The Floating Outfit 17 Read online

  Throwing himself forward, the lieutenant landed stomach down on the ground. Resting his elbows, he too adopted a double handed hold to allow improved accuracy. As had been the case when stalking the buffalo, he had had sufficient on his mind to distract it from the throbbing ache emitted by his right shoulder. The jolt caused by his landing brought the pain to the fore again. Trying to control it, he touched off a shot. Instantly, his instinct for such matters warned he would not make the required hit. Nor, as he saw through the swirl of white gaseous ‘smoke’ which followed the bullet from the muzzle, had he done so.

  Able to see and understand the dilemma of his companion, Mort cocked the Colt as it rose on the recoil. Bringing down the barrel, he swiveled at the waist and fired with both hands still on the butt. While he made a hit, despite the speed with which he acted, it produced a less lethal effect than his previous effort. Not that he had any cause to regret his failure to take a longer and more careful aim.

  Raked across the bent left forearm by the bullet, a yelp of pain burst from the brave. The carbine flew from his grasp an instant before he was ready to fire at Thatcher. Seeing he alone of his war party was on his feet, he concluded there was nothing further he could do against the white-eye ride-plenties 18 who had proved as competent warriors as he had always heard was the case with their kind. With that thought in mind, he clasped the grazed limb with his right hand and fled across the clearing in the direction already taken by ‘Dead Face’, as his people and other Indians named Dennis ‘Waxie’ Corovan.

  Satisfied the young brave posed no further threat to Geraldine and themselves, Mort and Thatcher were content to let him go. However, glancing around the clearing, the guide realized there was one disadvantage to showing such clemency. An instant later, the lieutenant—having conducted a similar scrutiny—referred to the reason for his misgivings.

  ‘Where’s Corovan?’ Thatcher asked, starting to rise.

  ‘Took a greaser standoff,’ Mort replied, employing the term for running away used by Texas’ cowhands. ‘And if I send Pete after him, that fool ole dog’s like to pull down the buck instead.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether he gets away,’ the lieutenant declared, walking to where his sister was sitting up. ‘We can both identify him and I’ll see to it that a warrant is issued for his arrest. This time, we can prove he’s been up to something illegal. Are you all right, Gerrie?’

  ‘Y—Yes!’ the girl answered, looking about her and clearly struggling to retain control of her emotions. ‘You came back just in time!’

  ‘Come away, you fool critter!’ the guide commanded, seeing the second brave tackled by Pete had either been stunned by the fall or had fainted and was offering no resistance. ‘He’s all through.’

  Even as Mort was speaking, there came the sound of rapidly approaching hooves from amongst the bushes. Swinging around and seeing that the commotion was caused by swiftly riding Indians, the lieutenant gave a startled growl and started to raise his Colt-.filled left hand.

  ‘Don’t need that, Jimmie!’ Mort claimed, his voice for once sounding relieved rather than unemotional. ‘They’re Kweharehnuh!’

  Dashing into the clearing at a gallop, half a dozen Indians brought their fast moving ponies to a halt in a rough half circle around the girl and two men with the panache of extremely competent riders. Although not all were armed in such a fashion, the rifles and carbines which some carried were of a later and better quality than the ‘trade guns’ of the young Wacos. What was more, although the girl was in no condition to appreciate the point at that moment, their appearance was equally superior. None of them wore clothing discarded by white men. Indicative of a people who spent their lives on the open plains where such animals were still plentiful, the majority of their leatherwork—including a square of rawhide suspended on the shoulders which could be held over the head as protection against the sun, giving their band an alternative name, Kwahihekehnuh, ‘Sunshades On Their Backs’—was made from the skins of pronghorns.

  ‘Proud-Son-Of-Two-People!’ greeted the foremost rider, his eagle feather headdress—called a ‘war bonnet’ by some people—and the lance he carried indicating he was a warrior of consequence. In addition to employing the man-name granted by the Kweharehnuh to Mort, there was a warm smile on his badly scarred yet handsome and noble features as he continue, ‘Healing Hands said you were come to hunt our land, brother, so we rode to join you.’

