The Floating Outfit 45 Read online

  The three cowhands looked gravely at the bartender and he looked just as gravely back. Then they gave their attention to the two blackboards and studied the names of the contestants. The top men in both rifle and pistol shooting fields were already showing on the lists.

  “Mr. Earp looks tolerable well favored,” said the dark boy sardonically. “Stands at even money for both. Look at that list. Tom Horn, Burt Alvord, old Steve Venard. Now there’s three dandy cards to sit in with on the deal. It’s like to scare a poor lil Texas boy out’n trying. Still, I’ve come this far so I might as well go in and make a fool of myself. Set me down on the board there, friend.”

  “What name’d it be, friend?” queried the bartender. “Loncey Dalton Ysabel. What odds are you calling for lil ole me?”

  That put the bartender in something of a quandary. His boss usually attended to the adjustment of odds, for Leslie knew by name or reputation every man who entered and could gauge his chances. At this moment Leslie was out meeting the troupe of show folks he’d brought in as a special drawing card for the County Fair.

  “Let’s say three to one, shall we?” he finally asked, making his choice with care. The odds were not high enough to arouse interest yet short enough to show the dark youngster no slight to his talents was meant. If they were wrong, Leslie could soon alter them on his return.

  “Allow me to get some of that, friend,” said the big blond and laid a ten dollar gold piece on the table. “Are you taking the bets?”

  “That’s my pleasure,” grinned the bartender, accepting the money and making out the receipt for it. “What’re you aiming to go in for?”

  “Pistol shooting.”

  “What’s the name, friend. I’ll start you in at the same three to one.”

  “Mark Counter, and what odds on my standing second or third?”

  “Leave it at the same three to one,” answered the bartender, pleased to be making his boss some money. He marked the names on the board, then turned to the small man. “What’ll you be trying for, mister?”

  “Reckon I’ll have a whirl for those fancy old gold mounted Colt guns too.”

  The smile died for a moment, then returned to the bartender’s face. He understood. The small cowhand was wanting to make everyone notice him by entering for the Pistol Shoot.

  “All right,” boomed the bartender, wishing there was more of a crowd to share in the joke. “If that’s what you want, that’s what you get. Service with a smile, that’s the motto of the Bucket of Blood. I reckon we’d best start you in at ten to one. We can always bring it down later.”

  In that the bartender hoped the small cowhand would take the hint that he was way out of his depth in entering the match. The three Texans exchanged glances, then two pairs of startled eyes turned to the bartender.

  “Ten to one?” croaked Mark Counter.

  “You mean ten to one he don't win?” went on Loncey Dalton Ysabel in a strangled croak of amazement.

  “Sure, you didn’t reckon I meant one to ten, did you?”

  For a moment the two men stared at each other, then as if fearing the bartender would change his mind they dipped their hands into their pockets. Fifty dollars each of them placed on the counter and demanded the sum be scooped up and accepted. The bartender thought the two cowhands were going to costly lengths for a laugh. He started to write out the receipts on slips when a thought came to him.

  Looking up at the small Texan, he grinned and said, “You know, I never got your name, friend.”

  The small man studied the bartender, a smile flickered on his face, while his two friends stood by with mocking eyes, waiting for the shock which was coming.

  “I didn’t tell you—but it’s Dusty Fog.”

  Two – On the Tombstone Trail

  “Hello the camp. Can we ride through the water?” Dusty Fog brought his big paint stallion to a halt as he called out the time-honored range request for permission to approach a camp. Mark Counter, lounging in the double girthed Texas rig of his seventeen hand bloodbay stallion, restrained the eagerness of the packhorse he led to get to the ford. The Ysabel Kid sat his huge stallion at Dusty’s other side, graceful and relaxed afork a horse which was large and mean enough looking to scare a man.

  It was the etiquette of the range that one called a greeting before riding into camp. The two covered wagons on the other side of the river, with the good team horses picketed to one side was a camp. There was a fire going, the scent of coffee and stew wafting on the breeze towards the three Texans. Around the fire stood three men and half a dozen women and it was one of them who turned to call out a reply:

  “Come ahead and rest your saddles.”

