The Floating Outfit 42: Buffalo Are Coming! Read online

  Before the small blond could do any more, Rusty returned to the fray. Jumping forward, he encircled the newcomer’s arms from the rear in a bear hug. Eager to make the most of this, Johnny lunged forward with eagerly reaching hands. Once more, the diminutive intended victim proved equal to the needs of the situation. Making no attempt to escape from the arms which were pinioning his own to his sides, he shifted his weight on to his right leg and bent it slightly at the knee. Then he brought up and shot out his left foot with great rapidity. Walking into the rising boot, which took him in the pit of the stomach, the fiery haired Wedge rider gave vent to another agonized squawk. Folding at the waist, his advance was turned into a hurried retreat. Nor did his misfortunes end there.

  Having delivered the kick, the blond swiftly lowered his foot so it passed between the spread apart legs of the man to his rear. While doing so, he pivoted his lower torso to the left and began to spread his arms apart with an upwards surging motion. Small he might be, but he clearly was far from being puny. Although his actions did not break the bear hug completely, they caused it to be loosened sufficiently for his purposes. Reversing the direction taken by his hips, he propelled his left elbow against the solar plexus of the man to his rear.

  Despite the blow having travelled only a short distance and from a less than advantageous position, it proved most effective. Breath belched from Rusty and his arms fell apart from their captive. As he reeled backwards, he began to tilt at the middle like a jack-knife being closed. Before he could pass beyond reaching distance, the blond spun to catch him by the right wrist and bicep. Turning rapidly on his left heel, giving further evidence of his surprising strength, he sent his former captor hurtling around. Released at the appropriate moment, Rusty rushed in a headlong collision with the still bent over Johnny which sent them both to the floor in a tangled pile.

  Fascinated by what he was watching, Johnson became aware that somebody else was about to participate.

  Unnoticed by the New Englander until that moment, the owner of the Fair Lady Saloon was striding purposefully across the bar-room towards the three Texans.

  In spite of her sex and the fact that she lived in what was still basically a ‘man’s world’, Freddie Woods was unique in more ways than one. Not only did she operate the finest establishment of its kind in Mulrooney but she was also the mayor and was credited with forming the policies which made it considered by visitors the most honest and fair dealing of the Kansas’ railroad and trail end towns.

  No more than in her mid-twenties, Freddie was a fine figure of a woman. Five foot eight in height, with immaculately coiffured raven black hair topping a regally beautiful face, she would have caused masculine heads to turn in any company. Such were the magnificent curves of her close to ‘hourglass’ figure, she contrived to make the sober black two piece costume and white blouse she had on seem as revealing as the most daring evening gown. Nevertheless, her expression and demeanor suggested to the New Englander that she was a person with whom it would be ill-advised to take liberties, or to trifle. He also deduced it was her intention to deal with the trouble causers.

  ‘You bully!’ the beautiful young woman announced, coming to a halt between the Texans and placing her hands on hips. Her accent was that of the British upper class. ‘How dare you pick on and abuse those poor boys?’

  The question came as much of a surprise and puzzle to Johnson as had the behavior of Stone Hart and the blond’s three companions!

  On coming to a halt, Freddie had her back to Johnny and Rusty!

  Furthermore, the words were directed at the small cowhand!

  Two – Our Business is Most Confidential

  ‘You rawhide that Rio Hondo varmint real good, Miz Freddie, ma’am!’ Jason ‘Rusty’ Willis requested somewhat breathlessly, rolling clear of the other Wedge rider and thrusting himself slowly into a sitting position on the floor.

  ‘Why sure, seeing’s how he’s allus picking on poor defenseless lil ole country boys like us,’ supported Jonathan Edwin ‘Johnny’ Raybold, also having to replenish lungs in need of air and showing just as little surprise over the attitude adopted by the owner of the Fair Lady Saloon. He too hoisted himself laboriously into a seated posture and continued hopefully, ‘You hand him his needings, Miz Freddie, ’n’ we’ll be right behind you while you’re doing it.’

  Suiting the deed to the word, conveying the impression that they were two small boys seeking the protective shield offered by their mother’s skirt, the two red haired cowhands scrambled to their feet and remained so that the beautiful Englishwoman was between them and the man they had attacked.