  ‘My heart is always glad to see you, Cicatriz Honorable the guide answered, speaking the Antelope dialect of the Nemenuh as fluently as the warrior who had addressed him and showing no surprise at being informed that the respected

  senior medicine man of the band had possessed such information about him. He was aware that such people had powers which were beyond the comprehension of those outside their own circle. Glancing at the sprawled figures of the Waco braves, he went on grimly, ‘Dead Face brought these tuivitsi to raid on our land, but ran away and left them when they fought. Can you send your brothers after him?’

  ‘I could,’ the lance carrier replied. ‘But it is said a Wawai never rides faster and better than when he is being chased and our horses have been ridden hard.’

  ‘Then let the Namae’enuh go, brother,’ Mort decided, using another and less polite title for the Comanche band which supplied half of Corovan’s birthright. 19 ‘His life is not worth that of a warrior’s horse and I can settle accounts with him later.’ While speaking, he had turned his gaze to the rest of the men with Noble Scar and noticed the youngest of them was carrying, in addition to a bow and arrows, the Sharps New Model of 1866 rifle belonging to Thatcher. Although he knew this was not the case, he continued, ‘My thanks for bringing that for me, brave-heart!’

  ‘I found it and that makes it mine!’ the youngster asserted truculently and, although the term was unknown amongst his people, his demeanor implied an addition of, ‘So there!’, as he eyed such an item as he had hoped—but never expected—to come by. Then he glared defiantly at the speaker.

  ‘It belongs to my friend here,’ the guide stated with an equal air of irrevocability, twirling into its holster the revolver he was holding and gesturing to Thatcher who had already done so. ‘He is my guest, tuivitsi, and left it behind deliberately when we came to rescue his sister, so you can hand it over now and I thank you for fetching it to him.’

  While delivering the second part of his speech, Mort signaled for the dog to remain where it was, and he started to walk towards the brave he was addressing. Despite his leisurely seeming gait, his bearing conveyed an aura of menace and determination. Wise in such matters, he judged the youngster to be no more experienced that the Wacos had been, although he was equally desirous of making it appear otherwise. As was generally the case with such a person, no matter what his race, any show of hesitancy in enforcing the request would be construed as a sign of weakness and inferior status.

  There was, however, another reason for Mort adopting such a stand on the issue. The streak of pride which would not allow him to back off in the face of provocation at Holbrock, when to have done so could have been considered diplomatic where his relationship with the citizens was concerned, was also causing him to face up to what he knew to be a challenge now. No tehnap, which he could claim to be amongst members of both sides of his birthright, would ever accept such behavior from a tuivitsi and he knew he would lose face in the eyes of the other braves should he do so. What was more, it would reflect adversely upon his maternal grandfather. He had no intention of permitting such a thing to happen, nor would he be expected to.

  Watching the tall figure stalking towards him, the young brave began to experience a twinge of apprehension. He had heard that Proud-Son-Of-Two People was a name-warrior and here he was presented with evidence to support the claim. It was obvious that some of the Wacos had fallen to the grandson of Wolf Runner and the youngster was all too aware that he still had to count coup upon an enemy himself. However, while he wished to retain so valuable and desirable a
piece of property, he realized this would only be possible if he defied the older and vastly more experienced warrior. Every instinct he possessed warned this would prove dangerous and painful. He also knew the other members of his party would have no sympathy for him regardless of what happened. On the other hand, they would understand and think no worse of him if he yielded before a brave-heart of such known superior standing.

  ‘Here!’ the youngster said, trying to look more pleasant than he was feeling. ‘My father has ridden many war trails with Wolf Runner, so I give you this for your friend, Proud-Son-Of-Two-People.’

  ‘My thanks, warrior,’ Mort answered, accepting the rifle and wanting to do all he could to minimize the humiliation he knew the other was experiencing. ‘Tell your father from me that he has trained his son well.’

  At that moment, there was an interruption which was welcomed by the youngster.

