The Floating Outfit 47 Read online

  In spite of having been surprised by the appearance of the deputies from the Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office on the banks of the Rio Grande, Nevada was satisfied he had convinced them he was engaged upon an unorthodox, but completely legal, transportation of cheap ‘tourist junk’. Having delivered the consignment to its destination and left Purser behind, he and Santiago had made their way by a circuitous route to the ranch they were once again approaching. Arriving there and placing the horses in a corral, they had loaded the pack saddles into a truck. While Santiago took it back to Mexico on the main road, Nevada had returned with his mare and the mules by the route he had used to reach Texas.

  While the smuggler had known his indebtedness would not be considered clear until all the horses were delivered, he had been far from pleased to learn how quickly his employers expected him to complete the assignment. His plea to leave the next delivery for longer than the week he was given had been refused and, on being told he must do as he was told, he had yielded to the inevitable. Claiming the first consignment had proved so lucrative that another was to be dispatched, he had once again asked for and received the support of the Society in obtaining the necessary documentation. Although wishing they had not insisted upon informing the United States’ Customs and Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office of the event, he was in fact pleased by the arrangement of the former to send men to examine the consignment before it left Mexico. In addition to this, he was relieved to be told the Society did not consider it necessary to send along a representative.

  Nevertheless, despite everything having gone smoothly, the smuggler was ill at ease!

  ‘There you are, señor,’ Alonzo Nevada said, with the “simple Mexican peon” accent he generally employed when talking to gringos, closing the gate after the last of the animals had gone by him. ‘All safe and sound in your corral. It is a good night’s work, I think.’

  ‘Good enough,’ replied the burly American who was in charge of the ranch.

  ‘Then I will take my money and go,’ the smuggler declared, having no liking for the man. ‘My Cousin Tomas can fetch the saddles like last time.’

  ‘I’ll pay you off right away,’ the American promised, reaching inside his jacket with his right hand. However, it was not money he brought out. Starting to turn the revolver he produced into line, he went on, ‘And for k—!’

  The words came to an end as there was a brilliant flash of light from alongside a clump of bushes about thirty feet away!

  ‘Peace officers here!’ a voice bellowed an instant later and a whistle shrilled loudly from the same place.

  An explosive profanity burst out of the white man’s mouth, being echoed by one in Spanish from Santiago. Turning their gaze in the direction from which the interruption had originated, they saw two figures in the uniforms of deputies from the Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office standing alongside the bushes. The shorter was holding a U.S.M.I carbine, but the other had nothing more lethal than a camera with a flashgun attached in his left hand and a whistle in the right. What was more, although at a considerable distance away, they heard the sound of vehicles being started and knew more peace officers would soon be converging upon the ranch.

  ‘Get the pig bastards!’ the white man yelled, but kept his own weapon directed at Nevada.

  Taking in the situation, Deputy Sheriff Tom Cord reacted with speed and precision. Snapping the butt of the carbine to his shoulder, he lined the sights and squeezed the trigger before the revolver could be fired at the smuggler. Taken in the shoulder by the bullet, the burly man spun around with the weapon flying from his grasp and began to bellow, in a pain filled voice, that he surrendered. However, despite Nevada having been saved from the American, the danger to him was not at an end. What was more, the lives of Cord and his companion were at risk. Two more white men had been helping with the unsaddling of the horses and were running to where they had left a pump action shotgun and a rifle leaning against the side of the corral.

  Having no need of the advice, Santiago was already reaching for the revolver which the smuggler had prevented him from drawing on the previous occasion when they had been challenged by the same pair of peace officers. He had no doubt that Nevada, who—despite his habit of never carrying a gun when working—was known to be very dangerous if crossed, would take steps to repay him for his part in the treachery if allowed to survive. Being determined to ensure this did not happen, he was relying upon the two gringos to keep the peace officers occupied while he looked after himself. What was more, if the gringos presence was not suspected by the deputies, they might provide a means for him to escape before the backup units, which the blast on the whistle had summoned, could arrive on the scene.