  ‘I just knew you could be counted upon to do that,’ Freddie Woods declared, looking over her shoulder as if approving of what the pair were doing. Then, although her words continued to be intended for them, she swung a less indulgent gaze towards the small Texan. ‘Go back and sit with your friends, you poor dear boys. I’ll have one of my young ladies bring you the drink I’m sure this dreadful bully is going to buy for each of you.’

  ‘Why gracias, Miz Freddie, you’re a for real kind ’n’ generous lady,’ Johnny thanked fulsomely. ‘Which ’most everybody here’d say all truthful true’s how we deserve nothing less, what he did to us.’

  ‘I just knowed’s we could count on to see the right thing was done by us, ma’am,’ Rusty asserted, contriving to sound just as unctuous as his fiery haired companion. ‘What say’s we go get the drinks’s that there bully’s going to be made buy us, huh, amigo?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the Englishwoman smiled. ‘You trot along like good little boys and I’ll deal with the bully for you.’

  ‘Whew!’ Walter Johnson ejaculated, as the redheads went to rejoin the rest of the Wedge crew at their table. Watching Freddie approaching the small Texan, regardless of how she had spoken, he could see no trace of animosity in her demeanor. In fact, he considered her greeting held a warmth which went far beyond that of a saloonkeeper dealing with an ordinary good—or even influential—customer. ‘I thought there was going to be trouble.’

  ‘Shucks, no,’ Stone Hart replied, having sensed his passive acceptance of the situation was puzzling the New Englander. ‘It always happens that way.’

  ‘You mean this isn’t the first time your men have attacked that little man?’ Johnson gasped.

  ‘Not the first, nor likely to be the last happen I know those two knob-heads of mine,’ the trail boss confirmed. ‘Ever since they saw Dusty using some of those fancy wrestling tricks he’s learned from General Hardin’s Japanese servant, they’ve been taken by the notion that they can get the better of him.’ Pausing and shaking his head as if unable to credit such folly, he concluded, ‘They never have, though. And I’ll be surprised if they ever will.’

  ‘I thought it was strange when you just sat here instead of doing anything to stop them,’ the New Englander admitted.

  ‘Hell, I knew it was all in fun and he wouldn’t hurt them,’ Stone answered, then raised his voice, ‘Hey, Dusty. Can you spare a couple of minutes for me, please?’

  ‘Why sure, amigo,’ the small blond agreed, ending what had been closer to holding than just shaking the hand of the beautiful Englishwoman. ‘Will you excuse me, please, Freddie?’

  ‘Of course, bully,’ the saloonkeeper assented. ‘Just so long as you don’t try to use it as an excuse to forget you owe me for the drinks for those two poor boys you were picking on.’

  ‘I heard you were in town, Stone,’ the blond greeted, on arriving at the table. ‘It’s good to see you, even if you did get lucky and beat us here.’

  ‘I’d like to see the day when the Wedge can’t beat you OD Connected bunch to anything, up to and including long distance spitting against the wind,’ the trail boss claimed, but without rancor, exchanging a hand-shake indicative of mutual respect and friendship. Looking at the Easterners, he went on, ‘Gentlemen, allow me to present Captain Dustin Edward Marsden Fog.’

  ‘My pleas—!’ Johnson commenced instinctively, but w
ithout warmth. Then, realizing the import of the name he had heard, he stared at the blond as if unwilling to accept the evidence of his eyes and he gasped, ‘Dusty Fog?’

  ‘Dusty Fog,’ Stone confirmed, smiling despite noticing how Kevin Roddy and Francis Morrell were eyeing the small Texan with obvious disfavor. Deciding against going further in the matter of introductions, he continued, ‘I’d like your opinion on something these gents have—!’

  ‘Excuse me, Captain Hart and with no offense intended to you, Captain Fog,’ the white haired New Englander interrupted, his manner polite yet prohibitive. ‘Our business is most confidential.’

  ‘I know it is and you can count on Dusty to keep it that way,’ the trail boss of the Wedge claimed. ‘Only what you’ve asked me is so unusual and out of the ordinary, I’d admire to hear what he thinks about it.’

  Aware that his two young companions were moving restlessly and feeling sure neither would be in favor of the decision he was about to make, Johnson did not offer to consult them.

