The Floating Outfit 51 Read online

  ‘Yeah!’ growled the taller of the men who had helped the bogus United States deputy marshal to remove the big Southron from the jailhouse in Trail End. Dressed town fashion like his companions and also wearing a Colt Peacemaker in a fast draw holster, his tone was sour. Darting a glance pregnant with unspoken meaning at his companions, he went on, ‘But luck can allus change!’

  ‘So I’ve always heard, Ossie,’ Front de Boeuf conceded, his demeanor showing no discernible change despite the misgivings aroused by the cryptic comment. ‘That’s what makes gambling so interesting, don’t you think?’

  Such was the competence displayed by Elmer Quincy and his companions, the massive Southron had not been presented with any opportunity to escape from them. At the jailhouse, two had kept him covered with their revolvers through the bars of the door while the other entered and secured his arms from biceps to wrists with a length of rope. Knowing neither would be deterred by the possibility of injuring their companion if he had resisted within the restricted confines of the cell, he had allowed this to be done peacefully. Taken from the building to where a buckboard was waiting, he had taken the warning he was given and made no attempt to raise the alarm by shouting. Helped to climb aboard the vehicle, a sack had been placed over his head before it was set into motion.

  The extemporized blindfold was not removed until, after a journey he concluded had taken him some miles from Trail End—although he had no idea in which direction—Front de Boeuf had been guided into the poorly furnished sitting-room of a dilapidated cabin built from wooden planks. The precautions against him discovering his location had not ended there. Sacks draped across the windows of every room he had been allowed to visit served to prevent him from obtaining a clue to his whereabouts by looking outside and, when needing to ‘answer the calls of nature’, he was made to do so in a bucket without being allowed to leave the building.

  Once more having taken sufficient precautions to dissuade the big Southron from making a move against them, first attaching a set of horse hobbies to his ankles, the trio had replaced the rope around his arms with handcuffs stolen from the office of the town marshal. Accepting he could now only hope to escape if granted the most favorable circumstances, despite his hands being in front instead of behind his back, he had waited in vain for a set to occur. There had never been a moment when he was watched by just one of his abductors. Furthermore, although he had not put in an appearance, there had been a voice and other indications that a fourth man was on the premises some of the time.

  Although the big Southron had been informed that a demand for a ransom of three thousand dollars had been sent to await the arrival of his mother at their hotel, whereupon he would be set free once the money had been delivered, he had suspected this was merely an inducement to keep him from trying to escape. Like Jessica, he had guessed who was behind the kidnapping. Wanting to confirm his supposition, in case he should survive and be able to take revenge, he had adopted a means which he hoped would do so. Aware that tongues were frequently loosened during a game of cards, as well as when liquor flowed—which it did not in the cabin—while having lunch, he had suggested they passed the time playing poker and they had agreed.

  In spite of having been unable to employ any of the cheating methods at which he was adept, due to his wrists being manacled, Front de Boeuf possessed the skill of a successful professional gambler. This and a favorable run of the cards had enabled him to win consistently from his less experienced opponents. However, none of them had been tricked into saying anything which would implicate Kent Bruce in the kidnapping.

  On the point of suggesting the game be brought to an end, having noticed his captors were growing increasingly resentful over their continued losses, the big Southron had heard two horses approaching. Although the sack had been placed over his head, he had known when Quincy was summoned into the kitchen. The door had been closed, preventing him from making out what was being said, but he had drawn an accurate conclusion from the conversation which had taken place. Returning after the visitors had taken their departure, the bogus peace officer had told his companions their money had arrived. When asked by Front de Boeuf how soon he would be set free in that case, Quincy had replied this would be done in the morning, and demanded the next pot was dealt.

  Ever susceptible to atmosphere, the big Southron had soon detected a change coming over his captors. Nevertheless, they had continued to play until his comment on taking another pot provoked the cryptic comment from Ossie. This increased his belief that he was not to be let leave the cabin alive. Having received their payment from Bruce, they would have no intention of letting him survive to search for them and avenge his abduction.

