The Floating Outfit 49 Read online

  That was true enough as far as it went. The Ysabel Kid’s true purpose in going to Azul Rio county was to carry on a casual flirtation with a certain pretty senorita. Unfortunately, Juanita Estradre’s father was hospitable and the Kid stayed longer than he intended. Now he was heading to meet his friends two days later than promised. They would be waiting for him in Escopeta, ready to wax sarcastic about people who came late.

  “Then you won’t be working hereabouts?” Mrs. Mahon asked, sounding relieved. He would make a bad enemy and she was pleased to hear he would not be riding for any of the five big ranches which shared Gunn River County with the nesters.

  “Not me, ma’am. This’s a no-good section. I wouldn’t work here if they was to pay me what I’m worth.”

  “Could you live on that little?” Lindy asked, knowing he would not take any offence at her words.

  “Huh! New Mexico,” snorted the Kid.

  “You can always tell a Texan,” Lindy scoffed.

  “Why sure. But you can’t tell us much,” the Kid replied. He turned back to Mrs. Mahon and went on. “Are the big ranch boys causing fuss with you folks?”

  “Not with us directly, but with the other farmers in the valley.”

  “It been happening long?”

  “Over the last three months. We all got on well at first, have done for a few years. Then some of the farmers started to find cattle driven over their growing crops, fences ripped down. There were even a couple of barns went up in flames.”

  “That’s all on your side, ma’am,” the Kid remarked, his face showing nothing of what he felt. “How about the ranchers?”

  “They say they’ve been losing cattle, finding stock butchered and waterholes either fenced off, or spoiled. I don’t know how true it is. All I know is every farm except ours has been in some kind of trouble.”

  “With the big ranchers, way you see it. Why’d you reckon they want you out of the valley?”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Mahon replied, wondering if this young man was getting interested in their problems. “There’s more than enough water and land for all of us. We all used to get along well enough until about three months ago. We bought beef or old horses from the ranchers, they bought hay and truck from us, then the trouble began. Of course it might be Apaches causing the trouble.”

  The Ysabel Kid shook his head. He knew Apaches far better than they.

  “Apaches might take cattle. Fact being, the way they get fed on the reservations they often have to. But Indians wouldn’t waste time in butchering stock. They take beef on the hoof and save having to tote it. Besides, Apaches wouldn’t fence waterholes and they wouldn’t stop at just burning barns. They’d either keep at peace with the white-eyes, or be out wearing paint.”

  That was one expression neither woman needed explaining. They knew an Apache put on his paint before going to war. Lindy was about to remark on this when she saw the young man stiffen slightly. Suddenly there was a change in him, he was tense and alert.

  “You expecting six—eight riders, ma’am?” he asked.

  Mrs. Mahon shook her head. She strained her ears but could make out no sound. At first she thought her guest was imagining things, then faintly she heard the sound of hooves. The sound grew in volume as the riders approached the house. Her eyes met Lindy’s the same thought in both minds: was this to be the start of trouble?

  Then Mrs. Mahon looked at the Ysabel Kid, wondering if he knew more than he said about the approaching riders. If he was working with them he would not have mentioned their coming. Mrs. Mahon licked her lips worriedly, her mouth felt dry. It might prove to have been a bad mistake, inviting the young man into the house, and letting him see there was no man present.

  Lindy pushed back her chair, then ran to the window. She felt sick and afraid at what she saw. Eight men sat their horses just beyond the picket fence, eight grim-faced men. The biggest of them shouted as she looked out.

  “Mahon! Mahon. Come out of there, we want to talk to you!”

  Mrs. Mahon was pale as she came to her feet. She glanced at the young Texas man but he sat back, not moving or showing any interest. Without a word Mrs. Mahon turned and walked from the room, along the passage and opened the front door. The eight riders tensed in their saddles as the door opened, then relaxed when they saw it was a woman coming out. Mrs. Mahon looked the men over, they wore cowhand’s clothes, but she could not say which ranch they were from.

  “My husband isn’t here!” said Mrs. Mahon, trying to hide her fear.