  ‘Watch those two by the corral!’ Nevada yelled as Santiago was drawing his conclusions, being thankful for the intervention even though he knew it was almost certain to end with a prison term for him.

  Grateful as Cord and Deputy Sheriff Brad Counter were for the warning, it was not required. Having taken up their positions shortly after nightfall, they had been watching everything that happened. However, while knowing the two men were nearby and had access to potent weapons, they realized the smuggler was still in danger and, as he was in all probability adhering to his policy of being unarmed when running contraband, he could do nothing to defend himself. Nor did either believe he would not need their assistance. Checking with the commanding officer of the Mexican Guardia Rurales operating across the Rio Grande in the area opposite Rockabye County, they had learned Santiago was not related to the smuggler and, even though no convictions had been achieved against him, he had a reputation for being a ruthless killer. Concluding he wished to protect himself against reprisals for his part in the betrayal, they decided he meant to kill Nevada and leave the two Americans to look after themselves.

  As Captain Eugenio Machados had warned when Cord spoke with him on the telephone, Santiago was fast with a gun!

  Fortunately for Nevada, so was Brad Counter!

  What was more, the blond giant was carrying his weapon in a rig which allowed far greater speed than the shoulder holster from which the Mexican was starting to extract the revolver!

  ‘Them, Tom!’ Brad snapped, allowing the camera and whistle to drop from his hands, the former being on a strap around his neck and the latter still attached to its chain.

  Saying just two words and relying upon his partner to realize what they meant, the blond giant set his weight on feet spread approximately to the width of his broad shoulders and bent his legs a little. Inclining his torso slightly to the rear, he flexed his right hand and sent it flashing towards his hip. As his thumb and the other three fingers enfolded the butt of the Colt Government Model of 1911

  automatic pistol, which had ‘combat grips’ shaped to ensure he took hold in the same manner every time he started a draw, his forefinger hooked beneath the long tang of the ‘fly-off’ safety strap. Being held under tension, on the press-stud being opened, the protective device flew away from the hammer over which it had been looped. Sweeping the gun from the tiny holster, although his thumb rested upon the enlarged manual safety catch, he refrained from pushing it down and kept his forefinger outside the trigger guard until the barrel was clear of leather and pointing away from him.

  Such was the skill Brad had acquired that, in around a quarter of a second after his hand’s first movement, the pistol was speed-rocked from the combat bikini rig and bellowed out. Although the distance separating him from his objective was somewhat longer than considered suitable for such a method, time did not allow him to attain a more effective position. Instead, he squeezed the trigger while aiming by instinctive alignment and at waist level. Luck, combined with the ability which made him a ‘sixteen dollar shooter’, caused the ejected lead to fly where it was intended. Struck in the center of the chest with a .45 caliber bullet shaped like a truncated cone and powered by a hand loaded cartridge which gave it an even greater potential than the issue variety, Santiago reeled backwards. Only just c
lear of his jacket, the revolver dropped from his hand and he followed it down.

  Justifying his partner’s confidence, Cord had known what was meant by the two words. Swinging the carbine around, he selected the man he considered to be the more dangerous of the pair. Nor was he a moment too soon. Even more so than in Brad’s case, sheer chance rather than a deliberate aim caused the bullet he dispatched to strike the barrel of the shotgun which was already being pointed towards them. Nevertheless, the hit proved just as effective as if it had reached its intended mark. Deflected upwards, but only just enough, the barrel sent its charge of buckshot hissing close over the deputies’ heads. Having the weapon knocked from his hands, the impact numbing and rendering them inoperative, the man joined his boss in shouting he was through.

