The Floating Outfit 45 Read online

  “No guns, huh?”

  “No guns,” Raymond agreed, spreading his arms and showing his gunless sides.

  “That good,” growled the scar-faced brave, then snapped an order in his own language.

  At the words every Apache whipped out his knife and leapt towards the white people around the fire. There was sudden confusion, the three men jumping forward to try and protect the women, the four chorus girls running for the wagons, while Paula swung a wild hand which knocked the nearest brave to her staggering. Cindy Alban was nearest to the Apaches. She saw the scar-faced brave lunge forward and twisted to one side. His clawing hand touched the shoulder of her dress in passing, then she was free and running and he was after her. The girl saw him, looking back over her shoulder, saw she was cut off from the wagons and fled down the slope into the bushes.

  Around the fire there was wild confusion. Raymond flung himself forward, his fist landing hard on the face of a brave. Hamish saw Cindy’s peril but he was forced back by the attack of a knife-slashing brave. With remarkable agility the old actor avoided the rush of a wild young brave, tripped him and was tackled by another. It was a wild melee, but there would have been only one end to it had there not been help and very efficient help on hand.

  By the stream Dusty, Mark and the Kid had finished their ablutions and were collecting their gear together. They were relaxed, discussing the chance meeting, when from the open the Kid’s white stallion suddenly threw back its shapely head and gave an angry snort.

  “Apaches!”

  The one word came from the Kid in a Comanche-deep grunt. He took in the half-dozen braves with Indian-wise eyes, noting particularly the youth of the party, their lack of weapons and reading the signs right. This was a bunch of marauding young bucks on their first war trail, out after loot. They would not risk much in the way of a fight, at least until they were better armed. Raymond and his party would be safe enough as long as they kept up a bold front, gave some small tribute and did not let

  “Hell fire!” growled the Kid. “He’s letting them into the camp. Get back there and pronto!”

  That was the one thing Raymond should have resisted at all cost, allowing the bucks to get into the camp and see how poorly armed the troupe were. Feed them, give them tobacco, but never should Raymond have allowed them to get in close.

  The attack started as the three Texans sprinted up the slope. Cowhand boots were never meant for running in, but for all of that the three were making good time. Then the Kid saw Cindy fleeing along the slope above him, saw her and the following brave disappear into the bushes and swung off at a tangent. Dusty and Mark could handle the other braves. The Kid was going to be needed far more by that pretty girl with the gentle smile.

  Raymond leapt backwards, avoiding the slashes of the brave who was after him. He was no fool and had been in more than one brawl, but this time Raymond was up against a man who meant to kill him. He watched his chance, ready to slam home his hard fists, but did not get a chance. Hamish had the wrist of a second brave gripped and they were rolling over and over on the floor, each trying to get the other in a position where he could be finished. The old man went down under a third brave, the knife rose and drove down at the front of his old frock coat. Then the brave gave a startled yell, for his knife point sank in about half an inch and came to a stop. The old actor gave a sudden heave which threw the Apache from him and he rolled over, the bound copy of the Works of Shakespeare falling from his jacket. It had done its work by taking the force of the blow and preventing the knife from sinking home.

  The women were backed against the wagons and two of the braves came at them, knives in hand ready for use. Paula clenched her hands but the four girls behind her, screaming in terror and clinging to her, prevented her from doing anything.

  It was at that moment Dusty Fog and Mark Counter came on to the scene. They came through the bushes at just the right moment. Young Hamish’s head hit the ground hard, he was dazed and the Apache tore free his knife hand, rearing up as he drew back the knife.

  Dusty’s left-hand Colt came out and roared in one flickering movement. Fast though the move was the Apache kneeling astride Hamish was caught by the bullet, jerked backwards and went down. Even before the Apache’s body had hit the ground a second one, Raymond’s attacker, crumpled and went down before the long-barreled Cavalry Peacemaker in Mark Counter’s right hand.

