The Floating Outfit 57 Read online

  ‘Hell!’ barked Bunyon. ‘It’s the only way. I say the next man who comes through that door, if he’s a cowhand, is made roundup captain.’

  ‘That’s pretty risky,’ Goodnight pointed out. ‘He may not be a man who can handle the chore.’

  ‘We’ll be no worse off than we are right now, Charlie,’ Bunyon objected. ‘And at least he’s not likely to be anybody from this area so’s he could be siding any particular spread. I’m for the idea.’

  ‘Can’t say as how I am,’ Chisum stated. ‘But let’s do it democratic. Show hands all who’s for it.’

  Once again Chisum’s opposition welded most of the men together. Six hands raised immediately then Naylor looked around, shrugged and lifted his right arm into the air. Goodnight, Chisum and Haslett did not vote in favor.

  ‘Seven to three,’ Sanders announced, throwing a triumphant glance at Chisum and pleased for once the Cattle King had not been given his own way.

  ‘Majority rules,’ Chisum answered, grinning in his most winning manner. ‘Come on now, you boys aren’t serious, are you?’

  ‘We sure are,’ Dickens answered and a chorus of affirmative rose from the other pro-Candy Carde’s suggestion voters. For once it appeared that Chisum’s charm failed him. The more he objected, the greater grew the other men’s determination to carry on with their novel method of choosing a roundup captain.

  Word ran quickly around the room and soon every cowhand was aware of the manner in which their roundup captain was to be elected. Like their bosses, most of the cowhands were gambling men and the novelty of the method of selection appealed to their sporting instincts.

  ‘Somebody’s coming,’ one of the cowhands said.

  Silence dropped on the room, only the ticking of the clock disturbing it, Hoof beats sounded on the street drawing closer. However, the setting sun shone at such an angle that it struck the front windows of the Juno Saloon and prevented anybody seeing the riders clearly enough to form any opinions. As there was no room at the Juno’s hitching rail, the newcomers crossed the street and left their horses at a vacant spot before Mrs. Tappley’s hat and gown shop.

  Leather creaked as men dismounted, then boots thudded dully on the wheel-rutted dirt surface of the street and boomed woodenly in crossing the sidewalk. Every eye went to the door as four obvious Texas cowhands entered.

  A low curse, which none of the others noticed, left Chisum’s lips as he stared towards the doorway.

  One of the quartet was a veritable giant. Six foot three he stood, if an inch; with golden blond hair under a costly white, low-crowned, wide-brimmed Stetson hat of Texas style. His face was almost classically handsome, yet it was tanned, strong and intelligent, a strong-willed man’s face. A scarlet silk bandana was tight rolled and knotted around his throat, trailing long ends down over the made-to-measure tan shirt. His shoulders had a great spread to them and the ample width of the shirt sleeves could not conceal the enormous biceps underneath. From his shoulders, he tapered down to a slim waist and long, powerful legs. The man looked like a Hercules in build, an Adonis in features, something of a dandy by his dress; but still he had the undefinable sign of a top hand to western eyes. The gunbelt around his waist supported a matched brace of ivory butted Colt Cavalry Peacemakers, their seven-and-a-half inch barrels in contoured, fast draw holsters. He looked like a man who could use the Colts, gunbelt and holsters to their best advantage.

  There stood a man who could make the roundup captain—but he was not the first of the quartet to enter the room.

  The second cowhand stood maybe two inches shorter than the giant. A blond also, he was fast developing into a powerful man. Young, handsome and dressed in good range clothes, though not such a dandy as the giant, he too bore the look of a man who knew cattle. The twin staghorn butted Colt Artillery Peacemakers in the fast-draw holsters hung just right and, unless the signs lied badly, the youngster was unusually adept in their use.

  Despite his youth, this one also might have served the ranchers’ purpose at a pinch—had he been first to enter the room.

  Maybe the third member of the group did not fit in so well; but that was not because of any lack of range savvy. He looked even younger than the second blond and stood an inch shorter, but had a lean, wiry, whipcord strength about him. His hair was black as the wing of a deep south crow, yet curly as no Indian hair ever was. Yet there was something Indian about him. It might have been the darkness of the almost babyishly young, innocent-seeming, handsome face or in the red-hazel eyes which were neither young nor innocent. All his clothing was black, from hat down to boots, even the leather of the gunbelt had the same sober hue. Only the ivory hilt of the bowie knife sheathed at his left side and brown walnut grips of the old Dragoon Colt holstered butt forward at his right relieved the blackness.