  A keen judge of character, the New Englander had been studying the man called to the table even before hearing his name. Being able to see beyond external appearances, or mere feet and inches of height, Johnson had assessed the true potential of the small Texan. He had a muscular development which was not apparent at first sight, yet explained how he was able to cope with two larger and heavier assailants. What was more, there was a strength of will and intelligence about the tanned young face, and the gray eyes held the indefinable look of one possessing the inborn ability for commanding obedience which characterized a natural leader.

  Having reached his conclusions, the New Englander was willing to concede that there could be justification for all the stories he had heard about Dusty Fog!

  ‘As you wish, Captain Hart, as you wish,’ Johnson assented, after throwing a look of prohibition at his associates who were both clearly on the point of registering a protest. Waiting until they had sunk back on their chairs, scowling balefully, he went on, ‘But I must ask you to give me your word not to disclose anything of what you hear to anybody, Captain Fog.’

  ‘You have it,’ the small Texan promised and took the chair indicated by the New Englander.

  ‘This is Mr. Johnson, Mr. Roddy and Mr. Morrell, Dusty,’ Stone introduced, but only the first man he named offered to shake hands with the blond. Concluding the behavior of the other two stemmed from a resentment of the reputation acquired by his amigo while serving with great success in the Texas Light Cavalry against the Union during the War Between the States, he elected to ignore them. ‘They represent the Society for the Preservation of the American Bison. Happen you’ve heard of it?’

  ‘I’ve read something about it in newspapers Uncle Devil’s had sent by friends back East,’ Dusty admitted. ‘You’re aiming to save the buffalo from being wiped out.’

  ‘And you don’t agree with that?’ Roddy stated, rather than asked.

  ‘You must excuse my young friend, Captain Fog,’ Johnson put in, directing a baleful glower at the fair haired young Easterner. ‘But he feels very strongly about the aims of the Society.’

  ‘Huh huh!’ the small Texan grunted noncommittally. Having formed similar conclusions regarding the political aspirations of Roddy and Morrell to those of Stone Hart, he was in no way surprised nor put out by their unconcealed animosity. However, bearing it in mind, he directed his next words more to the older New Englander than them. ‘Living out here and being in the ranching business, I don’t see how the herds of buffalo could’ve been let stay as large as they used to be. But I for sure wouldn’t want to see every last one of them wiped off the face of the earth. That’d be more than just wasteful, it’d be a sin.’

  ‘Good for you, sir, and well said!’ Johnson praised, although his sullen faced companions showed no such indication of being impressed or rendered more amiable by what they had heard. ‘And those are the sentiments of the Society.’ Then, remembering how the blond had learned of the organization, he considered it was advisable to add, ‘Of course, I can’t deny there are those amongst our membership who talk of restoring the bison to their former vast numbers. However, the majority of us are more practical. We realize this isn’t possible, desirable as doing so might appear. With an ever growing flow of immigrants from Europe arriving in search of new homes and the West being opened up for settlement, we accept there can be no place for millions of large wild animals to roam unchecked and in competition with domestic stock for grazing. No, sir. The aim of our Society is merely to ensure a viable breeding population of bison is maintained for the benefit of future generations.’

  ‘You won’t get any argument from me on doing that,’ Dusty declared and, despite having the dislike of a man of action for such professionally delivered rhetoric, he was impressed by the apparent sincerity of the distinguished looking New Englander. ‘Fact being, you’ll have the full backing of General Hardin in doing it.’

  ‘That will be most gratifying,’ Johnson asserted. ‘The more men of the General’s influence we can gather to our cause, the greater chance of it succeeding. However, the matter which brought us here is still of a most delicate and confidential nature—!’

  ‘I understand!’ the small Texan confirmed, as the New Englander let the words trail to an end accompanied by a significant stare. ‘And I won’t mention it, even to the General, unless you’ve said it will be all right for me to do so.’

  ‘That satisfies me, sir!’ Johnson replied, once more staring in a mixture of defiance and prohibition at his companions. ‘Our purpose of coming West, sir, will, I feel sure, be of considerable interest to you.’