  Groaning, the brave who had been wounded by Geraldine and suffered the attack from the big dog sat up. Gazing about him in a frightened fashion, he felt at each of his injuries in turn. Taking their attention from Mort and the tuivitsi, the girl and all the men looked his way.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ Cicatriz Honorable demanded, jumping from his horse and striding to confront the alarmed Waco.

  ‘Dead Face brought us to ask for brave-hearts to share a war trail with us,’ the injured brave replied, trying to prevent his feelings from being observed by the Kweharehnuh. ‘On our way to find your village, we came upon tracks of horses with iron feet and followed. When we found the woman with them, we thought to take her and them.’

  ‘You saw that?’ Noble Scar barked, pointing with his Winchester Model of 1866 carbine to where the medicine pouch was still lying across the seat of Mort’s saddle.

  ‘Y-Yes!’ the Waco admitted worriedly.

  ‘You know what it is?’ the Kweharehnuh leader challenged.

  ‘Yes,’ the wounded brave confessed. ‘But Dead Face told us it must have been taken from its dead owner by the white-eyes and meant nothing.’

  ‘Dead Face lied!’ Noble Scar stated. ‘Are any of you known?’

  ‘Brave Rider is son of Chief Kills Plenty Pawnee,’ the Waco replied, aware of what was meant and indicating with his blood covered right hand the brave who had carried the war lance.

  ‘The chief is known to me,’ Cicatriz Honorable declared. ‘We will care for your injuries, then you will go back to tell him what has happened. Say Proud-Son-Of-Two People, grandson of Chief Wolf Runner was not at fault and the blame for these deaths is that of Dead Face.’

  That I will do!’ the Waco promised, relieved to discover he was to be let off so lightly after what he had been a party to.

  ‘See you do!’ Noble Scar commanded and, having given an order for the treatment of the injuries, he turned to Mort. ‘Do you come to our village, brother?’

  ‘It has been long since last I greeted my tawk,’ the guide replied, using the Comanche word meaning “grandfather” or “grandson” depending upon who was saying it. ‘Besides, my friend has need of help from Healing Hands.’

  ~*~

  ‘Are you getting the pictures you want, ma’am?’ Mort Lewis inquired, going to where Geraldine Thatcher was sitting upon the stump of a tree and holding the open drawing case in her hands.

  After the injuries of the wounded Waco had been treated, and the horses belonging to his dead companions had been collected, he was given their weapons and allowed to leave. Despite the danger to which she had been subjected by him, the girl had expressed concern over this being permitted. On having her comments translated by Mort, Noble Scar had stated he had brought the misfortunes upon himself and, if he wished to be considered a brave-heart, must accept the suffering while returning to his people.

  At the request of the guide, while a couple of the Kweharehnuh were ascertaining that Waxie Corovan was not lurking anywhere in the vicinity, the others had helped him skin and remove the head from the buffalo bull. With these tasks completed, he and his two companions were escorted to the chuck wagon by the braves. Giving his cook and the striker the instructions he had outlined to Lieutenant Thatcher, he had found them subjected to revision. As she had on other occasions, the girl had asked to accompany her brother and Mort. Granted permission, even though she was unaware that the pace had been slowed down for her benefit, she had had the hardest ride of her life before arriving at their destination.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, Geraldine and her brother had received a cordial welcome from Chief Wolf Runner as friends of his grandson. They had had an unoccupied buffalo hide tipi placed at their disposal and, tired by the journey, both had slept as soundly as if in their own beds at home. Waking late in the morning, the girl had discovered she was alone. On looking out of the flaps which served as a door, she had found Mort and his grandfather waiting by a fire not far away. Told that her brother had been taken to allow the medicine man to attend to his badly bruised right shoulder, she was asked how she would like to spend her time.

  The treatment of the lieutenant’s injury had required longer than Mort anticipated. However, he had stated there was still sufficient time for the Thatchers to catch the stagecoach which would return them to Fort Bracken. Accepting his judgment, Geraldine had set about making the most of her stay. Not only had it allowed her to make sketches of various activities around the village, but she was given an insight to the way in which many Indians had lived prior to being placed upon reservations.

