The Floating Outfit 21 Read online

  Taking a stride which carried him past the elder man, Gartree reached out with his hands towards the girl. The blank mask wavered and went as the girl saw Gartree closing on her and he reveled in the sight of the shocked fright which replaced it. From the way she acted, the little blonde might have guessed what thoughts raced through Gartree’s head. Panic came into her eyes as she felt his hands clamp hold of her arms. Then he felt her drawing back in an attempt to free herself. While the girl lacked the strength to pull herself free, she resisted his plan to drag her closer. Although she directed a pleading glance towards the younger of her companions, she neither screamed nor asked him to help. For all that, the man made as if to go towards the wagon and Gartree could guess for what reason.

  “Watch him, Turkey, he’s going to get a gun!”

  “Just let him try it,” Turkey answered in a tough voice.

  Secure in the knowledge that he had protection against the traveler, Gartree turned his attention to the girl once more.

  “Come here, you mealy-mouthed psalm singer,” he ordered. “Let’s see if you can kiss like a woman.”

  “R—Release me!” she gasped, still straining away from him.

  “You heard the lady,” put in a cold, authoritative voice from beyond the girl. “Get your cotton-picking hands off her.”

  Two – Gavin Gartree’s Mistake

  Raising his head, ready to yell for assistance, Gartree looked to see what kind of man dare come between him and his desires. From the slow, easy drawl underlying the cold, commanding hardness in the voice, Gartree assumed that the speaker did not hail from Bainesville—nor was even a native of Kansas. What he saw filled him with a mixture of surprise, relief and fury.

  The manner of speaking, like one long used to giving orders and receiving obedience without question, had led Gartree to expect a big, dangerous looking man to be responsible for the interruption.

  Instead, he stared at a small, insignificant appearing Texas cowhand who crossed the street from the direction of the barber’s shop. Setting a low-crowned, wide brimmed black Stetson hat on his freshly cut and combed dusty blond hair, the Texan strode purposefully forward. He was a handsome young man, if one took the trouble to look closely, but somehow did not catch the eye unless doing something unusual. Although his range clothing was of good quality, he lacked the ability to show it off and gave it the appearance of coming from the second-hand shelf of one of the cheaper general stores. Not even the finely made gunbelt around his waist, or the two matched bone-handled 1860 Army Colts riding butt forward in the shaped holsters made the Texan look more dangerous or noticeable.

  While it seemed highly unlikely that such a small nobody would own so fine an animal, every sign pointed to the huge paint stallion as belonging to the Texan. Not that Gartree gave the horse a thought. Nor did he pay any attention to the significant and distinctive manner in which the small man’s holsters had been built to the contours of the guns. Gartree’s eyes took in the Texan’s lack of size and general appearance of nonentity. Anger at the interruption filled the young man and overrode his normal caution; so he omitted to take his usual precaution of calling in his three companions to handle the situation. For once, Gartree figured that he could fight his own battle.

  “Just who in hell asked you to bill in,” he snarled, still retaining his hold on the girl and watching the Texan come closer.

  “I said let loose,” answered the other, ignoring the question.

  Changing his expression to one of innocent mildness, Gartree grinned amiably. “Anything you say, friend,” he purred.

  And saying it, Gartree thrust the girl away from him, then threw what he fondly imagined to be a real good punch at the Texan’s head. Nothing about the Texan hinted that he expected to be attacked and Gartree figured that he had lulled the other’s suspicions with his brilliant acting.

  At which point, the Texan proceeded to disillusion Gartree in no uncertain way. Throwing up his left hand, the Texan blocked and deflected Gartree’s outlashing right fist. Before Gartree recovered from the shock handed by the failure of his attack, he found other troubles heaped upon him. Small the Texan might be, but he was muscled like a pocket Hercules and moved as fast as a striking diamondback rattlesnake. A fist that felt solid as a knob of iron ripped into Gartree’s belly, driving air from his lungs and in nausea which knotted his guts in agony. Over doubled Gartree, croaking in pain, ideally position for a further attack. From blocking the blow at his head, the Texan’s hand swung down, across his body and whipped upwards to drive the back of his knuckles into the offered face. Head spinning as mists clouded his eyes, Gartree came erect and sprawled backwards to crash into the hitching rail.

