The Floating Outfit 15 Page 2

  While falling, Red twisted his right-hand palm out to coil fingers around the walnut grips of his off-side Colt. Smoothly he slid the gun’s streamlined length from leather, thumb-cocking its single-action mechanism in the process and slipping the forefinger into the trigger guard when the eight-inch barrel slanted away from him. Red could not claim to be fast with a gun, taking slightly over a second to draw and shoot when a real fast man could halve that time, but he still held a gun ready for use when he lit down on the ground.

  For all that, Red did not throw lead indiscriminately at his unknown assailants. Instead he watched them as he fell and took quick sight along the Colt’s barrel after he landed. The 1860 Army Colt could claim to be one of the best fighting handguns yet made, comparatively light in weight yet offering a sufficiently heavy caliber to knock down and take the fight out of an enemy with one shot, but its construction did not make for fancy target-shooting accuracy. To be fair, the Army Colt had not been designed with the needs of sedentary Eastern target-poppers in mind, being produced as a fighting weapon which suited the requirements of cavalry soldiers and others who needed a means of defense while riding a horse.

  With his aim taken, Red squeezed the Colt’s trigger, saw the hammer swing around to strike the waiting percussion cap and felt the recoil buck as the gas caused by suddenly burning black powder thrust a conical bullet through the barrel. Muzzle-blast flared redly from the Colt and momentarily blinded Red with its glow, but he heard a screech from across the street following on the unmistakable ‘whomp!’ a bullet made when it smashed into living tissue.

  On firing, Red rolled two complete turns to the left. Startled by the shots, the horses tied to the hitching rail moved and reared restlessly. Steel-shod hooves struck the ground close by Red and he lay without movement. Rolling had been a wise precaution, along with his choice of the direction he rolled. Red might be hot-headed and liable to plunge into any fight he saw without too close inquiry as to its cause, but once in he became a cool enough hand, thinking out his moves with lightning speed.

  Fully aware of how burning powder threw out a glow in the darkness, he knew the men across the street could easily mark his position when he fired. If they possessed even a small knowledge of gun-fighting, the pair—or its uninjured member—ought to guess that he would not stay put after throwing the shot. Red also figured his assailants would expect him to roll away from the horses and so did the opposite, chancing a stamp or kick as preferable to receiving a bullet. When a second shot thundered from across the street and its bullet thudded into the sidewalk to the right of his original position, Red knew he called the play correctly.

  Having automatically re-cocked his Colt after firing, Red prepared to use it again. He waited for his eyes to throw off the effects of the muzzle-blast, knowing that the next bullet must put his second attacker out of action. There could be only one way for him to roll should he fire again, for if he went further to the left he would be under the nearest horse. That meant his adversary across the street knew the direction in which he must move and could aim accordingly given the chance.

  Even as Red’s eyes cleared, he heard significant sounds from the building behind him and the thud of departing feet across the street.

  ‘Now who the hell’d want to kill sweet, lovable lil ole me?’ he wondered while staying on the ground and awaiting developments.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Nine months later a baby boy was born,

  Born without a pappy in this wicked world of scorn.

  Her father looked upon her and he whispered in her ear,

  “Now I know what you had beneath your apron!”’

  The second group of singers had gained ascendancy and practically the whole of the room joined in, roaring out the words lustily. Then the sound of shots cut over their voices and brought a sudden, shocked hush. Probably Dusty alone had noticed Red’s departure, but all the rest knew there was trouble afoot. Even the knowledge of Red’s love of practical jokes did not cause Dusty to lay a wrong interpretation on the shots. Sure Red liked to stir up fun, but not of the stupid kind involving reckless discharging of a gun. In any case, two of the shots came from across the street.

  In that moment Dusty showed what made him a leader of men despite his lack of inches. Long before any of the others could put thoughts to words, he reached his decision and barked out orders.

  ‘Billy Jack, left door. Stan, right door. Tracey, right window, Vic, left. Kiowa, come with me.’

