The Floating Outift 33 Read online

  ‘I have cause to remember it, young one,’ answered Villeneuva with a sad smile. ‘I rode with a company against its walls.’

  A moment’s silence followed Waco’s comment and Villeneuva’s reply. Ole Devil gave an angry snort and eyed Waco in a manner which made the youngster feel pleased that he would be riding with Dusty, for when Ole Devil’s eyes took on that extra-cold and frosty glint it meant somebody was due for a spell of working on the blister end of a shovel.

  ‘We’ll leave in the morning, sir,’ Dusty told Ole Devil. ‘If that’s all right with you.’

  ‘The sooner the better. Have you everything you need?’

  ‘Rifle shells’ll be handy,’ drawled the Kid. ‘And I’ll fill my powder horn if I can. You got enough of them made bullets, boy?’

  ‘Sure, need some hulls for my ‘yellow boy’, though,’ he drawled.

  This would present no difficulty for Waco, Mark, the Kid’s rifles and Dusty’s carbine all took the flat-nosed .44.28 bullets devised by Tyler B. Henry and all could use the same supply.

  ‘How about you, Dustine?’ asked Ole Devil. ‘Are you taking the new guns?’

  For a moment Dusty did not reply. He rose and crossed the room to where his hat and gunbelt hung on a peg. Taking down the belt he carried it to the small table before his uncle. He gave some thought to the problem, weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of taking the matched brace of Model P’s along.

  He could use the guns well, the six weeks he owned them had been spent in learning their ways. They now carried a pair of bone butts carved by himself and fitted in place of the factory supplied walnut grips. This gave the guns a hang and feel like his old Army brace. He and Mark both practiced their drawing and fast, accurate close range shooting and trained themselves in longer range work with the sights. They had burned much powder in those six weeks, reloading the empty cases with the aid of a reloading outfit bought from the Colt Company.

  Yet Dusty wondered if he could rely on the new guns in a dangerous situation where his life depended upon them. He looked at Mark who had already used his guns in a fight.

  ‘I’m chancing mine,’ Mark said.

  There was one small detail in this. The Model P’s Mark carried had the long Cavalry barrel and were not so much different from his Army Colts. Dusty knew it and so did Mark.

  Slowly Dusty slung the belt around him, feeling the way it hung just right. His hands curled around the grips of his new guns and he lifted them clear of leather. Somehow they gave him a feeling of confidence. They seemed to hang so right in his grip that they might be asking to be trusted, to let his life hang in their care.

  His hands flipped down and the guns whirled on his trigger fingers, settled ready to be used. He thrust them away and smiled.

  ‘I’m taking the new guns, sir,’ he said.

  Four – The Baile at Salvamiento

  They had crossed the river and were now in Old Mexico, in the Aquila country which bordered Texas. The Kid rode half a mile ahead, taking a point in trail drive terms, hunting for some sign of trouble. In times of danger the Kid always preferred to ride scout, his Indian-keen senses and the keenness of his big white stallion combined to make an efficient warning system if danger lay hidden ahead of him.

  ‘Some trouble hunter,’ grunted Waco, watching the Kid in mock disgust. ‘We been down here for near on half a day and not a sign of them Marcus yahoos have we seen.’

  ‘Know your trouble, boy?’ asked Mark calmly.

  ‘That I’m perfect?’

  ‘That you’re bloodthirsty. Who the hell do you think you are, Wild Bill Hickok?’

  ‘Nope. My hair’s too short.’

  Dusty did not speak. He rode at the right of the trio, scanning the range ahead. Although his eyes would have noted anything worth seeing and his ears registered the sound of his two friends’ voices, he himself stayed sunk deep in thought.

  Despite the casual way in which Ole Devil agreed to Dusty’s scanty plans for handling the situation, nothing had been left to chance in their preparations. Mark and Waco set to work gathering food, ammunition and other necessities for the work ahead, then checking the hooves and condition of their horses, making sure all the leatherwork would stand up to the strains likely to be put upon them. The Kid stayed on with Dusty while he and Ole Devil went more deeply into planning.

