The Floating Outfit 19 Read online

  “Some. I never yet saw a livery barn owner who wouldn’t talk the hind leg off a dead hoss. He told me about everything that’s happened here since they took the town from the gophers.”

  “Way I see it the Cousins bunch’ll be in either late tomorrow or the next day, noon tomorrow at the earliest though,” Mark told her.

  “I’ll side you when they come,” she promised. “Anyways, I’ll have tended to Madam Bulldog’s needings by then.”

  “I was going to see you about that, Calam,” Mark said. “Are you set on meeting Madam Bulldog?”

  “Set as I could be,” she answered. “Hell, Mark, I’ve been working like a dawg for nigh on six months freighting to the army. A gal’s got to relax and have fun sometimes, don’t she?”

  Mark shrugged, seeing there would be no way of dissuading Calam from her proposed course. Short of tossing Calamity into jail, or running her out of town on a rail, he could see no way of avoiding the clash between the two women, unless, which he now doubted, Madam Bulldog should prove to be greatly over-rated. He might have asked Calamity on the strength of old friendships and did not doubt she would do as he asked, but he had never been one for using friendship to turn another from a thing they wanted to do. So he decided to sit back and allow things to fall the way the fates dealt them.

  “Don’t you worry none, Mark boy,” said Calamity.

  “After I showed her a thing or two tonight she’ll know who’s the better woman and that’ll have you ’n’ me free to hand the Cousins bunch their needings.”

  With that promise she headed for the door and left Mark alone with his thoughts. He cleaned his guns, made sure they were ready for use, then lay on the bed fully dressed, to catch a short rest. Something told him that he was going to need it.

  The sun had just gone down when Mark entered the Bull’s Head Saloon. He saw a fair crowd in attendance and wondered if this was the ordinary way of the place or if word of Calamity’s arrival and intentions had gone out, bringing extra folks in to see the clash.

  Mark walked across the room, ignoring the glances directed at him and the badge he wore. Knowing these small western towns he did not doubt that everyone knew he was Tune Counter’s nephew, the Mark Counter who rode with Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid. Doubtless any number of them would also be speculating when Dusty and the Kid were due to arrive.

  He studied the girls as he crossed the room, wanting to form his own opinion of Madam Bulldog. However, he doubted if the great lady be present. All he could see looked like run-of-the-mill dancehall girls of the kind one met in every town from Texas to California and back the long way. Not one of them appeared to be the kind to make legends or attract much attention to themselves.

  Reaching the bar, Mark looked at the bartender who came towards him. The man grinned a welcome which, if Mark was any judge of such matters, looked sincere enough.

  “Howdy marshal,” the bartender greeted. “What’ll it be?”

  “Beer. Take one for yourself.”

  “This’n’s on the house,” Sam replied. “I saw you up in Quiet Town, didn’t I?”

  “I was there,” agreed Mark.

  “The name’s Sam, marshal. I’m Madam Bulldog’s house boss.”

  Mark took the drink offered to him and nodded his thanks. “Reckon you know I’m Mark Counter,” he said, “Tune’s nephew.” He glanced around the room while Sam leaned by him clearly aiming to talk and leave his assistant to deal with the lesser clientele. “Madam Bulldog here?”

  “Not just yet. Be down soon.”

  Although he talked with the bartender, Mark did not relax. His eyes flickered at the bar mirror, studying the room behind him. This was partly caution and partly training, for he knew better than take foolish chances in a town which contained enemies.

  Three men in particular caught Mark’s eye. He stayed facing Sam, but watched them in the long mirror’s reflection. Two of them had been members of the crowd who wished to run his uncle out of town, which accounted for why Mark spotted them. They most certainly did not work cattle for a living, nor, despite their town suits, did they give the impression that they owned or worked in any business house of the town. To Mark, with a long experience of their kind gained in his travels and time as a law officer, they spelled cheap tinhorn card shark, goldbrick salesmen, or petty thief.