  The biggest of the men laughed harshly. “Tod, Sam, go in there and drag him out!”

  Two of the men swung from their saddles, walking to the gate, kicked open the gate and stepped into the ground. Mrs. Mahon opened her mouth to say something, then a hand gripped her arm and she was drawn into the house. She saw the Ysabel Kid move by her, stepping into the garden to one side of the door. In that brief instant she caught a glimpse of his face and wondered how she had ever thought of him as young and innocent.

  “That’s far enough!” said the Ysabel Kid, not raising his voice. The soft words brought the two men to a halt.

  All eyes were on him now, reading him for what he was. It took more than an innocent face to fool men like these. They could read the signs and knew this was no boy but a man grown in the land, a man the peer of any of them.

  The big man who had done all the talking studied the Kid, then called. “Them’s lousy sod-busters you’re siding, boy. Shy out of it.”

  “The lady’s telling you true. Her man isn’t here.”

  The Ysabel Kid’s right hand hung negligently at his side, palm turned out near the walnut grips of his old gun. He watched the men all the time, no move overlooked.

  “You ain’t backing nesters, are you?” the big man asked.

  “Like the lady said,” growled the Kid, Comanche mean, “her man isn’t home—now I’m telling you.”

  Putting it that way the Ysabel Kid gave the men no choice: they either took his word or called him a liar. It was as easy as that. The men on foot were worried, they were close in and would bear the brunt of any hostilities. One of them looked over his shoulder at the men behind.

  “What about it, Lloyd?”

  The big man’s hand dropped to his side before he replied. It was a casual move and would have gone unnoticed by a less suspicious man than the Ysabel Kid.

  “Go get Mahon out of there!”

  The Kid’s right hand twisted, lifting the old Dragoon clear of leather in a smooth cavalry draw. His left hand was chopping to knock back the hammer as he dropped to the ground. The old Colt boomed out just as he hit the hard-packed dirt of the path.

  Lloyd rocked back in the saddle, smashed against the cantle by the round lead ball powered by a full forty grain of powder. His horse reared wildly, throwing all the others into confusion and hindering the riders. The men shot wildly at the smoke-wrapped figure in front of the house.

  The Kid was on the ground, his old Dragoon booming and black powder smoke whirling eddies around him. One of the two men in the garden spun around, a hole between his eyes and the back of his head burst open. Even as he went down the second man screamed: the ball hit him on the knee, cutting the leg from under him. Another of the Kid’s bullets struck a horse, felling it, the rider kicking his legs free and dropping clear.

  By this time the gunmen were more or less in control of their horses and shooting back. The thick pall of powder smoke hid the Kid and made him a poor mark. But his old gun was empty and he knew he would soon be facing the music; the wind would shift the powder smoke. He whistled and heard the big white horse coming towards him. If he could get to the rifle in the saddle-boot and find shelter at the side of the house he would make the men wish they had never come.

  The Kid came to his feet in a fast, lithe move, hurling himself towards the horse. He felt a blow as lead caught him and was slammed back into the wall of the house, going down before his hands could reach the butt of his rifle. Lying on the ground, red
mists of agony welling through him, the Kid wondered why other bullets were not smashing into him, and what the weight on him was.

  Lindy Mahon had joined her mother by the door when the Kid went out. She had watched the fight and seen the Kid take lead. Without any thought for her own safety she flew from the house and dropped, covering him with her own body. The men held their fire for they would not risk killing a woman. They dismounted, and a tall, heavy-set man, opened the gate and came into the grounds. Gun in hand he walked forward, passing the Kid’s victims. The wounded one groaned out and the man stopped, looked at the girl as she crouched over the Kid’s body and holstered his gun.

  “He’s cashed in, anyways. That boy could fight.”

  “Sure. And I lost me a hoss,” another answered, his eyes went to the big white. “I’ll take that one.”

  The first man looked down at the terrible wound in the victim’s leg, made a wry face and asked, “What the hell was that kid using?”

  “Dragoon,” the other answered. “I’d as soon be hit by a buffalo gun.”