  Showing surprising forethought, Villeneuva had brought maps of the Aquila country with him. He frankly admitted his doubts as to the accuracy of the maps but, combined with his own and the Kid’s knowledge of the country, they would serve to give Dusty an idea of how the land lay and what sort of country he might expect.

  Villeneuva told all he knew of Marcus’s methods of raising money. Apart from the official gathering of taxes Marcus used another system to bring wealth to him. He would send out his soldiers in small parties to villages, to social gatherings of all kinds. There the men swaggered around in an intolerable manner, just asking for trouble. Marcus slapped a heavy fine on the leading citizens of the town, or the organizer of the social gathering, for any insult to his men.

  With this knowledge Dusty laid his plans. They would make for some such gathering place and hope for the best. Villeneuva gave Dusty a list of hacienderos, owners of the big ranches, and influential citizens who could be relied upon to go against Marcus’s will. He also entrusted to Dusty a list of five names, the men who backed Villeneuva in his coming north to ask Ole Devil for help.

  Just what the first move might be Dusty did not know. He rode as he often had in the war, just looking for trouble. Sooner or later he knew they must run across Marcus’s men, then there would be time enough to plan action.

  Ahead of them the Kid had come to a halt under a tree. He twisted in the saddle of his big white and waved a hand. Dusty saw the move and came out of his silence, cutting in on the argument Waco and Mark carried on.

  ‘Lon’s found something,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what.’

  ‘Nothing, if I know him,’ grunted Waco and ducked hurriedly as Mark swung a big hand to cuff his ear.

  Up until that time they had been travelling south across rolling, open country inhabited only by long-horned cattle which carried a ‘greaser madhouse’ brand, one of the large, complicated and unreadable variety which Mexican hacienderos used to mark their cattle. However, on the far side of the tree lay a trail, a well used trail from the wheel ruts and the way countless hooves had carved the grass away. It was not to show them a trail that the Kid signaled. He pointed to a large poster hanging on the tree trunk.

  ‘Don Jose Manuel Perez-Mendez invites all to a grand baile to celebrate the engagement of his daughter to—’ the Kid began to read. He could read Spanish much better than his mother tongue for he rarely found need to either read or write in English. ‘Could be what we’re looking for, Dusty.’

  ‘Why sure,’ agreed Dusty. ‘Have you ever been to this town the baile’s at?’

  ‘Salvaniento? Sure, I’ve been there. Small place.’

  ‘What’re we waiting for?’ asked Waco. ‘It don’t set right that we leave all those dark-eyed señoritas pining for us, does it?’

  ‘Likely, but don’t you get too festive, boy,’ warned the Kid. ‘Those knife fighters down here use buttons your age to learn on.’

  There had been a time when such a remark would have seen Waco riding hell-bent for trouble, just to find out if those knife-fighting greasers were so all-fired good.

  ‘I’ll remember, pappy,’ he grinned. ‘And I’ll get you an ole hickory stick to walk on.’

  ‘You’ll get lumps on your pumpkin head happen you don’t stop fooling,’ growled Dusty. ‘Let’s go.’

  Perez was one of the men Villeneuva claimed might be able to help out if needed. Dusty decided it would do no harm if he went along and looked the man over, formed his own opinion. Besides, there was always a chance that Marcus might have worked out the south and west of the Aquila country and be operating to the north of his territory.

  With
this in mind he led his party along the trail. They looked a light-hearted and happy-go-lucky crowd as they rode, just like cowhands on a spree. Nobody, at first glance, would suspect they rode on an urgent mission which might save thousands of lives by preventing a war between the United States and Mexico.

  After covering some three miles they started to meet up with people making for Salvamiento.

  ‘How come these gals always have an old aunt along with ’em?’ asked Waco as they left the coach behind.

  ‘They’ve had fellers like you down here afore,’ replied Mark. ‘That’s why.’

  Just before they reached the town of Salvamiento, they saw an imposing party approaching along a side road. A fine looking coach, pulled by a four-horse team of matched bays, led the procession. Flanking it rode two vaqueros, men of middle age, tanned and tough looking despite their silver decorated saddles and bridles and their charro clothes. Six more vaqueros riding in almost military precision, two by two, brought up the rear, their saddles and bridles a-glitter with silver. All wore Colt revolvers at their left sides, the butts turned forward for a cross-draw, but in a fight their hands would fly to the knives sheathed at their right.