  The two braves who were after the girls and the third, crouching to attack the old actor, saw the two men from the bushes, saw them and knew that no longer was this a safe game to play. They broke off the attack, sprinting for their horses and leaping astride the bare backs with an agility that was a joy to watch. One of them whipped back his hand, his knife raised to throw. Dusty and Mark both fired at the same moment and the young Indian was knocked flying from his horse, dead before his body struck the ground. Either bullet would have killed him.

  Then the attack was over and the two living braves raced for safety. Raymond threw a glance to see if his wife was safe and turned a pale face towards Hamish and the old actor. Hamish was on his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it and the old man was clucking his tongue as he studied the battered old book.

  With the people of the troupe unhurt Raymond turned to look at his rescuers. He opened his mouth to say something as Paula pushed free of the hysterical girls and came towards the men. The words were never said. From the bushes came the sound of a shrill scream, then the most blood-curdling yell any of them had ever heard.

  “What was that?” gasped Raymond, his face even paler.

  Mark Counter pumped the empty cartridge case from the ejection gate of his Colt and slipped a fresh bullet in to replace it. “That was a dead mean ole Comanche getting riled up.”

  “Comanche!” yelped the showman. “They said they were Apaches.”

  “They were,” agreed Mark.

  It was at that moment all of them realized that Cindy was not in the camp.

  “Cindy!” Paula screamed. “It’s Cindy. He’s got her. Get after her!”

  Dusty and Mark did not move, they remained where they were loading their guns. “One way or another, ma’am,” Dusty answered. “It’s too late for that now.”

  Cindy had fled from the camp, running as she’d never run before. Behind her she could hear the patter of the Apache’s moccasined feet as he chased her. The squat buck was not agile and the girl managed to keep away from his reaching, clawing hands, although she and he knew it was only a matter of time. They were in the bushes now, and the girl felt a branch strike her, then her foot caught in a root and she went down, rolling under a small bush. With terrified eyes she looked up at the leering, savage face of the Apache close on her. A scream broke from her throat, rose high and then ended abruptly.

  There was a rush of feet and a black shape arrived in the open behind the Apache. Cindy’s ears were jarred by a hideous yell which rang out from this black dressed apparition. It was a man Cindy dully thought she should recognize, a man whose black clothing was familiar but whose face was such as she’d never seen before. It was the hard fighting mask of a Comanche Dog Soldier and the yell was the coup cry of that same wild fighting warrior from the Texas plains.

  The Apache also saw this sight of an Indian’s face in white man’s clothing. Saw it and the eleven and a half inch bowie knife blade which ripped at him. He started to make his parry, doing it with a speed which would have handled the attack of a white man—but it was not a white man who struck at him. It was the grandson of Chief Long Walker of the Comanches, war leader of the dread Dog Soldier Lodge who launched the knife blow, and the Apache never saw the day when he could teach a Comanche anything to do with the noble art of fighting with a knife.

  Just a vital split-second too late the Apache began his parry and from then on it was all over. The great blade, sharper than many a barber’s razor, went under the Apache’s guard and sank home, biting into the knife-fighter’s favorite target, the belly. The Kid felt his knife go home
and ripped it across, feeling the hot rushing gush of blood against his hand, saw the Apache’s face take on an expression of agony and drew back his hand. The knife blade was red in the Kid’s hand and the Apache folded over, clutching at the middle as he went to the ground.

  For a moment the Kid stood, allowing the wild Comanche blood to settle again. He tried to fight down the reckless streak of Indian in him but never, when he held a knife and faced an enemy, could he. Bending forward, he wiped the knife blade clean on the Apache’s breechcloth, then straightened and looked at the girl who was crawling weakly from under the bush.

  “You all right, Miss Cindy?” he asked. “I surely hope I didn’t scare you too much.”

  The girl twisted towards him, recognizing him through the tears and the hysteria which welled up inside her. Desperately she tried to keep her eyes from the twitching, blood-oozing thing on the ground. She looked at the innocent, babyishly handsome face as if she could not believe her eyes. The clothes were the same but it appeared that an entirely different man had rescued her.