  Turkey gave out with a low growl as he saw Gartree land almost at his feet. Realizing that the other would expect to hear, when capable of listening and understanding, that his friends extracted a painful vengeance on his assailant, Turkey lunged forward. Maybe at that moment Turkey remembered a licking received at the hands of a Texan during a hectic visit to the trail-end town of Newton. Or his motives could have been the antipathy many Kansans felt towards supporters of the Confederate States; even though the War ended some four years back. Loyalty to Gartree, or rather the good things in life which the young man represented, also gave Turkey real prime motivation; but not enough for him to take chances. Having come through a few roughhouse brawls against local boys and emerged as victor, Turkey expected no trouble in dealing with the Texan. If Turkey thought of the matter at all, knowing how poorly Gartree showed on the rare occasions when induced to fight, he put the Texan’s success down to pure luck.

  Moving fast, Turkey reached for the Texan and relied on his weight to bear the other’s resistance down and smash him to the ground. Instead of trying to avoid the rush, the Texan glided forward a pace and acted with the same speed already shown when handing Gartree a lesson.

  Two hands, surprising in their strength, clamped hold of Turkey’s right wrist. Then the Texan pivoted, carrying the trapped arm upwards and pulling on it in a certain manner. Much to the amazement of the onlookers, Turkey’s feet left the ground and his body somersaulted through the air, passed over the Texan’s shoulder and lit down, with a considerable raising of dust, flat on his back in the center of the street.

  Having seen his brother in action against local boys, Coop did not expect his assistance would be needed against a small, insignificant man like the Texan. That he followed on Turkey’s heels had been merely so he could lend a hand with the subsequent beating delivered to the rash stranger. Although unable to ascribe anything other than pure luck to the way the Texan threw his brother, Coop decided against too close action until the Texan had been rendered suitable for treatment. Pausing only long enough to slide the pool cue through his fingers until he gripped it at the thin end, Lanny moved forward after Coop. While Lanny figured Coop ought to be able to handle the Texan, he believed in being prepared.

  While on a visit to Abilene, Coop had seen a French Creole savate fighter give a demonstration of foot-boxing and decided that the method possessed several advantages, including surprise, when used on an unexpecting opponent. So he practiced, as best he could without competent instruction, the various kicking moves performed by the Frenchman. When in a fight, Coop tended to rely on his feet far more than his hands; a tactic which brought him some considerable success against the untutored youth of the region. Bracing himself, Coop launched a kick aimed at the Texan’s groin. Struck there, sheer agony would spoil the luck which brought the Texan success in his first two encounters.

  Unfortunately for Coop, to bring about the desired result the kick must land. Crossing his wrists with the right underneath, the Texan held them down so that Coop’s leg slipped into the X-shape they formed and halted inches from its destination. Instantly the Texan caught Coop’s right trouser leg in his right hand and pushed it away from him. Coop howled in surprise as he felt himself losing his balance and fought to stay upright. Held in such a manner, Coop could do no
thing against his assailant; a fact which struck the young man with horrible impact. If Coop could do nothing, the same did not apply to the Texan. Like a flash, he kicked up with his right leg, driving it with sickening force into the area on Coop which that worthy intended to kick on the Texan.

  Showing a masterly judgment of the situation, Lanny came in from behind the Texan; having made a rapid change of route when he saw that Coop failed to lay their man low. Letting out a yell, Lanny whipped the cue up over his head and sprang forward even as the Texan completed Coop’s discomfiture by kicking him. The yell proved to be a serious error in tactics, for it warned the Texan of further danger. Still retaining his hold of Coop’s pants leg, the Texan bent the upper part of his body forward. He timed the move just right. Down and around lashed the cue. It passed over the Texan’s body and thudded into Coop’s ribs, serving, along with the kick, to completely unbalance the agony-filled young man and topple him over. At that moment Lanny might have felt sympathy for his friend, but had too many troubles of his own. Still bent forward, the Texan whipped his right foot from where it landed on Coop and drove it backwards under Lanny’s striking arms to catch him full in the pit of the stomach. Breath rushed from Lanny’s lungs under the impact of the kick and he reeled back, doubling over as his hands released his cue and clutched at the injured region.