  Before anything further could be said, there was an interruption!

  Hooves sounded, approaching from the same direction as the earlier riders, but this time of a single horse!

  The animal was brought to a half a short distance from the front of the cabin, then a voice with the slurred timbre suggesting the newcomer was drunk began to bellow.

  ‘Hey there in the house!’ boomed the voice, its accent Texan. ‘Susie-Mae, Winnie, Josey-fine, come on out here. It’s your good ole amigo, Pockets Hoscroft from Tennyson, pride of the Lone Star State callin’ with the rest of the Hide ’N’ Horn trail crew close behind all comin’ a-courting like we did while you was living in town.’

  ‘There’s only the one out there!’ Ossie reported, having darted with gun in hand to peer cautiously through the front window while his companions had drawn their Colts and covered the big Southron. ‘I can down him from here real easy!’

  ‘The hell you will!’ Quincy refused savagely. ‘Didn’t you hear the beef-head son-of-a-bitch say the rest of his god-damned trail crew’re close behind?’

  ‘I don’t see hide nor hair of ’em!’ Ossie claimed, but lowered the hand he had raised to open the window.

  ‘How far can you see on a night like this?’ the bogus peace officer countered. He too was surprised by the visit, but not suspicious. News of how Trail End had been cleaned up had reached him and he assumed, as frequently happened, this had included the closing of all the brothels. Although somewhat further away than he would have expected, he considered it possible that one might have been relocated in the vicinity of the farm. ‘Go out and tell him he’s come to the wrong place. Get over to the door and stop him seeing in here, Gil. But don’t neither of you start shooting, else we’ll have the rest of the bastards swarming down on us like stirred up hornets.’

  Completing the shouted introduction, which Mark Counter had assured him would produce the effect they desired, Red Blaze swung from his double girthed Texas saddle. He was somewhat further away from the cabin than he would have liked, but he considered it was advisable not to go closer for reasons similar to those that had caused the blond giant to tie up the blood bay stallion. There was, he told himself wryly, an even greater danger of his big claybank mount being spooked into bolting as he would be compelled to rely upon only ground hitching it.

  Watching the front door of the building open and a man step out, the fiery haired Texan noticed it was pushed until only just ajar before he could see the interior. Realizing why this had been done, he allowed the split-end reins to slip from his fingers. Then, making sure he kept his hands clear of the forward pointing walnut butts of the Colt Cavalry Model Peacemakers in the low cavalry-twist draw holsters of his gunbelt, he strolled forward with a gait complimentary to the drunken way in which he had spoken.

  ‘Howdy there, young feller!’ Ossie greeted, forcing himself to sound more amiable than he was feeling. Starting to cross the porch with his gun-filled right hand concealed behind his back, he scanned the terrain beyond the caller. ‘You’ve come to the wrong place. There ain’t no gals here, they’re out along the main trail maybe another mile or so.’

  ‘Why now, that just cain’t be so!’ Red protested, retaining the suggestion of intoxication in his voice and posture as he kept walking. Measuring the distance separat
ing him from the approaching man, who he hoped to render hors de combat silently when close enough, he continued, ‘This’s where me ’n’ the rest of the crew was told to come. I bet you ’n’ your amigos ‘re inside having fun with all those hot-assed lil gals and don’t wanna share none of ’em with us.’

  ‘That just ain’t so, young feller,’ Ossie denied, trying to sound like a church-going farmer confronted by such a mistake and straining his ears in an attempt to discover how close the unwanted caller’s companions might be. I tell you this’s the wrong pi—!’

  A crash and the crackle of planks being shattered came from the left side of the cabin and brought the explanation to an end!

  Unfortunately, despite having expected such a commotion, Red was still well beyond reaching distance of his objective!

  To make matters worse, although startled, the man from the cabin glanced around briefly then returned his gaze to the fiery haired Texan, starting to bring the concealed right hand from behind his back!