  Even as he spoke, Dusty headed for the front door and slid the left-hand Colt from its holster on his right side. Celebrations were forgotten and the men sobered up fast as they sprang to obey their leader’s orders. Reaching the front of the building, Dusty did not dash straight out. Instead he flattened himself against the wall alongside and peered over the top of the batwing doors. A glance at the tall, lean, Indian-dark and savage-looking Kiowa told Dusty that the Company’s scout was ready to play his part. Suddenly Dusty thrust himself through the doors, springing across the patch of light to the left and halting in the flimsy protection of the porch’s upright cover support. An instant later Kiowa repeated Dusty’s move, but went to the right.

  No bullets came their way, although the manner in which they acted was designed to confuse the enemy and make him unsure of which to shoot at first. Swiftly Dusty raked the opposite side of the street with his eyes. At first he thought it to be deserted, then saw a shape sprawled on the ground.

  ‘Are you all right, Cousin Red?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, Cousin Dusty. I hit one and the other ran.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Across the street, between the saddler’s shop and the hardware store.’

  ‘You hear that, Billy Jack, Stan?’ Dusty called, having heard enough to tell him the flanking parties had reached their assigned positions.

  ‘I heard,’ Billy Jack assured Dusty.

  ‘We’re watching ’em real good, even if we can’t see ’em, Cap’n Dusty,’ the man at the other end of the saloon went on.

  ‘Let’s go over and say “howdy” then, Cousin Red!’ Dusty ordered.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Red drawled and came to his feet.

  ‘Placing his right hand on the hitching rail, Dusty vaulted over it and landed by his cousin. With Kiowa at the other side, Dusty headed across the street towards the still shape in the alley. Although running, the trio kept their revolvers ready for use. Nor did the sight of the gun lying close by the sprawled-out man cause them to relax or regret taking precautions.

  ‘Get after the other one, Kiowa!’ Dusty barked, knowing that aspect of the work could best be handled by the scout.

  Silently Kiowa faded off down the alley, keeping in the darkest shadows and moving with the soft-footed skill of his red forefathers. Dusty and Red approached the shot man, alert and ready to deal with any attempted move the other might make. Kicking the gun farther away from the still hand, Dusty moved closer and sank to a knee. He rasped a match taken from his pocket on the seat of his pants and its glow illuminated an unshaven, lean face twisted in agony, the glazed eyes staring blindly.

  ‘Know him, Cousin Red?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before that I can recall,’ Red replied, holstering his Colt and studying the body; his assailant was dead, caught in the left side of the chest by the bullet, which ranged on through the heart.

  Men crowded out of the saloon, joining the flanking parties as they converged on where Dusty knelt by the body. Tossing aside the spent match, Dusty took another from his pocket. Before he could strike it, Kiowa returned.

  ‘He’s gone, Cap’n Dusty,’ the scout reported. ‘Couldn’t hear him going neither. You want for me to take some of the boys and look around?’

  ‘San Antonio’s a fair-sized city,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Which same that jasper’ll be long gone afore you can find him.’

  ‘The great-seizer’s coming, Cap’n Dusty,’ Billy Jack put in dismally, although he knew Town Marshal Anse Dal
e to be a friend.

  Hearing the shooting while making his rounds, Dale drew the correct conclusion. He knew that none of the assembled members of Company ‘C’ were the kind to shoot off guns in the street for fun and so came to investigate. Passing through the crowd, he halted and looked down.

  ‘You, Dusty?’ he asked, indicating the body.

  ‘Red,’ the small Texan replied.

  ‘Figure you had a good reason for it, Red,’ the marshal stated.

  ‘There’s some might not call it that, but I reckon I had,’ Red replied. ‘Him and his pard took a shot at me as I came out of the Bull’s Head.’

  ‘Is there any reason why they should?’

  ‘If there is, I’m damned if I know it, Anse.’

  ‘Who is he?’ the marshal wanted to know.

  ‘Can’t say that I’ve ever seen him before,’ Red replied. ‘Not that I had a good look, mind.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll know him, Anse,’ Dusty remarked, glancing to where Weather came from the saloon with a lit lantern in hand. ‘Let’s have some light over here, Stormy.’

  With the better illumination afforded by the lantern, Red studied the dead man’s face more carefully. Bending down, Dale also looked at the unshaven features and then turned his eyes to Red.

  ‘How about it?’

  ‘Like I said, I’ve never seen this jasper before,’ Red stated.