  Nor did Lanny’s troubles end so lightly. Straightening up, the Texan heaved at the stricken Coop’s leg and pitched him away. Still moving at top speed, the small man turned, caught the falling cue and slashed it down on to the back of Lanny’s head. While the cue snapped in half, it packed enough punch to drop the man in a limp heap on the ground, where he lost all interest in the proceedings.

  Snarling curses and shaking his head to clear the spinning in it caused by the Texan’s blow, Gartree clung to the hitching-rail. He recovered sufficiently to see and understand what lay before him. Cold fear burst into Gartree, driving away the pain and nausea as he realized that in a very short time the Texan would be free to turn further attentions his way. Even as Coop toppled over and the cue whistled around to break on Lanny’s head, Gartree decided to take a further hand in the game. Face contorted with rage, mingled with fear, Gartree reached for his gun. He saw the girl’s head jerk around towards him and read the horror on it. Then she swung back to stare in the direction of the Texan.

  Even though he had his back to Gartree, the Texan appeared to sense his danger. The instant the girl looked at him, although she never said a word, the Texan swung around to meet the fresh danger. One glance told him all he needed to know and he acted on his findings with the same speed which accompanied all his movements since taking a hand in the same. Lacking the time to leap forward and lay hands on Gartree, the Texan whipped back his arm and hurled the broken cue in a spinning line. Turning around and around in the air, the cue’s end struck Gartree’s right arm a hard smack. While the blow stung, it would not have had such a devastating effect if Gartree had not been making a very foolish mistake.

  In drawing his gun, Gartree tried to follow the procedure practiced by all the top fast men. His thumb closed around the hammer and began to draw it back as soon as his fingers gripped the Colt’s butt. While this acted as an aid to speedy discharge when using a single action weapon, which had to be cocked manually before it could fire, the move could only be performed safely if the action reached full cock after the barrel cleared leather and pointed away from the user’s body.

  Gartree lacked the necessary co-ordination and so cocked his Colt with its barrel still in leather. To make things worse, he committed the incredible folly of also squeezing the trigger while the gun still remained in the holster. Of course, nothing would have happened as long as his thumb stayed on the hammer.

  On landing, the flying pool cue hurt Gartree enough to make him forget to take the basic precaution of holding back the hammer. He yelped in pain and relaxed his thumb’s hold. Freed from restraint, the hammer snapped down and struck the copper head of the waiting percussion cap. Inside the gun, a tiny spurt of flame licked into and ignited the powder in the uppermost chamber of the cylinder. With a crack, the powder turned into a cloud of gas and hurled the bullet along the barrel, to emerge, rip through the bottom of the holster and down Gartree’s leg. The young man let out a screech of agony and dropped, writhing and squealing, to the ground.

  A shocked silence followed the sound and result of the shot, chopping off the excited comments aroused by the Texan’s remarkable efficiency in handling his attackers. Every member of the crowd stared in stunned amazement at the writhing, shrieking shape on the ground. Not that Gartree continued to disturb the silence for long. Pain and his cowardly nature soon combined to tip him over into black unconsciousness.

  So sudden and unexpected had been the Texan’s arrival and action that nobody in the crowd quite understood what happened. All they knew for sure was that Gavin Gartree lay wounded in the leg and his three companions, who had terrorized the town for months, sprawled on the street too concerned with their own hurts to raise any further fuss. The entire incident could be measured in seconds, almost too fast for the citizens of Bainesville to follow. Lacking leadership, the townspeople stood and stared, unsure of what they ought to do.