  Listening to the conversation taking place in front of the cabin, the blond giant was unable to see the speakers. However, he knew Red was aware of his intentions and would be ready to take action. Hoping his cousin had drawn the correct conclusions from the names used by his amigo on riding up, he gave a surging heave. Raising the heavy wheel above his head, he strode forward a couple of steps and hurled it at the window. His aim was off and, instead of striking the glass, the iron bound rim of the circular pieces of timber hit the wall to one side. Nevertheless, this produced what was probably an even more dramatic and effective result.

  Allowed to become warped and brittle by the neglect of successive owners, the planks could not withstand such an impact. To the accompaniment of a cacophony of snapping wood, the wheel burst through and caused the half of the wall beyond the window to fall inwards. Hearing startled exclamations from the room, Mark brought out his Colts with the swiftly flowing movement which characterized a gun fighter of the first water. Filled with anxiety for the welfare of his cousin, he leapt towards the gaping hole he had created.

  Like every experienced poker player, Trudeau Front de Boeuf had excellent control over his emotions. Therefore, he had shown none of the elation which was aroused by hearing the obviously Texan visitor mention Pockets Hoscroft, Tennyson and the Hide And Horn ‘trail crew’. The latter were, in fact, the names of a town and a saloon, and all three had been involved in the last meeting he had had with his cousin.

  Even possessing such knowledge, the big Southron was almost as startled as Elmer Quincy and Gil by the means selected to create a distraction!

  Almost!

  But not quite!

  As a precaution against being seen by the big Southron, being unaware that the trio had decided to kill him instead of letting him be set free on receiving the ransom, Michael Murdock had insisted that he was always seated with his back to the kitchen door. While this saved him from being struck by the section of the wall which was caved in by the massive wheel, unfortunately he was not alone in the escape. Quincy was seated at the right side of the table and Gil stood by the door.

  Regardless of being alarmed by the totally unexpected turn of events, neither the bogus peace officer nor the shorter of his companions was frozen into more than a momentary immobility!

  Spitting out a profanity, Quincy began to lift his Colt and thrust himself from the chair!

  Releasing the handle he was holding, ready to leave hurriedly if Ossie needed help, the third of the abductors swung around and also started to turn his gun towards their captive!

  Suspecting why the approaching man had kept the hand concealed, Red responded to the threat. His instinct also warned that, the clothing of a town dweller notwithstanding, he was up against a sufficiently competent gun handler to be very dangerous. Aware of his own limitations in that field, he took what he considered to be the most suitable counter measures. Turning the palm of his right hand outwards, he closed it around the walnut grips and twisted the off side long barreled Peacemaker from its holster. While doing so, he flung himself in a dive to the left.

  The evasion was only just in time!

  Flame lashed from the muzzle of the Colt brought around by Ossie. Its bullet cut the air just above the Texan’s descending body. Landing on his side, Red rolled to his back and slanted the Peacemaker upwards. Although he had drawn back the hammer with his right thumb and inserted his forefinger through the trigger guard the moment the barrel cleared the lip of the holster and turned away from him, he did not continue to employ this method of operating the mechanism. Instead, having dispatched his first shot, he brought across and used the heel of his cupped left hand to return the hammer to the firing position. On being released, the trigger being kept depressed, it flew forward to discharge the cartridge waiting in the uppermost chamber of the cylinder.

  Fanning was the fastest way to fire a single action revolver, which needed to be cocked manually, but it was not conducive to great accuracy. However, this proved to be no disadvantage to Red under the circumstances. Sending out shot after shot in very rapid succession, he angled them slightly apart. Before Ossie could correct his aim, being dazzled by his own and the repeated muzzle flashes from the gun of his intended victim, he was caught in the chest by the fourth and fifth .45 caliber bullets. The sixth just missed him as he was pitched backwards, dying, to the ground.

  ‘Getting those three jaspers to grab off that big feller like you did was real slick, boss,’ Michael Murdock praised, as he and Kent Bruce were riding along the trail towards the small area of woodland through which it passed.