  The third man was none of these things—he was much more dangerous. He wore somewhat expensive and dandy range clothes, a thing Mark could hardly hold against him. His face bore a tan, yet he did not strike Mark as being a cowhand. Comparing him with the other two Mark decided he could not be very tall. Yet he had a faintly hidden truculence about him that did not go with his lack of inches. Mark knew the signs, could read them well. This small man had all the markings of a real fast proddy hard-case, which, viewing his lack of inches, meant he relied on gun speed, not muscle, to get him by.

  Unless Mark was mistaken, the trio appeared to be giving him much more than casual attention. They watched him enter, cross to the bar and stand at it. Then they thrust their heads together and talked. From the repeated looks they threw his way, Mark guessed himself to be the subject of their conversation.

  “Sam,” Mark said quietly. “Who’re those three citizens sitting there to the right of the vingt-un layout?”

  To give him credit, Sam did not stare directly at the men. He clearly had learned his trade in the saloons which gave support to the law, for he merely glanced around the room with keen, all seeing gaze, not pausing his look on the three men. For all that he answered Mark’s question as soon as his quick look around ended.

  “The two townies are Wardle and Schanz. Never seen the other, except his type and we’ve both seen that. Them two come here to try and open a saloon, when the town broke open after Madam arrived. Only they didn’t have enough money and the bank wouldn’t loan any. So they came here, wanted to set up a game and cut Madam in on the profits. She wouldn’t have any of it.”

  “What do they do around town?”

  “Play here some nights, join the cowhand games.”

  “Play straight?”

  “We never caught them at anything crooked,” Sam replied. “And Madam keeps her eyes on them. We run a straight place and that’s the way she aims to keep it.”

  “Then they don’t make much here?” asked Mark, watching the men, seeing the small hard-case rise, seeing for the first time that he wore two guns.

  “Enough. You know how it is, their kind can lick the pants off most cowhands, even in a straight game,” Sam answered. “I heard they run another game in their room at the hotel. It’s only a rumor though. Nobody talks much about it.”

  By this time the short man had reached the bar, halting to Mark’s left and a short way along. Mark felt his back hair rise stiff and bristly, the instinct of years of wearing guns warning him of danger.

  “Hey, bardog!”

  Although the term “bardog” had much use through-out the west it had never been considered polite to use it to a bartender’s face, or when calling for service; the small man did so. Sam scowled, seeing the man’s attention directed straight at him. So Sam ignored the small man and waited to be asked in a more polite manner.

  “Serve you, friend?” asked the second bartender moving up as Sam turned to talk with Mark once more.

  “I want him,” replied the small man, pointing to Sam.

  “He’s busy.”

  Turning to face the second bartender fully, the small man’s face twisted into an ugly snarl.

  “He’s the boss bartender and Al Cordby don’t take no dealing with underlings. So get out of the way.”

  Sam threw a look pregnant with meaning to Mark, seeing that the name had not gone unnoticed by the big Texan. Over the past couple of years Al Cordby had built something of a name for himself in Texas. Folks spoke of him as a fast gun hired killer. Mean as hell and a hater of any man taller than himself.

  This was the man who stood along the bar from Mark. He had come up to the bar for a pu
rpose and that purpose was not just to buy a drink.

  Slapping his right hand hard on the bar top, Cordby looked hard at Sam.

  “I want you to serve me, bardog.”

  “He’s serving me.”

  Mark spoke quietly. Yet in some way his words reached out around the room. The piano player hit a jangling discord and stopped playing, talk died down, every eye went to the bar, and those nearest to it set down their glasses ready to dive for cover.

  For a long moment Cordby studied Mark. He had the true killer attitude, the calm, detached, confident way which served to disturb and scare lesser men when faced by a known fast gun. Cordby made no move. His right hand stayed where it lay on the bar, but the left hand hung hidden by his body. He studied Mark, noting the way the big Texan’s guns hung, knowing that here stood a man who wore the rig of one who could draw real fast. That increased Cordby’s hate, strengthened his intention of carrying out the work for which he had been hired.