  Dusty studied the people as he started his paint stallion across the stream. The party, in their camp up the slope, were not what he’d expect to see out on the open range country. A family of sod-busting nesters looking for a piece of new land might be out here. A bunch of miners travelling from Tombstone in search of work, a ranch trail crew returning from a drive, any of these might be out on the range. These folk were none of those categories.

  The men wore stylishly cut Eastern clothes, it showed even though they were in shirt sleeves, or two of them were. The women, with one exception, were dressed in rather colorful and modish frocks which were not the wear of poor nester wives. These were show people unless Dusty missed his guess. Not a medicine show either, the wagons were too plain for that. These would be real show folks, carrying their own scenery and props in the wagons with them. He was sure he could remember the big, henna haired, statuesque woman who called the reply to him, but he could not yet place her.

  Swinging down from his horse, Mark Counter removed his white hat and bowed gracefully to honor the ladies, even though some of the party might not be such ladies at all. “Howdy, folks,” he greeted.

  “Good afternoon, young men,” answered the big woman coolly, studying them all with some care.

  “Take it kind if we could night here with you, ma’am,” Dusty said as he came from his saddle. “This’s the best camp spot along the river. We’ve food in our pack saddle.”

  “Join us by all means,” replied the woman. Her voice and actions were those of someone who was used to being seen and admired. “And don’t worry about food. Cindy there always cooks theater style, with plenty and to spare for all.”

  The girl by the fire looked around from the pot she was attending to. She was different from the other four girls who lounged about the camp. They were no different to the hostesses of any decent saloon or dance hall of any big Western town. She was tall, willowy, yet with a rich, entirely feminine figure which her modest gingham dress could not hide. Her hair was blonde, taken back shoulder long in a style which was attractive and yet not fussy. Her face was sweet, gentle and very pretty, with only the very lightest touch of make-up. Her smile of welcome was different from the interested glances the other girls directed towards Dusty, Mark and the Kid.

  The three Texans attended to their mounts, stripping off the heavy double girthed Texas rigs and allowed the horses to go free and graze. Mark attended to the pack horse before they came back towards the fire.

  The big woman was watching them with some interest still, a puzzled frown on her face. Then she smiled and came forward, extending a hand on which good rings glittered.

  “I never forget a face,” she said. “You’re Captain Dusty Fog, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right enough, Ma’am,” Dusty agreed. “You’ll likely remember Mark and the Kid here, they were in Mulrooney with me while you were there.”

  Now the four flashily dressed girls showed more interest. Those three names were well enough known throughout the West.

  Dusty Fog, that small, insignificant and soft talking young man. Here stood a man who did not look the part his reputation called for. In the War Between the States, at seventeen, Dusty had carved himself a name which ranked with Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby as a fast riding light cavalry leader. Since the war Dusty’s na
me came to rank with the top hands of the cattle business. He was the segundo of the OD Connected, Ole Devil Hardin’s great Rio Hondo ranch and leader of Ole Devil’s floating outfit, the handiest and toughest men of a handy and tough crew. Men spoke of Dusty Fog as trail boss, as town taming lawman and as being the peer of any of the wizards of the tied-down holster. They told how he brought law to Quiet Town, to Mulrooney, the wild trail end city. Whatever they told, it was all true. That was Dusty Fog, a giant among men despite his lack of inches.

  Mark Counter had also carved himself something of a name throughout the cattle country. He was a top hand the equal of, if not better, than Dusty Fog. He was known as a fist fighter who could handle any man on any terms. They told of his giant strength, but they never mentioned his skill with his guns. A few, a very select few claimed he was almost as fast as Dusty Fog with his matched long-barreled Colt guns. Beyond this select handful there were few enough who could say how good Mark was with his guns, for he lived in the shadow of the Rio Hondo gun-wizard, Dusty Fog.