  ‘Maybe not slick enough,’ the master criminal replied pensively, jolted from his thoughts on what he had learned from the kidnappers of Trudeau Front de Boeuf. ‘That’s “Coeur de Lion” at your place all right. So what the hell was his mother up to trying to make me think he was with her?’

  ‘She was scared of letting you know she was on her lonesome,’ the go-between suggested.

  ‘Scared,’ Bruce snorted. ‘She wouldn’t even be scared by the crack of doom and knowing the Day of Judgment was coming. No, there was more to it than that.’

  ‘Aw, boss!’ Murdock protested, ever the sycophant. ‘She couldn’t’ve figured it was you’s fixed it for him to be grabbed off.’

  ‘The hell she couldn’t!’ Bruce denied, with a mixture of heat and concern. ‘It didn’t strike me until Quincy mentioned “Coeur de Lion” had a cousin even bigger than him in town, but she’d have come straight to me for help if she hadn’t guessed what was doing.’

  ‘What’re you going to do, boss?’ the go-between inquired.

  ‘It all depends upon her,’ the master criminal replied, but did not consider it advisable to tell his companion he had no intention of leaving such a dangerous person as he knew ‘Jessica Coeur de Lion’ to be, alive under the circumstances. ‘God damn Yorath for losing his temper and getting thrown into jail. If I lose what she’s got for me because of it, I’ll—!’

  The delivery of the threat was brought to an end by the sound of shooting in the direction from which the two men had come!

  ‘That’s at my place!’ Murdock stated, as he and his employer looked around while reining their horses to a halt.

  ‘I know it is!’ Bruce snarled, thinking fast and drawing satisfaction from realizing he would be able to find his way back to the town by following the trail and no longer needed guiding. ‘Go back and find out what’s happening!’

  ‘Maybe they’ve shot him now they’ve got your money, ’stead of doing what you said,’ the go-between suggested, knowing the arrangement had been for the kidnappers to hold their captive at his farm until the actual ransom had passed via him to the master criminal.

  ‘Do as I told you!’ Bruce hissed viciously, but refrained from expressing his belief that the shooting had occurred outside the building. ‘Move, god damn you!’

  ‘S—Sure, boss!’ the “sod-buster” assented, albeit reluctantly, alarmed by the way in which he had been addres
sed. ‘W—What’ll I do when I’ve found out?’

  ‘Come to town as fast as you can and tell me,’ the master criminal instructed over his shoulder, having already set his mount into motion.

  Riding away from the man he had hired to supply local knowledge and facilities, Bruce was concerned solely with giving thought to his immediate future. He was becoming increasingly and disturbingly aware that he was no longer in an area where he could exert influence. Because of the precautions demanded by ‘Jessica Coeur de Lion’, justifiable as they had been when dealing with him, he had only a single man upon whom he could depend for protection. Even David Yorath had been so stupidly inconsiderate as to get thrown in jail for becoming involved in an unnecessary brawl and carrying a revolver in defiance of the ‘No Guns In Trail End’ civic ordinance.

  The situation was hardly conducive to peace of mind, especially when in contention against such a completely unscrupulous and deadly woman!

  One asset which had always stood the master criminal in good stead was his ability to judge when to cut and run. Regardless of the profits which he felt sure would accrue from the information he had hired Jessica to acquire, being convinced she would have upheld her reputation where such things were concerned, he concluded the safest course was to forget it and make for a place offering him a secure sanctuary as quickly as possible. Once there, aware that he would never be able to travel freely or even rest safely while she lived and sought vengeance, he could make arrangements for her to be killed.

  Thinking of his escape, Bruce entered the gloom caused by the trail passing between the trees and undergrowth of the woodland. A man raised in the range country would have drawn an appropriate conclusion from the way his horse tossed its head and, snuffling the air, gave a snort which was answered in kind from the shadows on the left side of the trail. Being a city dweller, whose love of luxury and easy living led to using a vehicle instead of sitting a saddle when traveling, he failed to appreciate the significance of such equine behavior.