  If the Indian-dark youngster could not make it as roundup captain, it would be inexperience in practical cattle-work which failed him. However, the matter did not arise, for he was the last of the four to enter.

  What then did the first man through the door look like?

  For a start, he was a small man not more than five foot six in height; although he was not weedily-built. Come to a point, for his size he had a physical development which equaled that of the blond giant. Yet he seemed to fade to nothing compared with any of his friends. It was not as a result of wearing poor clothes. His black Texas-style Stetson, bandana, shirt and Levi’s were all expensive, but he did not have the flair for showing them off as did his friends. He was handsome, though not in an eye-catching manner, yet he had a strong face happen one thought to give him a second glance. His boots bore the look of being made by a master craftsman. So did his gunbelt. Yet the gunbelt, even though hanging correctly, and the matched brace of bone-handled Colt Civilian Peacemakers butt forward for a cross-hand draw, did nothing to make the small man noticeable.

  In fact the only reason any of the crowd noticed him at all was because he led the quartet into the room—and was the first man to enter since the ranchers announced how they would elect their roundup captain.

  Chapter Two—That There Is Dusty Fog

  ALTHOUGH HE HAD been one of the stoutest advocates of the unusual method of selection, Bunyon now felt considerable doubts as he saw the consequences of the idea. He glanced at the small man who entered first, then turned to Goodnight.

  ‘Hell, Charlie,’ he said. ‘That short-growed runt’ll never make us a roundup captain.’

  ‘You go tell him,’ Goodnight replied, looking more relieved than he had since the idea was put forward. ‘Tell him you reckon his height’ll stop him being able to handle it—only I don’t envy you none.’

  ‘Do you know him, Charlie?’ Sanders asked, watching the four men walk towards the bank.

  ‘You might say that. I stood godfather for him. He rode as my segundo on the third trail drive I made after the War—’ i

  ‘You’re funning us,’ Bunyon interrupted.

  It was the only acceptable way of calling a man like Colonel Charlie Goodnight a liar and living to think twice about the words. Bunyon’s incredulity sprouted from his knowing the name of the man who rode segundo for Goodnight on that historic third trail drive after the War. And that name could not belong to such a short-growed—

  ‘So I’m funning you,’ Goodnight grunted. ‘But that there is Dusty Fog.’

  With that Goodnight thrust back his chair and rose to his feet. Talk rolled up from the men at the table and all stared at the small, insignificant Texan who had become a legend already in his young life.

  In the War folks spoke of Dusty Fog as the seventeen year old commander of Troop ‘C’ of the Texas Light Cavalry and a military raider equal to Turner Ashby or John Singleton Mosby and a thorn in the Yankee army’s side until the meeting at the Appomattox Court House brought peace, or a cessation of military action, to the land. Since then Dusty Fog’s name had become known as a cowhand of the first water, trail boss, segundo of the great OD Connected ranch and town-taming lawman. In the annals of western gun play he stood second to no man, and many claimed him to be the fastest of them all.

  This then was the first man to enter the Juno Saloon after the decision to follow Candy Carde’s suggestion had been made.

  The handsome blond giant also carried a name, In the War Mark Counter had become known as the Beau Brummel of the Confederate cavalry. Now his taste in clothes for the most part dictated what the well-dressed Texas cowhand wore. His strength was a legend, his skill in a rough-house brawl something once seen never forgotten. If anything, Mark was better with cattle even than Dusty Fog; and might have owned his own ranch, for an aunt left him her considerable fortune when she died, or taken on as foreman of any big spread. But Mark stayed on at the OD Connected, working as a member of the elite of Ole Devil Hardin’s crew, the floating outfit. While men knew much about Mark Counter, there were few who could speak with authority of his skill with a gun. He lived under the shadow of the Rio Hondo gun wizard, but those who knew claimed Mark to be second only to Dusty Fog in the matter of speed and accuracy.

