable to control her ingrained arrogance, in response to Red’s comment on rejoining them. Then, forcing a more pleasant tone into her voice, she continued,

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Blaze, but—!’

  ‘That’s all right, ma’am,’ the fiery haired Texan replied. ‘I’ve a notion how you must be feeling. Anyways, they didn’t go straight up to the house. Bruce sent the sod-buster on ahead’s soon as they got near, but wasn’t where I could chance sneaking up and grabbing him.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have done any good if you had,’ the woman claimed, as the cowhand paused and looked her way, as if expecting criticism for having failed to take what could have been an opportunity. ‘Quincy and his men wouldn’t have traded Trudeau for him.’

  ‘That’s about how I figured it, ma’am,’ Red admitted. ‘Quincy came out and talked to the sod-buster, who’d gone across on his lonesome, then went back in. When Quincy came out again and waved them over, instead of using the front door, they went ’round the back and must’ve gone in through the kitchen.’

  ‘Neither Bruce nor the sod-buster would want to let Trudeau know who they were,’ Jessica guessed. ‘I expect Quincy was sent in to have him blindfolded so he couldn’t see them looking at him.’

  ‘That’s how I figured it, ma’am,’ Red drawled.

  ‘How’s the land lie, amigo?’ Mark inquired.

  ‘They’re holding him in the front room, at a guess,’ the red head replied. ‘Least, there’s only that and the kitchen lit up. There was sacks for drapes at all the windows light showed through, so I couldn’t see in. Wasn’t nobody outside on guard, which’s something and, apart from there only being three decent saddle hosses in the corral, I wouldn’t want to guess at how many we’ll be up against.’

  ‘Three we know for sure, them having busted Cousin Tru out of the jailhouse,’ the blond giant stated. ‘Of course, there’ll be Bruce and the sod-buster should they stick around.’

  ‘They won’t,’ Jessica assessed. ‘Once he’s satisfied they really are holding Trudeau, Bruce won’t waste any time in going back to town.’

  ‘We’ll figure on three for certain then and hope there isn’t too many more,’ Mark decided. ‘Is there anything that might help us get up close to ’em?’

  ‘I tell you, amigo, I’ve never seen such a run-amuck place,’ Red asserted, after having described the layout of the farm and its immediate surroundings. ‘Should that jasper be living on nothing ’cept what he makes as a sodbuster, I’m not surprised he looks half-starved. Except for the rig I’ll bet was used to tote your Cousin Trudeau out here, there isn’t one that’s whole and could be used. Would you believe there’s a Chihuahua cart like you see down New Mex’-Arizona way and even that’s got a wheel fallen off?’

  ‘Is the wheel around?’ the blond giant asked, thinking about the dimensions of the type of vehicle to which his companion had referred.

  ‘It’s lying where it fell off, likely, by the cart,’ the red head replied, intrigued by the way in which the question had been put.

  ‘Really, nephew!’ Jessica put in irritably, not knowing the blond giant as well as did the other Texan. ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Might do, Aunt Jessica, it just might do,’ Mark answered. ‘Something that heavy could come in pretty handy, should it be used properly.’

  Moving through the semi darkness to which his vision had already adjusted, Mark Counter was alert for the slightest suggestion that his presence had been discovered by somebody in the small cluster of buildings towards which he was advancing alone and on foot. Contriving to avoid any unnecessary noise, he was conscious of the comforting weight caused by the buscadero gunbelt and its two ivory handled Colt Cavalry Peacemakers, once more strapped around his waist. Suspecting he would have need of the weapons, he had collected them and his Winchester Model of 1873 rifle from the office of the town marshal before setting out from Trail End. However, as things had turned out, he concluded he would not need the latter for what he had in mind.

  Explaining the plan he had formulated, based on the information he had received, the blond giant had found that neither Jessica Front de Boeuf nor Red Blaze could suggest anything which might offer even as much chance of succeeding. Much to the relief of the two young Texans, the woman had decided against going any further with them. Saying she would be more of an encumbrance than help on such an expedition, she had announced her intention of returning along the trail and said she would wait for them where it passed through a small wooded area. Agreeing with her point of view, her nephew and the red head had promised they would do everything in their power to bring back her son unarmed.

  Possessing considerable knowledge of the kind of work they were undertaking, the Texans had considered it inadvisable to follow the exact route to the farmhouse used by Red on his previous visit. The wisdom of taking the precaution was not long in being demonstrated. Hearing riders coming from the other direction, shortly before reaching the point at which Red had earlier left his horse, they had halted and escaped being detected themselves. Waiting until Kent Bruce and Michael Murdock had passed, they had resumed their wary approach.

  Having ridden as close as they considered it would be safe to do so without being heard by the men in the cabin, the Texans dismounted and Mark tied his horse to a sturdy bush. While the big blood bay stallion was sufficiently well trained to remain where left when only ground hitched under normal conditions, he did not care to take the chance of it being frightened into bolting by the commotion almost certain to be forthcoming, no matter how his plan turned out. With this precaution taken, the blond giant and the red head had separated so each could play the part assigned to him.

  Having satisfied himself there was still no guard on the porch, Mark went around the left side of the farmhouse. He could hear voices from the front room, but was unable to either see through the sacks draped as curtains across the window or make out what was being said. Turning aside, he went in search of the vehicle upon which a vital portion of his plan depended. While doing so, regardless of the desperate nature of the situation, he wondered how it had come so far from its place of origin. Concluding it may have been brought north and abandoned on arrival by a trail drive, or sold to the farmer, he put the matter from his thoughts.

  Designed to carry a sizeable load drawn by three draught oxen over rugged terrain, the Chihuahua cart was a sturdy, albeit somewhat primitive means of transportation, already being replaced in the Southwest of the United States by the four-wheeled ‘prairie schooner’. Simplicity of design and construction were its major features, being comprised of a thick wooden bed with side
s forming a box in which the load needed to be carefully balanced above the single axle.

  Studying the wheel which had come from the axle and lay near the vehicle he was approaching, Mark did not underestimate the difficulty of the task he had set himself. However, he considered it would be ideally suited for his purpose provided he could make use of it as was called for by his plan.

  Although equipped with iron for its box and tire, these were the only concessions made to improving the original design. Instead of having the spokes which had become popular amongst ‘Anglo’ users in particular, it was constructed from the traditional three pieces of wood forming a solid whole. Giving a diameter of four feet, being a good eighteen inches in width, the middle section tapered from ten inches thick at the hub to five where the metal rim was attached. Secured to the centerpiece by either wooden or—more recently—metal pins, the other two portions were cut in semicircles and of similar dimensions to form a massive bulk.

  Bending over the wheel, the blond giant scrabbled around until able to get the fingers of both hands underneath the edge of the centerpiece. Then, bracing himself, he began to apply all his enormous strength to straightening up and raising the heavy mass from the ground. Even as he felt it moving upwards, he heard the sound of hooves approaching and a voice with drunken tones began shouting.

  ‘Well, well, well, it looks like I’ve taken another pot,’ Trudeau Front de Boeuf announced, exuding an appearance of joviality and complete lack of concern over his situation. Reaching out with his manacled hands, he drew the coins and bills from the center of the rickety table towards him, continuing, ‘It looks like this’s my lucky day!’