  Then the reaction set in and with a cry Cindy flung herself into the Kid’s arms and sobbed against his black shirt. He held her for a moment until she was over the worst of it and then turned her towards the camp.

  “They told us they were Lipans,” Raymond explained to the angry Kid who had brought Cindy back and turned her over to Paula, then demanded why the men had been fool stupid enough to let the Apaches get that close to them.

  “Lipans?” barked the Kid. “Mister, they were Mogollons and real bad hats too.”

  “It’s lucky we happened along,” Dusty went on. “Let’s get those bodies away from the camp and then we can eat.”

  It would not have mattered if Cindy had not cooked enough food to go around for only the three Texans felt like eating anything. The rest of them retired to the wagons and did not appear until night and even then they did not show any great desire to eat.

  Three – Mr. Earp Renews an Acquaintance

  Buckskin Frank Leslie stepped from the side walk and advanced to meet the two wagons and the three Texas men who approached him. The time was ten o’clock and the saloon keeper was going to meet his friends Paula and Joe Raymond. He’d had one of his swampers out on trail for the past two days looking for the wagons and on hearing of their approach came forth to greet his friends.

  People going about their business stopped to look at the wagons and their escort with interest. Madame Paula knew the value of publicity and had the canopy off the lead wagon and all her troupe dressed in their show costumes in the back, with the exception of her husband, who drove the second wagon. Hamish, dressed in a fancy buckskin outfit drove the first one; he saw that the eyes of Tombstone’s young ladies were on him and for once the feeling worried him. He had not said much since the fight with the Apaches and felt that he could have shown better in it. The four chorus girls and, to a lesser degree, Cindy, had shown much interest in the three Texas men who saved them and Hamish felt a little jealous. Always on the stage he played the handsome hero, saving Cindy from a foul plot of the villain. Then for the first time when he could have played the hero in real life he failed. Seeing Cindy laughing and joking with her rescuer he felt for the first time an awareness of her. No longer was she just a first-class competent actress who played her scenes without tantrums or trying to steal everything on the stage. Now she was a very real women and Hamish wished he had shown better when his chance came.

  Buckskin Frank raised his hand in greeting. He was a tall, slender man dressed to the height of frontier gambler’s fashion except that he wore a fringed buckskin jacket instead of the more normal cutaway coat. For all that the gunbelt around his waist was no ornament and the white handled Colt Artillery Peacemaker was a tool of speed and precision in his hands.

  “Welcome to Tombstone, Madame Paula,” he boomed out in a voice which attracted the crowd and started them to gather. His eyes flickered to the three Texans, a glimmer of recognition in them. Then he got down to business. His old friends Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid would not mind his ignoring them for the moment and there would be time to talk of the old days later. Turning to the fast gathering crowd he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen of Tombstone. As always I am bringing you the best entertainment possible. From tonight, until the start of the County Fair, Madame Paula's Talented Troupe will be presenting the latest drama plays at the Bon Ton Theater and appearing in the Bucket of Blood Saloon. Now, presenting to you, Madame Paula Raymond—”

  Dusty, Mark and the Kid backed off their horses to allow the show people the limelight. Leslie introduced the members of the troupe, doing it with a flair and shine that showed he was no mean showman himself. He saw the crowd growing and so saved Cindy until last. The girl would be a prime drawing card and would bring in the sentimental cowhand and mine worker’s trade. She would be the sort of girl they dreamed about and would pay good money to see rescued from the clutches of the vile villain of the play.

  Gallantly Leslie handed each of the girls down and shook hands with the men. Then he held out his hand, introduced Cindy and assisted her from the wagon box. The girl had barely set her feet in the dusty road of Tombstone when a voice spoke from the front of the crowd.

  “Introduce me to the lady, Leslie.”

  Leslie turned on his heel to look the speaker over, although he did not need to do so. The man stepping forward was well enough known to Leslie. He was a tall, slim and handsome young man, his face tanned, although he did not have the look or the dress of an outdoor man. He wore an expensive black cutaway coat, frilly white shirt, string tie, fancy vest, white trousers and shoes. His hat was a good Stetson but he did not have the flair of a Western man in how he wore it. He also wore a fast man’s gunbelt but to eyes which could call the signs he was not fast with it.