  ‘Have you, Anse?’ asked Dusty.

  ‘Nope, but I don’t get to see every drifter who comes into town.’

  ‘Hey, though!’ Weather interjected, moving by Dusty and bending down. ‘I’ve seen him afore.’

  ‘Where?’ Dusty demanded.

  Maybe the marshal should be asking the questions, but in addition to riding for the OD Connected, Red was Dusty’s kin and the small Texan felt very interested in the reason for the attempted killing. Certainly Dale raised no objection to Dusty usurping his official position.

  ‘In my place earlier,’ Weather replied. ‘Him and another feller were there.’

  ‘Did they ask about Red, or show any interest in him?’

  ‘No, Cap’n. Just asked what the party was for and I told them we was sending Sandy off afore the marrying.’

  ‘Talking about that,’ the marshal remarked, glancing around him, ‘why don’t you. boys go back to your drinking and carousing. Stormy’s not making any money off you while you’re out here.’

  ‘I didn’t know you cared, Anse,’ grinned the saloonkeeper.

  ‘I for sure do,’ Dale insisted. If you don’t make money, you can’t pay your civic taxes. Which same if they don’t get paid, the town can’t afford to pay me and I might even have to go back to work.’

  ‘There’s none of us’d want that,’ Dusty drawled, sweeping a cold eye at the gathered men. ‘Just take a quick look and see if any of you know him, then go help pay Dale’s wages. The cattle business’s just getting back on its feet and we don’t want him to come back to being a cow-nurse.’

  Although various members of the crowd came from different parts of the state, not one of them could offer any hint to the dead man’s identity. After each man expressed his ignorance, he headed back to the light and hospitality of the saloon. At last only Dusty, Red and Dale remained by the body. Even the small knot of San Antonio’s citizens who gathered at the scene of the drama failed to give any light to the matter and withdrew when sure nothing further would develop. Quickly Dale went through the man’s pockets, studying his findings in the light of the lantern before dropping them into the hat which had come off when its wearer struck the ground.

  ‘Only the usual stuff,’ he said at the end of the search. ‘Thirty dollars, the makings, handkerchief. Nothing to say who he is, or why he’s here.’

  ‘You didn’t think he’d have a letter telling him to come here and make a try at killing Cousin Red, did you?’ Dusty drawled.

  ‘There’s always the odd chance he might,’ Dale answered. ‘How about it, Red? Do you have any ideas why they tried to kill you?’

  ‘Could be they figured there’d be the chance of robbing some of us when we come drunk and careless from the whing-ding,’ Red replied. ‘And afore you tell me, that doesn’t explain why this jasper started throwing lead as soon as I came out.’

  ‘Have you got any enemies?’ asked Dale, suggesting the most obvious cause for a murder attempt.

  ‘Me?’ yelped Red in surprise. ‘Hell, no!’

  Despite his way of becoming involved in fights, Red rarely made a lasting enemy. Possessed of a friendly nature, he mostly won over his opponents once the fists stopped flying and frequently wound up on the best of terms with them. So he could not think of a single person who might want to see him dead. Certainly not to the extent of hiring strangers to do the killing.

  ‘If you’d been dressed different, I’d say maybe they made a mistake and picked the wrong man,’ Dale commented.

  ‘What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?’ Red demanded indignantly.

  ‘Not a thing,’ grinned the marshal. ‘Only with that red hair and bandana you’d take a heap of missing.’

  ‘Across the width of the street and in the dark?’ Red sniffed.

  ‘You’d just come through the light at the door,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘And even if they couldn’t make out your hair or that bandana, they for sure couldn’t miss the vest. There’s not another like it in the room.’

  ‘If there had been, I’d’ve whipped the feller wearing it,’ Red stated. ‘I’ll have you know this here vest’s much admired by folks with taste and discernment.’

  ‘Which same I can well believe,’ accepted Dale. ‘Only it sure catches the eye. Those pair was after you for certain sure, Red.’

  ‘I can’t think why,’ Red told the listening pair. ‘Now if it was Cousin Dusty they were after, I could understand it.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m not popular, Cousin?’ Dusty demanded.

