The Floating Outfit 18 Read online

  Even before being inflicted by Goodgold’s bonhomie and learning she would no longer have Goodgold’s company to contend with after Bent’s Ford, Betty had decided that she would acquire something more to her liking in which she could continue the journey to the OD Connected ranch in Rio Hondo County, Texas. After having been notified by telegraph of her intentions and the hope that they could accompany her, she felt sure she could depend upon the ranch’s trail crew at Mulrooney, Kansas, to make it their business to do so. In addition to their having to be going back to the spread anyway at the conclusion of their successful delivery and sale of a herd of cattle, she felt sure they were all too aware of the way in which she would react on their next meeting should they fail to do as she had requested.

  Although Betty was a highly placed member of one of the richest families in Texas, her attitude did not arise out of being a pampered and spoiled brat demanding that everything be as she desired. Apart from her grandfather, General Jackson Baines “Ole Devil” Hardin, there was nobody in the world she respected and cared for more than the men she had contacted. However, while no older than they, she regarded each—even her cousin and segundo of the OD Connected when not engaged upon some activity as a member of the floating outfit, Dusty Fog—as unruly young brothers who needed to be kept under control to prevent them from getting into mischief.

  It must be said in exculpation of Belle Boyd that she would never have chosen to select the name of a good friend, with whom she had on one occasion shared a very dangerous situation, xxi in the deception upon which she was engaged if she had known Betty would actually be taking a departure from Ellsworth at such a critical stage of its performance. The plan had never been for her to go to Texas and “around the Horn” to California.

  Instead, after having established that her alter ego was in that city, Belle was to take a westbound train in a way that it was hoped would cause those who were after her some considerable expense to locate and follow her. xxii She had, in fact, gone ahead with the scheme as planned without even bothering to go near the Wells Fargo depot—the booking of the journey being carried out through the hotel at which she was staying and, for some reason, there having been no mention from the clerk who made the arrangements that a person with the same name and address had already departed—and discovering she could have inadvertently placed Betty in what might easily prove to be grave danger.

  Wanting to avoid being subjected to any more supposed wit from Harold Goodgold, Betty Hardin was gazing out of the window of the stagecoach as if finding the passing terrain of interest. In fact, the brush- and tree-lined area through which the trail was moving along the line originally taken by enormous herds of buffalo—which invariably selected the easiest and best-watered passage in the course of their migrations—had already grown so repetitious that she would have found it boring if it did not provide a welcome distraction. At that point the vehicle was approaching a curve beyond which she could not see, and she braced herself against the lurching that would occur as it went around.

  Seated on the box, nursing a twin-barreled ten-gauge Greener shotgun of the pattern made up to the specifications of Wells Fargo, Flint Major also watched the approaching curve. However, his feelings were not the same as those experienced by Betty. Tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly good-looking, despite wearing the attire of a cowhand from Texas, he was a guard of considerable experience. He had always considered that one aspect of the curve made it a potentially dangerous area. However, the young easterners who ran the offices had always seen fit to display their supposed superior wisdom by paying no attention to the misgivings of himself or the other guards who rode the route. Admittedly, nothing had ever happened there and he had no reason to believe it would on this occasion, but he preferred to be sure rather than sorry if it did.

  “That goddamned tree should’ve been cut—!” Major growled as he invariably did at the same point in every trip.

  “Them college-eddicated know-it-alls back to head office allus reckon to know what’s be—!” Joseph “Pizen Joe” Leatherhead responded instinctively without waiting for the comment to be completed.

  Both comments came to an end unfinished as each speaker realized the tree in question—taller and somewhat wider around the bole than any others in the vicinity, although this had not made it massive—was no longer standing among the undergrowth. Being dressed in a fashion and with the hairstyle of the old-time Mountain Men, Leatherhead reacted to what he realized could be happening with a speed and precision that might have struck a stranger as being beyond the capability of his obviously advanced years. xxiii Even before having gone sufficiently far around the curve to see the tree lying across the trail, he was hauling back on the long leather ribbons and starting to boot home the stagecoach’s brake while bellowing in a stentorian voice for the six-horse team to “Whoa!”

  Although Major guessed that what he had anticipated might have caused the removal of the tree was about to happen, he was unable to adopt a position of readiness that would allow him to try to circumvent the robbery he was expecting. Such was the excellent condition of the vehicle’s brakes—and so excellent was the training to which the team had been subjected—that the deceleration caused him to have to hang on to the side of the seat with one hand while his other grasped the wrist of the shotgun’s butt with the intention of preventing it from slipping from his grasp.

  From inside the vehicle rose yells of alarm and consternation. However, these were all masculine in timbre, ranging from the bull-like roar from Goodgold through a higher-pitched squeak given by Russel Prouty to a despairing wail redolent of Gilbert Griffin’s normally discontented mode of speech, as they were rammed back against the rearward-facing seats taken out of deference for the sex of the fellow traveler. Although as taken aback as the men and in a worse position to suffer the effects of the sudden reduction in speed, Betty gave no vocal protest. Instead, her hands flew up to grasp one of the stout leather straps fastened to the front and rear of the body’s interior for such a purpose. Hanging on with all her far-from-inconsiderable strength, she avoided being dislodged.