  At this point Bainesville’s town marshal arrived; although it was doubtful if he possessed either the personality or ability to supply the leadership the crowd needed. Thick set, bearded, slovenly dressed, Town Marshal Gruber came lumbering along the street. Then he skidded to a halt and his eyes took in the scene.

  “What happened?” he spat out, hardly able to drag his horrified eyes away from the still shape of Gavin Gartree.

  “You mean to say you don’t know,” answered the Texan. “You’ve been stood at the door of the jail ever since this started.”

  “Don’t hand me any lip, b—” Gruber began.

  The words died away to nothing as the marshal suddenly became aware of a remarkable change which came over the man before him. Suddenly the Texan ceased to be small and insignificant. In some way he seemed to have put on height and weight until he gave the impression of towering over every man in the watching crowd. Shocked by the inexplicable change, Gruber stood very still and ran the tip of his tongue over lips which felt strangely dry. Small the Texan might be in actual feet and inches, but he stood a man full-grown and capable of backing any play he made. If Gruber tried pushing the Texan, he knew he stood a better than fair chance of winding up in water way over his head. Gruber had never been a man to take long chances if he could avoid them.

  So, searching for a way out, one which would save his face and keep him in a job which paid good wages for the minimum of effort, Gruber turned his attention to the more harmless-appearing strangers.

  “All right!” he barked. “On your wagon and get the hell out of town. We don’t want your kind here causing fuss and ruckus.”

  “They never caused any,” the Texan put in.

  Knowing how the average Kansas citizen regarded members of the small religious sects which did not conform to the general line, Gruber felt sure that he could rely on the crowd’s backing while following his present course.

  “Nobody asked them to come, and if they hadn’t—”

  “When I rode in, I didn’t see any signs telling strangers to keep out,” the Texan answered. “Why don’t you pick on the right cause of the fuss, Marshal?”

  “Huh?”

  “Get the right ones, those yahoos who started it.” While the two men spoke, the local doctor arrived. Walking forward and ignoring the crowd, the doctor dropped to one knee at Gartree’s side and bent forward to examine the wound. The Cooper brothers and Lanny were recovering, but so far none of them felt up to continuing the matter with the Texan. For the rest of those present, the local citizens stood back, watching and listening, but making no attempt to take part in the affair. The three travelers stood in a silent group and watched the Texan face the town marshal. Looking around him, Gruber saw no sign of help forthcoming from
the crowd and wondered what his next move ought to be.

  One way and another, Gruber could see endless trouble awaiting him, no matter how he handled the affair. Baines Gartree would expect that the man who crippled his son be arrested; even though the Texan acted to save his life and had not been responsible for young Gartree’s lack of knowledge where guns were concerned. However, Gruber knew that he could not attempt the arrest without the backing of enough men to counter the Texan’s objections to the act.

  Obtaining the necessary assistance would be a problem. Slowly Gruber ran his eyes over the crowd, searching each face in an attempt to reading how its owner felt about the matter. What he saw raised little encouragement in his heart. He knew, without being told, that Gartree’s bunch long since forfeited any sympathy or friendship around the town; and that, if anything, the crowd secretly approved of the Texan’s actions in quelling the young trouble-causers. In general, Kansans disliked Texans—especially those, like the citizens of Bainesville, who received none of the financial benefits from the Texas trail herds which enriched the railway towns—but Gruber doubted if he could arouse the crowd on that score under the circumstances.

  Not knowing what to do, Gruber showed enough sense to follow the only course left open to him and do nothing. In an attempt to hide his uncertainty in the matter, he turned from the Texan and looked to where the doctor had just finished a primary inspection of the wound.

  “How is it, Doc?” he asked, trying to sound efficient.

  “Bad. How the hell did you expect it to be?” snorted the doctor, who had few illusions about the marshal.

  “Maybe I should—” growled Gruber, not sure

  just what he should do and leaving the blank in hope that the doctor supplied him with advice as to his next move.

  “If you want to do anything, tell those three young fools to come help me carry Gartree home.”