  Nor did the last of the Americans fare any better. Startled by the less than satisfactory way in which the situation was developing, from his point of view, he hesitated instead of deciding immediately what action was best suited to his needs. The matter was taken from his hands in no uncertain fashion. As soon as he had fired at Santiago, using the recoil kick of the big automatic to help, Brad raised it with his left hand joining the right on the butt. Holding it at arms’ length and shoulder height, in the combat shooting posture perfected by Sheriff Jack Weaver of Lancaster, California, he aligned the improved sights fitted to the top of the barrel. Time did not allow him to take as careful aim as he would have preferred. Nevertheless, how effective the Weaver stance could be in expert hands was proved by the bullet Brad turned loose just grazing the ear of the man at whom it was aimed. Startled by the eerie ‘splat’ sound from the closely passing lead and noticing the carbine was also being turned his way, he hurriedly threw the rifle aside and thrust both hands into the air.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t be, señores,’ Alonzo Nevada remarked as the first of the backup vehicles came into view and approached rapidly with its siren wailing. On this occasion, his English was that of an educated man well versed in its use. ‘But I’m very pleased to see you.’

  ‘You can thank my amigo for us being here,’ Deputy Sheriff Tom Cord answered without taking his attention from the other men.

  ‘Hell, it was dumb luck on my part,’ Deputy Sheriff Brad Counter asserted, also keeping the captives under observation. ‘And a coincidence you’d never believe if you read it in a book. You remember that ugly yellowish and white blotched crowbait Purser was riding?’

  ‘It was hard to forget,’ the smuggler replied. ‘I’ve never before seen a horse that color.’

  ‘Or me, although I’m grateful I saw that one,’ the blond giant declared. ‘Well, we were out at the Bergen Pet-Meats Packing Plant handling a squeal and I saw its hide being salted down. I found out where it had come from and, when the Customs let us know you were fetching over another shipment of those “recent antiques”, we reckoned it would be worthwhile staking this place out.’

  ‘And it was, for my sake,’ Nevada declared. ‘I didn’t think they’d decided my services were no longer necessary, so I’m not sorry you were here to save me. What a pity, though. It was such a good game.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Cord drawled. ‘Hell, except for Brad coming up with the answer, the last thing we’d have suspected you of smuggling in was horses.’

  Part Three – Persona Non Grata

  Featuring

  Sergeant Ranse Smith, Company ‘Z’. Texas Rangers

  ‘Your stoolie was right, Ben,’ Lieutenant Victorio Bianco said, looking through the window of the Packard Super Eight sedan which had been selected by the man behind the steering wheel as being sufficiently in keeping with the surroundings to pass unnoticed amongst the other vehicles in the parking lot of the North Dallas Golf and Country Club. ‘It is Big Frankie Wright from out of Philly. I’m sorry we couldn’t send you a mug-sheet with photographs and fingerprints, but we’ve never been able to get him on anything to let us set one up.’

  There was nothing about the outer appearance of the vehicle or its two occupants to suggest they were peace officers engaged upon a surveillance intended to allow the speaker to identify the man indicated by the driver.

  About five foot nine and slim, Bianco had glossy black hair slicked straight back above handsome olive-skinned features and he wore dapper attire in the latest Eastern fashion. Despite looking like a gigolo from a high class dance hall, he was a Lieutenant of the Philadelphia Police Department with a reputation for tough and incorruptible competence.

  About three inches taller, with the lean build of one still engaged in strenuous activities, Major Benson Tragg might have been a prosperous rancher in town on business. In fact, although he owned a ranch and spent what time he could there, he was a Major of the Texas Rangers. His lightweight brown suit was Western in cut and the calf-high brown riding boots, which he wore inside the legs of his trousers, had the high heels and sharp toes still favored by cowhands. However, excellent though the fit otherwise was, his tailor had not been entirely successful when making the jacket in concealing the bulge of a short barreled and heavy caliber Colt revolver holstered butt forward on the left side of his waist belt.