  Before Major could regain control of his movements sufficiently to think of resistance, the matter was taken from his hands.

  Wearing their bandannas drawn up to conceal most of their features, Simcock Wilbran and Jack Cunningham—armed respectively with an old Springfield carbine and a no-more-modern ten-gauge shotgun, which the guard considered the more deadly weapon under the circumstances, to supplement their holstered handguns—stood beyond the trunk of the clearly recently felled tree.

  “Throw ’em high!” Jesse Wilbran yelled in a voice slightly muffled by his bandanna mask, from where he and Graham Taylor—one of the pair who had not joined in the opening conversation with Libby Craddock at Big Win’s—were standing to the right side of the trail with their weapons aimed in a menacing fashion at the stagecoach. “Reach for it, guard, and we’ll cut you down!”

  “Them’s Jesse ’n’ Ham don’t get, we will!” supplemented Frank Dobson, who was on the other side of the vehicle with the gang’s other member, Tom Bower. “And you can count on that!”

  “Hey, Jack, Sim!” Bower yelled, looking through the window to where Betty was seated. “Belle was right. She’s here!”

  Studying the men ahead with experienced eyes, Major formed an accurate if unflattering assessment of what they were. Effective as it might be at close quarters, a shotgun was a comparatively slow weapon to use and he would be cut down before he got off even one barrel. What was more, should they be provoked into starting to shoot, he felt sure they would do so with indiscriminate disdain for who might become victims. Therefore, he made no attempt to show resistance and allowed the shotgun to remain with the twin barrels pointing toward the floor, although he did not relinquish his hold on the wrist of the butt. He was a competent guard, but it was no part of his duty to carry out something tantamount to committing suicide and would also put in danger the lives of everybody else aboard, includi
ng the attractive young woman from Texas for whom he had formed a warm respect and admiration. The latter was the policy of Wells Fargo, and he was in complete agreement with it.

  “Throw the scatter down, shotgun,” Jesse ordered, glowering at Bower’s having spoken before he was able to do so. Gesturing with his right-hand Colt and returning the other to its holster, as he had no proficiency in using it with the left although he would never admit the fact openly, he went on, “Then you both follow it with your belt, hawglegs!”

  The order complied with immediately, Leatherhead doing so for the same reason as Major despite seething with controlled rage at the indignity of being treated in such a fashion by what he estimated accurately as being a bunch of stupid kids making out like they were wild, woolly, full-of-fleas and never-curried-below-the-knees genuine owl-hoots. Delighted by the way in which the holdup was going, waiting until they had obeyed his order to climb down on the side away from their discarded weapons, Jesse went to the door of the stagecoach and commanded the occupants to descend without making any fuss.

  Watching Her fellow travelers despite being surprised by the reference that could only apply to herself and in all probability the lady outlaw, Belle Starr, Betty allowed her right hand to go under the left side of her bolero in a casual-seeming gesture. Remaining seated, knowing he was armed, she turned her gaze first to Goodgold. He was carrying a Tranter revolver in a stiff holster that would effectively prevent anything approaching a fast draw. Therefore, having had considerable experience around guns and gun handlers, she hoped he would not offer any resistance. She had no such concern about the other two. Neither gave any sign of carrying weapons of any kind. Russel Prouty looked flushed, angry, and indignant over the prospect of being robbed. With his face showing even greater misery than previously, Gilbert Griffin seemed to have shrunken into himself while yielding with bad grace to the inevitable.

  “My apologies for disturbing you, Miss Hardin, ma’am,” Jesse said with exaggerated politeness, having commanded the men to leave the vehicle and moved aside until they did. “But I’d be right obliged happen you’d step out here with the others. Us honest road agents have to make a living.”

  Puzzled by the mention of her name and certain Belle Starr would not be involved with a holdup in which she herself would be involved, Betty brought her hand from beneath the bolero jacket. Allowing Jesse to take it and refraining from an impulse to take advantage of this action in a way that would have been as painful as it was unexpected, she was assisted in her descent. On being released as soon as she reached the ground, she saw that the driver and guard were standing to one side separate from where the three male passengers formed a dejected, sullen, and dispirited line depending upon which one was studied. From them, she gave the members of the gang within her range of vision a quick and calculating glance. The way the next part of the holdup took place gave her an insight regarding the kind of men who were carrying it out, and she considered the conclusions she drew to be a mixed blessing.

  Starting with Goodgold, Jesse took all the not-inconsiderable amount of money and returned the empty wallet to him on the grounds that it might have sentimental value. On Prouty handing over a much thinner wallet, and the bandits showing no sign of being impressed by a warning of personal friendship with the Three Guardsmen, who would leave no stone unturned to bring them to book for their crime, he was compelled by a threat of having it done forcibly and in an embarrassing fashion to surrender the bulky money belt concealed about his waist.