  The Ysabel Kid, the last of the trio. Now there was a name to conjure with down on the Rio Grande. They once spoke of him as a one boy crime-wave, a border smuggler who knew every trail along the big river. He was the son of a wild Irish-Kentuckian father and a French-Creole-Comanche mother, and from that admixture of wild bloods came forth a dangerous young hell-twister. From his father’s side he gained a love of fighting and the sighting eye of a woodsman of old. From his mother he inherited the ability to ride any horse that ever walked, to follow a track and ride scout among the best. From her French-Creole side also came a love for cold steel as a fighting weapon and the ability to handle his bowie knife in a manner of the man who designed it. All-in-all the Ysabel Kid was a fighting man with a skill beyond his years and far beyond his innocent appearance.

  “I remember you,” replied the big woman. “I’m Paula Raymond. Come and meet the rest of my people.”

  The introductions followed quickly. Paula Raymond was an actress and a good one, but she was never one to allow anybody take her place in the center of things. The big, burly man with the heavy moustaches so necessary to a stage villain was her husband, Joe. The old man in the frock coat was a Shakespearean actor down on his luck and reduced to playing in low drama. He was distant as became one who had appeared on New York stages. The four gaily dressed girls were just called by their first names as being of insufficient importance to receive full introductions. That left the tall, wide shouldered, tanned and handsome young man and the blonde girl to be presented.

  “This is Miles Hamish, our hero,” Paula said.

  Hamish held out his hand, his grip was firm. Actor he might be, but there were hard muscles in his arms. He was clearly on his dignity, not willing to accept the cowhands as friends or anything but admirers.

  “And of course the star, the female star,” Paula went on, making the correction as there was just the smallest tightening of Hamish’s lips at the words, “Cindy Alban.”

  The girl came from the fire with a warm smile on her face as she held out a hand to Dusty first, then each of the others. The three cowhands were polite, restrained in their greetings. To the other four girls they would have extended the same free and easy kind of friendship they’d given to the saloon girls of many a town. Cindy Alban was different. She was a girl a man dreamed about as he rode the circle around a trail herd in the Indian Nations when the stars shone down and the cattle lay bedded for the night.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” she said in a voice which was gentle and pleasant.

  “You’re sure we’re not putting you to any inconvenience, ma’am?” Dusty asked. “We’ve got food here in the pack and it won’t take us but a minute to throw some in the pot.”

  “We wouldn’t hear of it, Captain Fog,” Paula answered. Clearly it was she who ran the troupe and made all the decisions. “We’ve enough for you.”

  “More than enough,” Cindy agreed. “If you gentlemen would like to freshen up before the meal, I’m sure Miles will show you the place he used in the bushes there.”

  “Leave your saddles and wagons, boys,” Joe Raymond put in. “You can either bunk down under the wagons with us men, or you can sleep by the fire.”

  “We’ll use the fire, I reckon,” Dusty answered. “It’d be a mite cramped under the wagon and ole Mark here snores like to wake the dead.”

  “Have it your way, then,” Raymond replied and turned to discuss some point of stage procedure with the old man.

  “You’re a mite away from Kansas, ma’am,” Mark drawled after they’d put the saddles by the wagons and dug out their washing and shaving gear.

  “That we are. We’ve just played a most successful season in Texas and received a call from our old friend Buckskin Frank Leslie to be his stars for the Cochise County Fair. He also offers us a fortnight at the Bon Ton Theater before the Fair, so we came along.”

  “Have you ever been to Tombstone?” asked one of the girls.

  “Not for a year. We ran a herd of cattle out here for Texas John last year, just after the town started to boom wide-open at the seams,” Mark replied.

  “What’s it like?”

  “Wild, woolly, full of fleas and never curried below the knees, gal,” drawled the Kid. “Just like Quiet Town, up in Montana after the War. Or Dodge, Mulrooney, Wichita or any of the trail end towns when the herds came in. Only with Tombstone the seasons lasts seven days a week, every week of the year.”