  “I want him here, big man!” he said.

  “Now you know what it is to want,” Mark replied.

  Still Cordby did not turn to face Mark, just twisted his head and looked. A cold, savage snarl came to his lips.

  “Big man, huh?” he asked. “You’re the big man who aims to stop Hank Cousins and his boys coming in here and roughing the town up?”

  “That’s what they tell me,” Mark replied.

  “You’re setting all these folks up for trouble they could avoid,” Cordby went on, seeing the crowd hung on his words. “You’re aiming to keep Tune Counter here instead of sending him to Sand City where he’ll be safe.”

  “That’s just what I’m going to do,” Mark replied.

  “And you reckon you’re big enough man to do it?”

  “I reckon I’m big enough to do it.”

  “Big men, huh?” Cordby sneered.

  “Depends,” replied Mark.

  “What on?”

  “How big a man I’m talking to. There’s some around who likely reckon I’m a midget.”

  Nothing Mark might have said could have raised Cordby’s hate against him more. Cordby felt all too fully his lack of inches and resented any man making even a casual reference to them.

  For his part Mark saw the clash coming. He knew Cordby came to the bar with the intention of picking a fight with him and could guess at the reason. The two men sat at their table and watched everything with interest. Only one person in the room moved. A tall, blonde girl went upstairs at a fast walk and disappeared from sight at the top, likely headed away from danger, Mark thought.

  “Get me another beer, Sam,” Mark said, taking his eyes from Cordby for an instant, then watching him again.

  “Leave it!” the words cracked from Cordby’s lips. “Listen good to me, big man. You get out of this town and take your kin with you. That way Hank Cousins and his boys’ll be satisfied.”

  “Will, huh?”

  “Sure they will.”

  Now Cordby was not speaking to Mark, but directing his words to the crowd. Some of them even looked as if they might believe him. Mark now knew why Cordby came to the bar. To force the issue, to either make Mark back-water in which case he would be finished as town marshal, for none would follow his lead, or to terminate Mark’s period in office by means of a bullet. Either way he would give strength to the men who hired him, allow them to dominate their will upon the town. The fate of Tennyson City hung in the balance.

  All this Mark knew. If he faced the challenge he would bring the town around behind his back. If he failed to handle Cordby, or if he backed down, his Uncle Tune would be on the wagon and headed for Sand City before an hour passed and most likely Madam Bulldog would be run out of town at the same time.

  “I said get me another beer, Sam,” Mark drawled.

  Against the flat defiance Cordby prepared to make his move. He knew Mark could not see his left hand, knew also that most men tended to ignore the left hand as a faction in a gunfight. There were a few men who could draw and shoot equally well with either hand, but they could almost be numbered on the fingers of a man’s two hands. Most men, even men who wore two guns all the time, kept the left hand weapon in reserve, to have another six shots ready instantly in case of urgent need.

  Cordby pivoted around fast, his left hand stabbing to his side, dipping, closing on the butt of his gun, and bringing it forth even as he made his turn. Yet before he faced Mark fully, Cordby knew he had called the play wrong.

  The significance of the hidden left hand did not escape Mark, for he knew men who handled their guns with ambidextrous skill. So he stood ready for just such a move as Cordby now made.

  His right hand dipped, fingers closing about the ivory butt of the Colt in his right side holster, thumb curling around and drawing back the hammer even as he lifted the gun from leather. In slightly over half a second, even as Cordby faced him, and before the man’s gun could line, Mark’s gun came clear and roared.

  For an instant the short killer’s face showed amazement, horror almost, as he realized his favorite play had failed him at last. Then Mark’s Army Colt roared, the recoil kicked the barrel up and a .44 bullet ripped into Cordby’s head, threw him backwards to crash to the sawdust covered floor, dead.

  There had been no time to shoot in any other way. Cordby’s intention had been to kill Mark and the big Texan acted the only way he dare, by killing Cordby first.