  The black-dressed, baby-faced young man had been christened—or named, for no preacher officiated at the ceremony and no parish record bore mention of his birth—Loncey Dalton Ysabel. Folks mostly knew him as the Ysabel Kid. While the Kid did not claim to be in the same magic-handed class as his three friends, he could handle his old Dragoon with fair skill. However, there were few to equal his mastery of the gentle art of knife-fighting; and he claimed no peer with the magnificent ‘One of a Thousand’ Winchester Model of 1873 rifle he won at the Cochise County Fair. ii He was a master at the business of riding scout and could move through the thickest, driest brush in a silent manner that would turn a buck Apache green with envy. At tracking he could claim to be an expert, ab
le to follow the most difficult line. His father had been a wild Irish-Kentuckian, his mother a beautiful Comanche-French Creole girl. From out of the mixing of fighting bloods came a deadly young man. A damned good friend, but a bad mean enemy.

  Of all the quartet, the last one was least known, though fast making up for his lack of fame. Left an orphan almost from birth, he bore only one name. Waco. When Dusty Fog first met him, Waco had been riding as part of Clay Allison’s wild-onion crew; a trigger-fast-and-up-from-Texas kid with a log-sized chip on his shoulder and a belly-full of suspicion and mistrust towards his fellow men. Dusty had saved Waco’s life that day. iii Since then Waco followed the Rio Hondo gun wizard with doglike devotion, giving him the hero-worship and devotion that might have gone to the long dead father. Waco changed from a proddy kid to a useful member of rangeland society. Each of his three friends treated him as a younger brother and taught him all they could.

  ‘Howdy, Uncle Charlie,’ said Dusty Fog, changing direction as Goodnight walked towards him and giving Bunyon confirmation of Goodnight’s words. ‘I thought my pants were on fire, way everybody stared when I came in.’

  ‘Never was more pleased to see a man, Dusty,’ Goodnight replied, taking the offered hand in a firm grip. ‘You aren’t hidebound for any place, are you, boy?’

  ‘Only back to home.’

  ‘Reckon Ole Devil could spare you for three, four weeks?’

  ‘If it’s important enough,’ Dusty replied and glanced at his friends who had halted and stood waiting for him. ‘Go get the drinks in, Lon, it’s long gone time you bought.’

  ‘Don’t approve of Injuns drinking,’ grunted the Kid. ‘Especially when it’s me has to do the paying.’

  ‘Just get the three and set back to watch us white folks drinking then,’ Waco suggested, looking towards the bar and ogling Candy Carde with frank, open-eyed juvenile admiration. The three cowhands left their leader and made for the bar. Dusty looked at his uncle, then towards the group of men he recognized as being ranch owners who rose and gathered round him. For their parts, nine out of the ten could hardly believe their good fortune at having the famous Dusty Fog walk in at such a moment.

  ‘We’d like you to be our roundup captain, Cap’n Fog,’ Sanders said and most of the others rumbled their agreement.

  ‘Are they on the level, Uncle Charlie?’

  ‘Sure are, Dustine.’

  ‘And you’re here?’

  ‘I’ll explain about things in a couple of minutes, boy,’ Goodnight answered, pleased with the compliment Dusty paid to his ability as a cattleman. ‘Sure like for you to accept, though.’

  ‘Then I’m on—if you’ll be the one who explains to Uncle Devil how come I’ve been delayed.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Goodnight promised with a grin.

  He could visualize Ole Devil’s reaction to the news that the OD Connected’s segundo and three best hands would be four weeks late arriving home. It would be worth money to hear the irascible old rancher’s comments. Not that Ole Devil would really object, but he liked to have an excuse to sharpen his horns and start pawing the dirt.

  ‘You’ll do it then, Cap’n?’ Bunyon inquired, forgetting his original misgivings at taking such a small, insignificant man on as roundup captain.

  ‘He’ll do it,’ Goodnight agreed.

  Instantly talk welled up around the room. There had been some surprised comment and disappointment when Dusty entered. The hands who did not know him could not see themselves taking orders from such a small feller. Now Dusty’s name bounced from mouth to mouth and all knew that they had truly got a roundup captain.