  ‘What they have in mind, Dusty,’ Stone Hart supplied, when the New Englander once more stopped speaking, being determined that the blond should not have to ask for an explanation. ‘Is to get a herd of a thousand or more buffalo driven to a section of range they’ve bought, so’s to make sure there’ll be a fair few left to breed should all the rest be wiped out by skin-hunters and such.’

  ‘That’s a right smart notion,’ Dusty said quietly, thinking of the difficulty in implementing such a venture.

  ‘Thinking of having it done is the easy part, as you’ve clearly realized, Captain Fog,’ Johnson remarked. ‘Particularly as, while our Society holds sufficient funds to pay for the project, none of us possess either the knowledge or the skill to carry it out. That is why I—my associates and I—’ The amendment was made due to the two younger Easterners moving restlessly on hearing him apparently taking full credit without including them, ‘have come to Mulrooney. We believed that we could find a man here who can tell us, from practical experience, whether it could be done.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right man with Stone here,’ the small Texan claimed. ‘Excepting for Colonel Goodnight, I’d say there’s nobody knows more about trail herding than he does.’

  ‘Easy there, amigo, you’ll be making me blush,’ the scar-faced trail boss warned, trying to prevent himself showing the pleasure he felt at the compliment. ‘And you’re no slouch at handling a bunch of cattle yourself. That’s why I asked you over. Do you reckon it can be done.’

  ‘I don’t know and that’s the living truth,’ Dusty confessed, but he obviously found the subject of great interest. ‘I know buffalo are like cattle in a lot of ways. Fact being, Uncle Charlie’s often talked about trying to cross buffalo with longhorns although he hasn’t got around to doing it yet. But, so far as I know, nobody’s ever tried driving a herd of buffalo from place to place, much less holding them on a particular piece of range to breed and live like they was cattle.’

  ‘No white man’s tried driving them, anyways,’ Stone supplemented, glancing in a pointed fashion to where the three cowhands who had entered with the small Texan were standing at the bar talking to Freddie Woods and a few of her girls. ‘But maybe the Indians have.’

  ‘Lon would likely know happen they have,’ Dusty commented, guessing what the trail boss had in mind. ‘He’s one of my amigos, Mr. Johnson.
Can I call him over and ask?’

  ‘Good god!’ Morrell yelped, his East Coast accent high pitched and petulant in timbre. ‘Just how many more of these pec—people are we expected to tell what we’re wanting to do?’

  ‘Lon’s part Indian, Mr. Johnson,’ Stone put in, making it plain he considered the decision lay with the white haired New Englander. ‘He can maybe tell you whether any of them ever tried herding buffalo and, should we bring him in on the deal, you can count upon his discretion just as much as you can Dusty or me.’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Roddy claimed, and Morrell commenced a similar protest. ‘It’s out of the quest—!’

  ‘Just one moment, gentlemen,’ Johnson snapped, employing a vehemence which brought the words of the two young Easterners to a halt. ‘When I agreed to come out here with you, it was on the clear understanding that I was to be in charge of all the negotiations for yo—the Society’s project. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes!’ Roddy admitted, after a brief period of sullen scowling.

  ‘It is!’ Morrell concurred, with no better grace, on being subjected to a cold and challenging glare by the grim faced New Englander.

  ‘Very well then, my decision is that we allow Captains Hart and Fog to do as they think best,’ Johnson declared and, looking at Dusty, lost the belligerence from his voice. ‘Call your man over, sir, if you consider he can be of assistance to us.’

  ‘Lon!’ the small Texan obliged. ‘You stop telling lies about me to Freddie and head on across here!’

  ‘Yo!’ responded the summoned member of the trio with the beautiful Englishwoman, giving the traditional assent to an order of the United States’ cavalry.

  Subjecting the black dressed Texan to a careful scrutiny as he was approaching, Johnson concluded that—like the small blond—he was much more than appeared at first sight. Certainly he was somewhat older and far less babyishly innocent than was implied, unless one noticed and took into account his red hazel eyes and his Indian dark features. He would, in fact, (his apparently old fashioned armament notwithstanding) prove a very bad man to cross. Even when strolling peacefully in a leisurely fashion across the bar-room, there was an underlying controlled menace to his every movement. He gave a suggestion, much as did a cougar ambling along, that he could erupt into sudden and deadly motion should the need arise.