  Across the room Cordby’s two pards came to their feet. Wardle thrust his hand under his coat to where a short barreled Colt hung in a shoulder clip. A shot spat out, a lighter crack than the roar of an Army Colt. It sounded from the stairs and splinters erupted from the table between Wardle and Schanz. Looking towards the shooter, Wardle froze, letting his hand stay under the coat but not trying to draw his gun. He saw who had cut in and knew Madam Bulldog’s bullet hit the table because that was where she intended it to go.

  Mark turned fast, his gun slanting towards the stairs for an instant, then swung back towards the two men as the crowd scattered from them. He watched Wardle’s hand come clear of the coat, then turned his eyes once more to the two women on the stairs. One was the blonde who he had seen going up and thought had been headed for safety, only Mark knew he had miscalled her intentions, for she went to fetch help. The other woman clearly must be Madam Bulldog. Looking at her, Mark studied for an instant the Colt Cloverleaf she held. Then he nodded, this surely was Madam Bulldog and she looked like she might live up to her reputation.

  However, there would be time to get to know her better when a small matter had been attended to. He nodded towards the woman as she stood watching him, her gun still in her hand.

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said.

  The big Colt spun on his finger and dropped back into the holster. He started across the room with long, purposeful strides. The two men watched his coming and moved around to try and keep the table between themselves and the advancing Texan.

  Madam Bulldog gave Viola her Cloverleaf and told the blonde to take it to her room. She watched Mark crossing the room, then waved two of the waiters, pointing to Cordby’s body. The men knew what they must do and went forward, the town undertaker with them. Before they removed the dead man they stopped to see how Mark handled the other two.

  Neither Wardle nor Schanz were brave men. Given a drunk in a side-alley they could handle him with ease. Faced with a big, sober and very angry man their courage oozed out of them. Nor did either have the slightest intention of trying to draw the guns they carried. They had seen Cordby die before the fast drawn Army Colt and knew Mark could handle them both in the matter of gun-play.

  Shoving the table aside, Mark reached out a big right hand. He gripped the front of Wardle’s jacket and shirt, bunching them up as he dragged the man towards him. A look of relief came to Schanz’s face, but did not stay there for long, for Mark wiped it off with a backhand slap which spun the man around, sent him staggering into the wall. In a continuance of the same move Mark brought his arm around and l
anded a bare-hand slap across Wardle’s face, snapping his head back and spinning him the other way.

  Coldly Mark looked at the two men. “You pair tried to set me up for a kill,” he said quietly, yet grimly.

  “You—you got us wrong!” Wardle croaked, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “We didn’t know what Cordby aimed to do.”

  Mark’s grin looked colder than ice as he replied, “You’re a liar.”

  The correct answer to such a statement should have been a fast drawn Colt, for the word “liar” was regarded as one of the supreme insults in the west. Yet the man at whom Mark directed it made no reply. He made his feet and stood staring at the big Texan. Schanz also stood up, his eyes showed hate, but they showed fear too.

  “Tune Counter’s staying in town,” Mark went on. “And if Cousins wants him he’ll have to go through me first. But you pair won’t be here to see it. If you’re in town tomorrow at dawn I’ll shoot you on sight.”

  “You—!” began Schanz, meaning to stand on his Constitutional rights.

  He saw the look on Mark’s face and discarded his rights. Turning on his heel he made a rapid dive for the batwing doors of the saloon, beating Wardle to them by a scant half second.

  For a moment Mark stood watching the doors, he heard the footsteps fading away along the sidewalk and knew the two men would not be back. Their kind would never face a determined man and they would not dare go against him, not face to face. From behind they might be a danger, but he doubted if they would be in Tennyson when he made his morning rounds.

  “I’ve seen to having Cordby removed.”

  Mark turned at the words and found Madam Bulldog standing nearby. He looked her over with some interest and knew that here stood a woman who might even be able to outdo Calamity Jane in the matters at which they both claimed preeminence.

  He threw a glance towards the bar where the local undertaker and the waiters, seeing there would be no further developments, lifted the body and carried it towards the rear door.

  “Thanks, ma’am,” he replied.