  ‘Can’t think of a better man for the chore, Cap’n,’ Chisum said, stepping forward. ‘Of course there’s some it might not suit so well.’

  ‘World’d be a helluva place happen we all liked the same things, Mr. Chisum,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘Reckon it would at that,’ agreed Chisum, ignoring the knowledge that a Texan never used the word ‘mister’ after being introduced unless he did not like the man he called it.

  Turning, Chisum walked away. He headed towards the door and a nod of his head brought three of his hard-case crew after him. None of the other ranchers saw him go, for all were talking to Dusty Fog.

  ‘When do we start, Captain?’ Naylor asked.

  ‘Whose range’ll you be working first?’ Washman went on.

  ‘What do we do about dough-guts?’ put in Bunyon before Dusty could answer any of the questions.

  ‘Hold on there!’ Goodnight boomed. ‘Back off a spell. Let me have a talk with Dustine, set him wise to the lay of the land afore you start working the circle and cutting the herd.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ Haslett agreed. ‘Come on, fellers. I’ll set up the first round.’

  Haslett led the other ranchers to the bar where Candy’s bartenders were already at work. After they went, Goodnight nodded to a side table and suggested he and his nephew took the weight off their feet.

  ‘What’s all this about, Uncle Charlie?’ Dusty asked, sitting down.

  Quickly Goodnight explained about the roundup, and the conditions which brought about the unusual method of selecting their leader. Mark, the Kid and Waco had gathered at the table, bringing beers for Dusty and Goodnight, and sat listening. Although he had once been Chisum’s friend, iv Goodnight did not hide his suspicions of the Cattle King’s motives and aspirations.

  The mention of Chisum’s name caused the Kid to glance around the room in search of the Cattle King. He saw Chisum return to the bar-room, followed by the three hard-cases, head for the bar and buy a bottle of whisky which he handed to one of the trio. Knowing Chisum to be tight-fisted, the Kid wondered at the unexpected burst of generosity. Being a suspicious and watchful young man by nature, the Kid kept his eyes on the three men, especially as they walked forward and sat at the next table to his own.

  ‘Hey, just look at who’s come in!’

  Mark’s soft-drawled words brought all the occupants of the table’s eyes to the front door of the saloon. Half-a-dozen gun-hung men entered and stood for a moment looking around them with quiet, watchful gaze. They wore cowhand style clothes, only of a better cut than most cowhands could afford. In the lead, and first to enter, was a tall, slim young man with a smiling face that showed buck teeth. He wore a black Stetson with a silver concha decorated band around it, a dark blue shirt, black Levi’s and boots, while a gunbelt around his waist supported matching pearl-handled Civilian Model Colts.

  ‘Know them, Dusty?’ Goodnight asked.

  For a moment Dusty studied the newcomers, then he nodded. ‘That’s Billy Bonney in the lead. What’s he doing here, do you reckon?’

  ‘Not what,’ growled Goodnight. ‘Who.’

  Watching the young man soon to become famous as Billy the Kid, Dusty got the impression that Bonney had been expecting a different reception. One of the men behind Bonney growled something and the buck-toothed youngster grinned over his shoulder, then walked across the room to where Chisum sat alone at the opposite side to Goodnight’s party. ‘I’d sure like to know what’s being said over there,’ Goodnight remarked as Bonney sat at Chisum’s table and poured a drink from the Cattle King’s bottle-neck down his throat and then started speaking.

  The conversation between Chisum and Bonney would have been both interesting and enlightening to Goodnight, but unfortunately for him, he did not hear it.

  ‘What went wrong, Uncle John?’ Bonney asked, using Chisum’s pet name.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Chisum asked, in as near a growl of anger as he dare use with the smiling young killer.

  That’s a right sweet lil daughter your Mexican cook’s got,’ Bonney answered. ‘I got to—talking with her, and you know how time does fly. When they going to start electing me roundup captain?’

  ‘They aren’t.’

  ‘Aren’t, huh?’ A hard note crept into Bonney’s voice.

  ‘You came too late. Another feller walked in through the door.’

  ‘Did, huh?’

  ‘Sure. He got elected, too.’

  ‘Now that’s a thing’s can soon be altered. Where’s he at?’