  However, a search having established just how little Griffin was carrying, he was not robbed. In fact, being informed that it was not the policy of the gang to take from those who could not afford the loss, he was given a ten-dollar bill taken from the loot acquired from his traveling companions. Having ascertained that the safe-deposit box under the guard’s seat was empty, as Leatherhead had claimed, Jesse, with a spluttered profanity for which he immediately apologized to Betty, declared their weapons—being personal property and not that of the Wells Fargo company—would be unloaded but not taken, as was to be the fate of the salesman’s Tranter. xxiv

  Then came the surprise.

  “Cut loose ’n’ scatter the team, Ben!” Jesse called. “Keep one of ’em, though, so’s Miss Hardin can ride it off along of us.”

  Fourteen – She’ll Know All of Us

  “Why should I want to ride off with you?” Betty Hardin queried, although she could guess at the answer, unlikely as she believed it to be.

  “’Cause me ’n’ Belle Starr allows your folks’ll pay plenty to get you back,” Jesse Wilbran replied, emphasizing the name because he felt considerable pride in being able to claim he was working with such a famous member of the owlhoot fraternity as the lady outlaw.

  “They’ll more likely have your hides nailed out to dry to the corral fence,” Betty warned, deciding against pointing out the difficulties involved in sending a ransom note and the time that must of necessity elapse before the money demanded for her release would arrive. Furthermore, she was convinced that Belle Starr was not involved in any way with what was contemplated. Not only had the lady outlaw been with Belle Boyd and herself when they were helping bring an end to the career of the murderous Bad Bunch, but the close relationship shared with Mark Counter would preclude any such thing even if being in cahoots with such a bunch of owlhoots was conceivable. xxv “You maybe don’t know my grandfather is Ole Devil Hardin, so he’ll have his floating outfit hunting for you as soon as he hears what’s happened. I’ve close to a thousand dollars in my handbag and will give you a draft that any bank will accept for another fifteen hundred. Which is more money and less grief than you’ll get holding me.”

  “That is big money, Jess!” Simcock Wilbran stated as he and Jack Cunningham advanced from their positions behind the trunk of the fallen tree.

  “But not as much as her folks’ll hand over to get her back safe, sound ’n’ with all her buttons fastened proper,” Jesse replied, having briefly given the matter consideration also without wondering how the bank draft could be cashed. He glanced to where Frank Dobson and Thomas Bower had come from the other side of the stagecoach to start unhitching its team with a speed that showed they were well used to handling haulage harness. “Belle sa—I figure he’ll not dast take no risks while we’ve got you, Miss Hardin. I reckon we’ll just take our chances on it, so you’d best get ready to mount up ’n’ come with us.”

  “Do you think you can make me?” Betty challenged.

  “Hey, now,” Cunningham said, swaggering up with his shotgun dangling from his right hand. With the left, he reached forward to grasp the girl’s chin to tilt her head back. “Aren’t you the spunky li’l—!”

  The words were brought to an end by Betty twisting herself free and swinging her knotted right fist with precision and power. Its knuckles, made no less effective by being in a soft black leather riding glove, came around to catch her assailant on the left cheek and stagger him back a couple of steps. Spitting out a profanity, he made as if to lunge forward and she prepared to deal with him in an even more painfully effective fashion. The need did not arise.

  “Back off there, damn you, Jack, and keep your talk clean!” Jesse bellowed, swinging his Colt around to give support to his command. “You asked for what you got. No bunch I run don’t mishandle nor cuss at no lady.” Pausing until his order was obeyed with every evidence of reluctance, he turned his attention back to Betty and continued, “Now, ma’am, here’s the way it be. Me ’n’ my gang can’t go using no violence again’ a lady like you, so iffen you don’t get on that there hoss ’n’ ride with us, I’m going to have these gents cut down one after t’other until you do.”

  Betty was watching the young man’s eyes as he supplied the threat. At different times on the OD Connected she had met most of the top gunfighting men. In their number had been such coldly efficient killers as her cousin, John Wesley Hardin—who had been driven by the evils imposed in the Reconstruction period into being so badly wan
ted that on his capture even General Hardin’s influence in the State could only save him from hanging at the expense of a long term in prison xxvi—Ben Thompson, King Fisher, and Clay Allison. Neither Jesse nor any other member of the gang came anywhere close to being in that magic-handed class, but she felt that they were all the more dangerous for it under the circumstances. Probably each of them wanted to acquire the cherished name of “killer” and would not hesitate to shoot down unarmed men if doing so helped them attain the ambition.

  Catching the eye of Flint Major, Betty responded to the brief sign he made with an equally close-to-imperceptible shake of her head. The guard was willing to risk his life to save her, as was Pizen Joe Leatherhead, unless she missed her guess. However, she was disinclined to let them take what was almost certainly a suicidal risk. Any attempt was sure to end in bloodshed, and, once started, not one of the men from the stagecoach would be left alive. In her opinion, there was no need for such a thing to happen. Not with Bent’s Ford at the most five miles away. By her reckoning, there should be men present there who, collectively or individually, could deal most effectively with two gangs like this one-handed—and left-handed at that. Even if none of Ole Devil’s floating outfit had yet arrived, Duke Bent was equally capable of taking measures to effect a rescue.