  “And me,’ the first man replied, then turned and called. “Load Lloyd on his hoss, boys. Then come in and get these two.” He looked at the other man who was going towards the Kid’s big white horse. “I wouldn’t touch him was I you, Sanger. Take Tod’s hoss, he don’t need it.”

  Sanger stopped, looking the big white over and seeing it was a fine animal. He disregarded the advice and stepped nearer, hand reaching out towards the white’s reins. Thunder watched the man, then snorted and charged, rearing high; iron-shod hooves slashing at the air. Sanger jumped back, yelling in fright. He missed death by scant inches for the horse was a killer. One of the men leapt on his horse and rode forward, unstrapping a rope as he came. He threw and dropped a noose over the white’s head. Thunder knew a rope, and knew the futility of fighting one, so stood still, snorting.

  Sanger, still shaking at his narrow escape, dropped his hand to the butt of his gun. Fingers gripped his wrist, holding the gun in leather. Snarling angry curses Sanger looked into the face of the big, heavy-set man.

  “What the hell, Jarman?” he said. “I’m going to kill that hoss.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Jarman answered, pushing the other man away from him. “I’m going to take it into Escopeta. Banjo’ll pay well for a hoss as good as that white. Take it out there, Smith. Sanger, get a couple of hosses here and load Tod and Sam on them.” With that he turned his attention to the girl again. “He dead, gal?”

  Lindy’s tear-stained face lifted to look at the man. “He’s dead! Keep away from us and leave him alone!”

  Jarman did not attempt to go near the girl. The young cowhand must be dead so there was nothing to be gained in staying. Mahon was not at home, that was for sure. The farmer was no coward and would have been outside helping the Texan fight. He looked to see that his orders were being carried out. Two men were loading the dead gunman on Lloyd’s horse, fastening him behind the body of their leader. With this done they helped the groaning, barely conscious man on to another horse, after fastening a tourniquet to his leg. Then they left the garden and Jarman gave his attention to the girl.

  “You nesters get out of the Gunn River Valley. Your hired gun didn’t help you at all. Who was he?”

  “His name was Loncey Dalton Ysabel,” sobbed Lindy although the name meant nothing to her.

  “Loncey Dalton Ysabel?” Jarman repeated automatically. “The Ysabel Kid?”

  Lindy did not answer, her face turned to the still form beneath her. She did not see the worried frown on Jarman’s face as he heard that name. Turning, he walked from the garden and mounted his horse. His men were looking to him for orders.

  “Sam here’s going to need a doctor,” Sanger growled.

  Jarman agreed but there was a big objection. The only doctor within miles was Doc Bohasker in Escopeta. He would be curious when he saw the wound; he would also put two and two together when he heard about the fight at the Mahon place.

  “What we going to do, now Mahon ain’t here?” the man leading Thunder went on. “The boss wanted him bad.”

  Jarman was thinking of this. “We can’t do what the boss wants, but we can play it another way.” His eyes went to the wounded man who was roped in the saddle and unconscious. “Sanger, you take Tod and Lloyd, sink them in a good deep hole in the Gunn River and make sure they don’t come up. Then take Sam to the other boys. Leave him there with Simmonds, if the boys got him.”

  “What good’ll that do?” Sanger asked. “And what you going to be doing?”

  “Leave Sam there, make sure he can’t talk. It’ll look near on the same as the way the boss planned it. I’m going into town with Smith, take this hoss and sell it to Banjo. We’ll share out what he gives us for it.”

  Sanger did not care for the idea but did not argue. Jarman was a good man with a gun and would not take kindly to argument. The two groups separated, going their different ways. Jarman was worried as he rode, worried and making plans. He did not intend splitting the money for the horse. The moment he was paid for the big white he was going to put many miles between Escopeta and himself. He had helped kill a member of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit. Every other member of that dangerous and gun handy crew would be looking for the men who had done the shooting.

  Two – Where Did You Get That Horse?

  Escopeta City lay in a bend of the Gunn River, a small, quiet, peaceful cattle town. The business section of town, Military Avenue, stretched straight as a die from the Gunn River saloon at the eastern end to the Banking House saloon at the west side. Along this straight, wide street lay the stores, livery-barn, jail and county offices. Beyond it the houses of the citizens were scattered and built with little conformation to lines or streets.