  “It’ll be worse than ever with the County Fair coming off,” Dusty went on. “I reckon every card-sharp, cheap hold-up man and would-be fast gun in the West will be headed there for the pickings.”

  Paula looked at the three young men. She’d seen the wild towns and from what Dusty Fog just said she knew she could expect some trouble in Tombstone. The other towns had been wild when the trail drive crews paid off, but the wilderness drew off between drives. In Tombstone it never died down and with the County Fair the pace would be increased.

  “Are you entering for any of the County Fair events?” she inquired.

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” Dusty replied. “I reckon we might be. Texas John asked Uncle Devil to send us along to win some of the prizes if we can.”

  “We were unsure of the advisability of calling off our Texas bookings,” Paula remarked thoughtfully. “Even though Frank’s terms are most liberal. However, he is an old friend, so we came along. The towns we have passed through on the way here don’t give me any great hopes for Tombstone.”

  “Don’t let them fool you, ma’am,” warned the Kid. “Why, Tombstone’s as fancy as Dodge City or Chicago.”

  Cindy looked up from the fire. “If you gentlemen wish to wash up before eating, you’d best go now. Are you going, Miles?”

  “I just came back,” Hamish answered.

  “Reckon we can find the water, ma’am,” drawled the Kid.

  The three young men walked from the camp, down the slope and were soon in the bushes which lined the small stream. They had made a dry camp the previous night and so were in need of a wash and shave. The stream water was cold, but all three of them were used to washing and shaving in cold water. Mark stropped his razor, stripped to the waist, his mighty torso writhing with muscles. Watching them, the Kid grinned. The Kid scorned such affectations as shaving soap, lather brush and razor. To shave his needs were simple, water, the soap he used for washing and the edge of his bowie knife.

  The horses had grazed down the slope towards the bushes and the big white was more like a wild animal than a domesticated beast. It never relaxed and repeatedly tested the wind with its nostrils as it grazed.

  “Supaway, John?”

  Paula Raymond looked up as the words were called from the slope above the camp. She heard startled gasps as the rest of the troupe saw who their callers were. Six ragged looking young Apaches sat their horses and looked down at the camp. The greeting they’d called was the usual one an Indian would give when approaching a camp in search
of a meal.

  “What tribe are you?” demanded Raymond.

  This was a sensible precaution to take, or would have been with the semi-tamed Indians of the Oklahoma Territory. They were the kind of Indians Raymond was used to, the tribes which were under the firm heel of the reservation agents and the cavalry.

  “We Lipan Apache,” growled the squat, scar-faced buck who sat his horse ahead of the others. “Not bad Indians, we friends to all white-eyes.”

  Raymond knew that the Lipans were a branch of the Apache Nation, one which lived to the east of the main fighting tribes and one which had never taken up the war bow against the white man. They should be safe enough to allow into the camp. His eyes went to the men, noting that they were all young and the only weapons they appeared to have were the hunting knives in their belts.

  “Come ahead,” he finally said.

  With the reservation Indians of the Oklahoma Territory it was always as well to invite them in for a meal. It saved trouble, for the braves could turn nasty if they were crossed, especially when away from the eye of authority. However, with the reservation Indians a few trinkets, some tobacco and food was enough to satisfy them and get rid of them. That was where Raymond made his mistake. He was no longer in Oklahoma Territory, he was in Arizona, almost the last frontier of the bad white-hating Indian.

  The braves rode nearer, then dropped from their horses in the relaxed and easy way of their kind. They advanced on the fire, fanning out in a casual and innocent appearing manner, their faces blank of expression but their eyes on the white people.

  “You want food?” Paula asked.

  “We want plenty food,” replied the squat brave. “No make trouble for white-eyes if they give us plenty food, tobacco— and guns.”

  That gave a warning to Raymond. There was something bad wrong here. The braves were altogether too at ease and truculent. He did not like the way they came on towards the fire.

  “We’ll give you plenty food,” he answered. “Tobacco. But we don’t have any guns.”