  Having spent a second night in the village, being guests at a dance organized for her benefit by Wolf Runner and the ‘old man’ chiefs, the girl had decided how she might repay the kindness and consideration shown to herself and her brother. She had, in fact, just completed the gift for her host when his grandson came up and spoke to her.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Geraldine replied, face flushed with pleasure, holding forward the open case. ‘Do you think Wolf Runner will like this reminder of our visit?’

  ‘By cracky, won’t he though?’ Mort declared, looking at a very lifelike drawing depicting himself, his grandfather and Thatcher standing outside a tipi. ‘You’ve got us all down there dear’s one of them tintype pictures I’ve seen, even to Grandpappy Wolf Runner’s best clothes and the patterning of the brass studs on his “old yellowboy” rifle. 20 This’s choicely good, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m pleased you like it,’ the girl said, delighted by the genuine praise. ‘Let me sign it and put on the date, then we’ll give it to your grandfather. ’

  ‘He’ll certain sure treasure it, ma’am,’ the guide stated, then nodded to where Thatcher was approaching accompanied by an elderly Kweharehnuh who limped badly. ‘Here comes Jimmie and Healing Hands. How’s the shoulder, amigo?’

  ‘Working as good as ever,’ the lieutenant answered, swinging his right arm with complete ease and freedom of movement. ‘Will you thank Healing Hands for me, please?’

  ‘It was a small thing,’ asserted the stocky, gray-haired and gentle faced medicine man. ‘But you, Proud-Son-Of-Two-People, take care. One you call friend is enemy.’

  ‘Who would that be, wise old one?’ Mort asked.

  ‘He is not of the Nemenuh,’ Healing Hands replied. ‘So be on your guard when you go back amongst your father’s people.’

  ‘I will remember your words,’ the guide promised, having too much respect for the powers possessed by a medicine man of the quality of his informant to discount what he had been told, even though he could not imagine what had provoked the warning.

  Thinking over Healing Hands’ words, Mort was unable to decide to whom they might apply. This was because—as he was to discover later—although they were acquaintances, he had never considered the person to whom the medicine man was referring as being a friend.

  Seven

  You’ll Have to Kill Him

  ‘Good evening, Mr. Corovan, if that’s what you’re still calling yourself,’ David Masefield Stewart greeted, displaying no suggestion of cordiality and welcome, as he ran
a far from amiable gaze over the man brought into the room he referred to as his study by his negro butler. ‘Mr. Scanlan and I were wondering why you’ve been showing so much interest in my affairs since you hit Holbrock.’

  Everything about the owner of what was now the biggest ranch in Holbrock County indicated that, even if not born to it, he enjoyed luxury and was willing to go to considerable expense to ensure that he lived in suitable surroundings. Although his hired hands had to be satisfied with far less elegant and comfortable quarters, even though they were not so bad as rumor claimed were supplied by ‘cattle king’ John Chisum, 21 the ranch house itself was built after the style popular amongst the wealthy hacienderos in Mexico. He was served by a domestic staff which would not have been out of place at a major mansion in Austin. Nor would its furnishings and fittings have disgraced such a setting in the capital city of Texas. Leather-bound volumes lined the walls of the ‘study’, interspersed by costly paintings. In its center, the main item of furniture was a massive and well polished desk.

  About five feet nine inches in height, Stewart was a thickset man in his late forties. While bulky and obviously fond of good living, he still gave the impression of having solid flesh rather than flabby fat. Closely cropped, his black hair was turning gray at the temples and becoming thin on top. Clean shaven, despite the dark blue tinge to his jaws suggesting otherwise, his face was tanned and, at that moment, there were lines of uncompromising hardness under its apparent benevolence. He was wearing a dark red velvet smoking jacket over an open necked white silk shirt. However, although the time was just after ten o’clock at night, his black trousers were tucked into the Hessian legs of brown riding boots. A heavy plaited leather quirt lay on the desk close to his right hand, but he gave no sign of being armed in any way. In fact, he always took great care to establish that he never carried a gun.