  Behind this elegant dandy stood two men of a type Leslie and the three Texans knew well. They wore cowhand clothes, belted guns and these were what they worked with. They were hired guns, the sort a man would take on when he could not get good stock.

  Slowly Leslie released the girl’s hand and stepped away from her. The onlookers in the crowd started to fade back leaving the handsome man and his two hired guns clear to view. Every member of the crowd was suddenly prepared to hunt for cover —fast.

  “I said introduce me,” the handsome young man went on.

  “I’d as soon introduce her to a Digger Indian.”

  There was a sudden reddening of the handsome man’s face. His hand lifted, his fingers spread as they hovered above the butt of the gun. Leslie watched the man, saw the two gunmen moving slowly to be clear of their boss and sensed that Dusty, Mark and the Kid were moving their horses to a place where they could back him if backing was needed.

  “Introduce me, Leslie,” said the man.

  “You go to hell, Rambeau.”

  The show people were seeing something they’d seen before and knew what they must do. Paula was first off the mark, gently gripping Cindy’s arm and moving her back out of the possible line of fire. At the same moment the woman blocked Hamish who had started to move forward. The young actor saw his chance to make up for his failure on the trail. He meant to step in and demand the man called Rambeau to take himself off hurriedly. The young actor could fight but only with his fists in a rough-house brawl. He would have as little chance here if guns began to roar as a snowball had of keeping shape on a hot stove top.

  Slowly King Rambeau’s eyes went to the three Texans as they slouched comfortably in their saddles in a half circle behind Leslie. His lips drew back in a sneering grin which made the handsome face look evil as the devil himself.

  “Took to hiring guns now, Leslie?” he asked.

  “What’re those two behind you, hombre?” asked the Ysabel Kid mildly. “A couple of Tombstone churchwardens?”

  Rambeau’s eyes lifted to the Kid, seeing there was no mildness in his face no matter how his voice sounded. “Tough boy, huh? Take that worn old relic of a gun from
him, boys.”

  “Start right in any time you like, gents,” offered the Kid. He was not a fast man with a gun but he knew he was able to deal with either of the hired men and their boss.

  The gunmen made no move. They knew the signs and they read the warning in that gentle, mocking face. It was as menacing as the purr of a cougar with a belly full of horsemeat.

  It was then the crowd parted and a tall, solemn-looking man came forward. In dress he looked like a prosperous trail end town undertaker and his mustached face was familiar. Round his waist was a gunbelt with a black handled Colt Civilian Peacemaker at his right side. At his left was the twelve-inch barreled special Colt presented to him by Ned Buntline. The crowd stirred with expectation for King Rambeau was a crony of Wyatt Earp—and Frank Leslie was not.

  Behind Earp, on the sidewalk, stood his brother Virgil, looking much the same and with the shield of town marshal on his jacket lapel for all to see. His face showed nothing of whether he approved or disapproved of what Brother Wyatt was doing.

  Equally inscrutable was the face of the thin, sallow man who stood by Virgil Earp. This man wore the dress of a gambler and from under his coat, in a shoulder clip, was a ten gauge, twin barrel shot pistol. His pallid face was set in a cold and mocking grin as he looked on.

  “What’s the trouble, King?” asked Earp, stepping forward, by the two gunmen and halting at Rambeau’s side. His eyes turned to Frank Leslie, glanced at the three cowhands then he snapped, “Making trouble again, Leslie?”

  “This’s private,” Leslie replied. “Go peddle for votes some other place.”

  “Leave this to me, King,” Earp said grimly, satisfied that his brother and Doc Holliday were on hand and that he had a good audience. “I can handle it.”

  Rambeau moved back a pace, his hand still hovering his gun. He hated Leslie both as a man and a business rival and this would be a good chance to force the play. Never would he have a better chance, two men of his own, Wyatt and Virgil Earp and Doc Holliday against Leslie and two cowhands, three if a man troubled to count that small runt on the big paint horse.