  ‘It happens,’ Tragg drawled philosophically, his accent that of a native born Texan. Knowing the information had come indirectly from Hogan Turtle, the current head of a family whose connections with law breaking in Texas went back to the days before independence was won from Mexican domination, 8 he contrived to refrain from showing the amusement he felt over hearing its source described as a “stoolie”. ‘Only I think “Shorty” would be closer to it if he didn’t have those built up heels and soles on his shoes. How come the “Big Frankie”?’

  ‘You know the blown up ego all his kind have,’ Bianco replied, also eyeing the man under discussion in a less than flattering fashion. ‘He likes to think nobody notices how short he is and folks who know him go along with it if they want to keep a safe skin. We wondered where he and some of his boys had gone when they disappeared after Chief Ballinger started the big clean-up in Philly. Then you sent word they’d all moved down here to Big D.’

  ‘I figured Sam would like to know,’ Tragg admitted, having been in contact by telephone with Chief of Police Samuel Ballinger—a friend of long standing—in Philadelphia as soon as he received the news from Turtle.

  ‘The D.P.D.’ve located the Talker, Dirty Kev Bradshaw and some of the others, but they’ve been so well behaved since they hit town there’s nothing to pull them in for. What’s more, so far as the local badges know, except for the Talker meeting up with him a couple of times and Bradshaw dogging him around at a distance ‘most everywhere he goes, the rest haven’t been near him and he’s living all clean and respectable among the rich folks.’

  ‘He always did,’ Bianco asserted grimly. ‘Even though we know how close he came to running Philly the way the mobs have got Chicago sown up, we haven’t been able to nail him for so much as a parking ticket. No matter what his game is and I’m certain he has one, it’ll be the same down here.’

  ‘That’s why we’re taking a hand,’ Tragg stated, being in command of the elite—albeit unknown outside a very small circle of high ranking officials in the State Legislature—Company “Z” of the Texas Rangers. ‘We’re going to find some way we can say, “Mr. Philo Anstruther, we know that’s just a summer name and you’re Big Frankie Wright from Philadelphia, so you and your boys’re persona non grata hereabouts, which means we’ve got enough home grown owlhoots and you’d best get the hell out of Texas.” ’

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to do more than just that.’

  ‘We’ll surely try. Don’t you have anything at all on Wright?’

  ‘Not a thing, like I said,’ the Lieutenant confessed. ‘He’s always covered his tracks too well. But we’ve got plenty on some of the other members of his mob. Tongues started wagging when word got out that Big Frankie and his top boys had left town. That’s why I’m here, to put the arm on them and have them extradited back to Philly for trial. Even if we can’t ge
t their boss, we’ll have them.’

  ‘Why sure,’ Tragg said. ‘But, happen you go along with us, we might be able to do a mite more than that.’

  ‘I’d be all for it!’ Bianco enthused, hoping against hope that the “mite more” would include some way of arresting and convicting Wright. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Stirring things up a mite for his boys,’ Tragg replied. ‘Get them wondering what the hell’s going on. I’ve told Sam something of what we have in mind and he agrees there’s no rush for you to start putting the arm on them, so you can relax and take yourself a vacation.’

  ‘I won’t argue about that,’ the Lieutenant said with a grin. ‘What I’ve seen so far, Dallas looks like it could be an interesting place.’

  ‘It could be,’ the Major conceded. ‘Except you’ll be staying on a friend’s ranch out of town and won’t be coming in until you’re needed.’

  ‘I should’ve known the Chief wouldn’t be handing out vacations that easy,’ Bianco sighed. ‘When do you start with whatever we’ve got in mind?’

  ‘It’s started already,’ the Major declared.

  ‘You look annoyed, Talker,’ Francis Wright remarked in his cultured Chicago accent, having glanced around to make sure there was nobody else in the locker room of the North Dallas Golf and Country Club to hear what he was saying.

  Although they were the two leading members of the same gang, there was a great contrast in the appearances of the speaker and the man to whom the words were directed.