  The four Texans drew their horses to a halt to allow the procession time to pass. Dusty saw the occupants of the coach glancing towards them, an elderly man with a kindly face, a beautiful girl, a handsome, well dressed young man and the inevitable duenna, chaperone. The escort also glanced at the Texans, perhaps with a little more curiosity, wondering if they would know how to behave if they attended the dance.

  ‘That’s Don Jose Perez,’ drawled the Kid, watching the coach and its escort rumble towards town in a cloud of dust. ‘Pappy and me did some business with him. Not much. Feller on the near side of the coach’s his segundo, Sanchez. Good man with a gun, or a knife. Know him better than his boss.’

  ‘He sure took on like he knew you,’ Waco answered.

  ‘Boy, he’d ride by his own mother when he’s with his boss. Let’s get into town and see what’s doing.’

  The town of Salvamiento looked little different from the small Spanish built villages in Texas. Its buildings were made of adobe, white walled and flat roofed, adapted to be cool in the heat. Like a Texas town Salvamiento’s business section formed its main street with houses scattered behind it. The church, as was almost always the case south of the border, had the most solid appearance of all, being made of stone. However, the town house of Don Jose Perez was no cheap adobe shack. It stood at the far end of the town, the great gates thrown open, tables and forms for the poorer guests, chairs for the more privileged, forming sides to a large open square left for dancing. Already people gathered before the house, but the Perez coach must have gone around to the rear of the building for it did not stand out front.

  ‘Sure looks crowded,’ drawled Mark, glancing along the street. ‘Where’re we going to leave the horses, Lon?’

  ‘At the posada.’

  ‘Be a mite crowded down there,’ Dusty objected, looking to the hitching rail before the inn.

  Without bothering to reply the Kid turned his white stallion and led the other three around the side of the inn. Apparently the inn at Salvamiento did a good trade for it looked a substantial building and behind it an adobe wall surrounded a large area with several outbuildings.

  Swinging from his saddle, the Kid knocked on the gate in the wall. It opened and a fat face peered out. Its eyes blinked at the four Texans for a minute, settling on the Kid at last and the lips split into a grin.

  ‘Cabrito!’ greeted the face’s owner, swinging open the gate. ‘Come in, my friend. Is long time since I am seeing you.’

  ‘Howdy Juan,’ replied the Kid. ‘Me and my amigos have come for the baile. Have you room for our horses?’

  ‘There is always room for your horse, amigo. Hah, you still have that horse. Hey, cabra bianco, you remember me?’

  A snort left the white’s nostrils and its ears laid back wickedly. The Kid laughed.

  ‘Ole Thunder don’t take to being called a white goat, Juan.’

  They led their horses into the big yard and Juan escorted them, with some ceremony, to the private stables. He bewailed the lack of good smuggled goods all the time the Kid unsaddled and attended to his horse. According to Juan, what with the kind of people smuggling these days, it paid a man to buy his goods legitimately and pay duty on them.

  ‘Bring your saddles along here, señores,’ Juan said, waving his hand to where a burro, an inverted V-shaped wooden structure, stood ready to receive saddles, holding them safe. This pleased all four men for no cowhand ever liked to just dump down his saddle, much preferring to leave it on a burro where clumsy feet could not step on it.

  Dusty glanced at the butt of his carbine as it rose from his saddle boot. He would not have been so happy about leaving such a valuable weapon had the inn-keeper not been a friend of the Ysabel Kid.

  Lanterns gleamed, a large barbecue fire added its glow, lighting the large grounds of the house like day. A small band of all string instruments played on a stand and people danced, or sat around watching. The tables groaned with food, except for one which held wine, cordials and a big bowl of punch.

  The Kid led the way to where Don Jose Perez y Mendez and his party sat, with Sanchez, the segundo, standing behind them, his face impassive and showing no more than a hint of recognition.

  'Saludos, Señor Perez,’ greeted the Kid with a graceful bow and speaking Spanish although he knew Perez understood English. ‘We come in peace to your house.’

  ‘You are the son of Sam Ysabel?’ asked Perez.