  ‘Shucks, no. It’s only that you don’t have my pleasing nature and winning ways, Dusty. How about it, Anse, you fixing to slap me in the pokey over this?’

  ‘The day I have to jail a man for defending hisself I’ll go back to nursing cows and to hell with ruining the cattle business!’ snorted Dale.

  ‘Let’s go on back inside, Red,’ Dusty suggested.

  ‘How about if this one’s pard comes back and makes another try?’ asked the marshal.

  ‘Let him try it,’ Red growled. ‘We’ll see if we can take him alive. I’d sure like to talk to him.’

  ‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ Dale drawled. ‘I’ll come in and ask Stormy what the other jasper looks like and then send my deputies around town to see if they can find any sign of him.’

  ‘If you need any extra deputies—’ Dusty began.

  ‘If you reckon I’m turning that bunch loose on my town, you’re plumb loco, Dusty,’ grinned Dale, nodding in the direction of the saloon. ‘They’d take it apart board by board was you to tell ’em. Leave it to my boys and you fellers have your fun out.’

  ‘Sure, Anse. I’ll be here happen you learn anything. And I’d admire to talk to that jasper if you lay hands on him.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Red put in. ‘Leave us not forget I was the one they shot at.’

  ‘If Cousin Betty happened to hear the shooting and comes asking what’s going on, Anse,’ Dusty remarked as they started across the street towards the saloon, ‘tell her it was just the boys horsing around.’

  ‘Will she believe it?’ grinned the marshal, knowing Miss Betty Hardin pretty well.

  ‘Nope,’ admitted Dusty. ‘But she’ll act like she does and give us hell when she sees us in the morning.’

  ‘Anyways,’ Red stated as they reached the batwing doors of the Bull’s Head. ‘I bet that jasper’s long gone out of town by now.’

  Although none of them knew it, Red guessed wrongly about the would-be killer’s actions and whereabouts.

  While flight did cross Paco Murphy’s mind when he saw the ambush fail and Talbot go down, his greed caused him
to change his mind. The man who hired him paid only a small advance, insisting on the work being brought to a successful conclusion before handing over the full payment. Having put some time and effort into the chore so far, he decided to take a chance on finishing what he started. That damned redhead could not have recognized Murphy across the width of the street, or be able to describe him. Nor would Talbot lead the law, or vengeance-seeking members of Company ‘C’, to Murphy. They had never worked together before, in fact Murphy only took Talbot on when he learned the kind of company his victim would be keeping that night. Unless Murphy guessed badly wrong, Talbot could not talk. A man did not easily forget the sound a bullet made when it drove into a human chest. No, sir, Talbot lay either dead or too badly hurt to talk back there and likely the other folks involved believed Murphy to be acting as would any sensible man who made an attempt at killing a friend of Dusty Fog. Possibly there would be no other chance to earn his pay that night, but if he stayed on a further opportunity might present itself in the confusion of the wedding.

  Once clear of the Bull’s Head saloon’s immediate area, Murphy slowed his pace to a walk as being less likely to draw attention to himself. He also quit the back streets and swung on to the sidewalk to stroll down in the direction of the Casa Moreno Hotel. It might not be the best place in town, but he could merge into its crowd and attract little attention.

  Ignoring the main entrance, Murphy pushed open the batwing doors of the hotel’s barroom and stepped inside. Business appeared to be slack that night, the only other customers being a trio of young townsmen who stood examining a fair-sized wicker basket on the bar before them. Even as Murphy thought of withdrawing, the bartender looked up from his study of a tattered copy of the Police Gazette and eyed him appraisingly.

  The bartender saw a stocky man of medium height, wearing range clothes, an Allen & Wheelock Army revolver in a tied-down holster and with a knife’s hilt rising from the top of his left boot. Studying the sombrero, as opposed to the more usual Stetson, charro jacket, frilly fronted shirt, string tie, the bartender concluded his latest customer hailed from down on the Rio Grande. An olive-skinned face which looked a mixture of Irish and Mexican told of mixed blood. Maybe somebody from the East might have taken Murphy for a cowboy, but not the range-wise bartender. Any cattle work that hard-eyed cuss did would not be for the owner of the animals and his main source of income most likely came by that gun from which his right hand rarely strayed too far.