  Frank Gunn’s River Saloon was the oldest building in town. It could not compete in appearance with the more modern and garish Banking House Saloon, which might appear to be its rival for trade. This did not worry Frank Gunn, he never regarded the Banking House as a rival but rather as a useful adjunct, which siphoned off the rowdy cowhand trade. Frank Gunn’s business was assured; the citizens of the town used his place, the ranchers found it a quiet haven, and the leaders of the nesters came there to get away from the noise of the Banking House. It was an ideal arrangement. The Banking House attracted the younger bloods for it offered the companionship of several pretty girls.

  The Gunn River saloon offered nothing like that, nor such innovations as roulette, vingt-et-un, faro or chuck-a-luck. The only game played was poker; the play was high and the right to sit in much sought after.

  The owner of the Banking House, Horace Rangoon, ran it well, insisting that his girls dressed with decorum and behaved well, both at work and away from it. His games were scrupulously honest and open to inspection at any time. Rangoon might be a dude, but he was liked in Escopeta. A small, chubby, friendly-looking man with some money behind him, he had not been long in Escopeta but already ran the saloon, a ranch in the back country and a bank. The latter was small, merely the back room of the saloon, but it was a bank for all that and he conducted much business. All in all Rangoon was liked, respected and admired, a real nice little man.

  Two men rode into Escopeta in the early morning, coming by the western trail and passing the hospitable doors of the Banking House saloon. A contrasting pair in some ways, but in others they were much alike. They both wore two guns and both rode a magnificent seventeen hand stallion, the taller man on a bloodbay, the smaller afork a paint. They looked like any other drifting cowhands, yet each was a legend in his own life. Their names were Dusty Fog and Mark Counter.

  The taller rider was Mark Counter, six foot three; a handsome blond giant, with great shoulders and a lean waist. His hair was curly, golden blond and his face like a Greek god of old. He sat his horse with an easy grace, a light rider despite his size. The former Beau Brummel of old Bushrod Sheldon’s Confederate cavalry was now a cow country fashion-plate. His white, low-crowned, wide-brimmed Stetson b
ore a leather band with silver conchas on it. His tan shirt was costly and a good fit. His brown levis hung cowhand style, cuffs turned back and outside his high-heeled, expensive, made-to-measure boots. Around his waist was a hand-carved, buscadero gunbelt; the matched, ivory-butted Colt Cavalry Peacemakers in position to be easily reached.

  But he was more than just a range-country dandy. He was known as a top hand in the cowhand trade, and his ability, in a rough-house fight, was known from the Rio Grande to Montana. His skill with the matched guns was less known, for he rode in the shadow of the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog.

  In comparison with Mark Counter’s appearance Dusty Fog faded into nothing. He was a small man, yet there was a width to his shoulders and a strength about him which went far beyond his size. His face was handsome, tanned and strong. A face which smiled easily, yet showed intelligence, command and strength of will. His hair, beneath the low-crowned Stetson hat, was a dusty blond color. His clothing was new but he did not set it off in Mark’s eye-catching way. Dusty Fog might have been a wrangler, a chore boy or a young hand just learning the cattle business. That was the impression at first sight—but not when the chips were down and the bone-handled Colt Civilian Peacemakers swept from where they lay butt forward, in the holsters of his gunbelt.

  A man might wonder how such an insignificant young man came to be riding so fine a horse as the big paint. The same man would never guess that Dusty Fog was segundo of the great OD Connected ranch; that he’d been a Confederate cavalry captain at seventeen and that he was known both as town-taming lawman and as trail boss. Dusty did not look the part, but it was true. In the Civil War he rode as a captain in the Texas Light Cavalry and gained a name as being the equal of such expert raiders as John Singleton Mosby and Turner Ashby. Twice, since the War, Dusty had tamed and brought law to bad, wild, open towns. i He’d also become known as a top hand of the gunfighting fraternity, one of the elite group who owned and wore Gaylin gunbelts.