  ‘I am, señor. May I present Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog, Mark Counter, and Waco.’

  For a moment Perez’s eyes flickered at Dusty, wondering if the Kid had introduced the wrong man as Captain Fog. Then he saw beyond the small, insignificant cowhand, saw the real man beneath.

  ‘It gives me pleasure to entertain such prominent guests, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My house is yours.’

  The four young men passed through and made for one of the tables to take a meal before they joined in the dancing and merry-making. Nobody gave them more than a second glance and the vaqueros, especially the younger ones, grinned broadly, greeting their cow-chasing brothers from north of the Rio Grande amiably enough.

  Dusty clamped a hand on Waco’s arm. ‘Listen to me, boy. You get into any fights tonight and I’ll fix your wagon, but good.’

  Since Mark took Waco in hand, teaching him the rudiments and refinements of the art of fist-fighting and frontier roughhouse brawling, Waco had often entangled himself in fights, to put his learning into practice. He always picked on a man at least his own size and weight and took the consequences without yelling for help. However, brawling at a baile such as this would be a deadly insult to their host and Dusty knew these proud Mexican hacienderos. One wrong move, an insult, or even a small slight, would see Perez and his men become implacable enemies, even though they all fought for the same cause.

  ‘Shuckens,’ grinned Waco. ‘A man can’t have no fun at all.’

  For all Waco’s words he soon began to enjoy himself. Along with Mark and the Kid, he soon found himself dancing with pretty Mexican girls. Dusty did not join them. Always an indifferent performer on the floor, he much preferred to stand on the side and watch.

  Crossing the room, Dusty halted at the bar and watched his friends dancing. Somebody bumped into Dusty and he turned. A pair of dark eyes, with the longest lashes he had ever seen, looked at him from a really beautiful face.

  ‘I’m sorry, señor,’ said the woman. ‘How clumsy of me.’

  ‘It’s I who should apologize for being in your way, ma’am,’ Dusty replied, also speaking Spanish.

  He took a, moment to study the woman. She would be about two or three years older than Dusty and stood as tall. Her hair, under the mantilla and comb, looked so black as to almost shine blue and had been neatly fixed. She wore a black silk gown of just a shade more daring cut than any other
woman in the room and she sure had the figure and build to carry it off. All in all she looked quite a beauty and one fully aware of her charm.

  ‘You do not dance, señor?’ she asked.

  ‘Not these sort of dances, ma’am.’

  ‘I thought all Tejanos danced?’ Like Dusty she had gone over to speaking English and with only the faintest sign of an accent.

  ‘Shucks, I can handle a hoedown with somebody telling me where to put my feet, but nothing as fancy as this.’

  ‘Perhaps Don Jose would arrange for the band to play a hoedown later.’

  ‘Why spoil the other folks’ fun,’ grinned Dusty. ‘I’d as soon leave the dancing to Mark, Waco and the Kid.’

  She watched the three Texans dance for a moment and smiled. ‘They do it very well. Do you work for Don Jose?’

  ‘No, ma’am, just passing through.’

  ‘We see few Tejanos this far below the border, Mr.—er, Mr.—?’

  ‘Smith, ma’am. Dusty Smith.’

  Just why he lied Dusty did not know. His every instinct warned him more than casual interest lay in the questions. The girl did not look the kind to waste her time making casual talk with a stranger, especially a Texan cowhand. To most of these rich Spanish-Mexicans all Texas cowhands were uncouth, half-civilized wild men who drank enormous quantities of whisky, then rode through the streets of whatever town they happened to be in, raising all kinds of hell.

  ‘Smith?’ she said. ‘A good name.’

  What her tone implied was that Smith made as good a name as any for a man who did not wish his correct name known. Dusty knew this and felt more sure the woman went deeper than just a chance guest at the baile. He noticed the way she kept glancing at the gates, as if expecting somebody to arrive.

  All in all Dusty did not feel too sorry when the dance ended and his three friends joined him. He introduced them as Mark and Waco Brown and Lon Jones, seeing the looks they threw at him, but none of them commented on this change of names without their permission or the formality of deed-poll. The Kid studied the girl with a slightly critical gaze and Dusty could see him forming the same impressions which Dusty himself formed.