The Floating Outfit 9 Read online

  ‘Wes!’ he yelled instead.

  Recognition had come to Wes at the same instant, causing him to hold his fire.

  ‘Dusty!’ he gasped.

  Letting his Colt slip back into leather, Wes urged the bay forward to where his cousin sat waiting. Never had any sight been so welcome to Wes’ eyes than coming face to face with Dusty Fog.

  Despite his insignificant appearance, the small man on the paint stallion already bore a name famous throughout Texas. Back in Arkansas during the Civil War, Dusty Fog came into prominence as a fighting cavalry leader equal to the South’s other two military raiders, Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby. Being a Texan born and raised, Dusty’s fame exceeded the other two in the Lone Star State. Many tales had been told of his exploits as captain commanding the Texas Light Cavalry’s hard-hitting, hard-fighting Company ‘C’: how he went behind the Yankee lines to give evidence at the court martial of an officer charged with cowardice and while there killed a Yankee general in a duel ii ; how he prevented Texas from being engulfed in a bloody Indian war two liberal-intellectual Union bigots tried to start iii ; that he captured a Union Army paymaster’s coach and used the money to buy arms for the South iv ; and how he went with the Rebel Spy to New Orleans, helping her to smash a forging ring who planned to flood the Confederate States with counterfeit money. v

  Nor did the end of the War bring pause to Dusty’s fame. Returning to the Rio Hondo country, he buckled to on the task of rebuilding the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan’s depleted fortunes. Men spoke of him as the segundo of the biggest ranch in Texas, claimed him to be a cowhand second to none, mentioned in awe his uncanny ability at defending himself without weapons. Mostly they told of his speed on the draw and deadly accuracy, claiming more and more that he was the fastest gun in Texas.

  That then was the man whom Wes Hardin greeted—a man not yet in his twenty-first year.

  ‘Howdy, Cousin Dusty,’ Wes greeted.

  While shaking hands, Dusty studied his cousin. They had not met since just after the War, although news of Wes’ troubles had reached the Rio Hondo country. Looking at Wes, Dusty saw changes in the other that he did not like but could understand. Being constantly hunted had driven out all the friendly cheerfulness Dusty could remember, replacing it with a tight-lipped, watchful tension he knew all too well. There sat a loaded and cocked revolver, ready to explode into deadly action.

  ‘Howdy, Wes,’ Dusty replied gently. ‘I don’t reckon you’ve met Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid. Mark, Lon, this here’s my cousin, Wes Hardin.’

  The first name meant little to Wes. At that time Mark Counter had not yet come into prominence as Dusty’s right bower and a fighting man in his own right. Born the third son of a rich Big Bend rancher, he had chosen to roam instead of remaining at his home. During the War, as a lieutenant with Bushrod Sheldon’s cavalry, he gained a name as the Beau Brummell of the Confederate Army. Soon his sartorial taste would dictate what the well-dressed Texas cowhand wore, just as his choice of uniform had been much copied by the young bloods of the South.

  Yet there was more than a mere dandy-dresser about Mark. Already he had few peers as a cowhand. Tremendously strong, his skill in a roughhouse brawl would be remembered wherever it was seen. While very fast with a gun, he would never receive full credit for his capability in that line, due to riding in the shadow of the Rio Hondo gun-wizard. Later, the few who knew claimed him to be a very close second to Dusty in that line.

  While Wes did not at that time know Mark, he had heard of the Ysabel Kid. Son of a wild Kentucky-Irishman and a beautiful Comanche-French Creole girl, the Kid had been raised as a fitting grandson to Chief Long Walker, war leader of the Pehnane band of that tribe. vi To prepare him for his future with the Wasps, Quick-Stingers, Raiders—as the word Pehnane could be interpreted—he learned to ride any horse ever foaled; to read sign and locate hidden enemies where lesser men might see nothing; how he could move in silence through even the thickest cover in daylight or night; where and how to find food on the Texas range land. Add to that a fair skill with his old Dragoon Colt, ability said to match that of James Bowie in the use of a knife, the sighting eye and rifle-wisdom of a Kentucky hill-man, and it could be seen that the Ysabel Kid made a fighting force to be reckoned with. Down on the Rio Grande he grew to fame as a border smuggler well versed in the hidden ways of the river. The border Mexicans called him el Cabrito, holding him in awe as a good friend—or a mighty deadly enemy.

  Nothing Wes saw about the Kid led him to doubt the border Mexicans’ judgment in the matter. Two red hazel eyes, cold and dangerous in such a young face, studied Wes for a moment.

  ‘You act a mite edgy, amigo,’ the Kid said, swinging the rifle back across his arm.

  ‘Are they still after you, Wes?’ Dusty went on, taking in the bay’s condition and guessing at the answer.

  Wes looked at the horses Dusty’s party led. While three of them carried loaded packsaddles, all had the appearance of good quality riding animals. With one of them between his knees, he stood a better chance than a’fork the exhausted bay.

  ‘They’re still after me,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t know how far behind—’

  An answer came to that almost immediately and before he could make a request for the loan of a fresh mount. While they talked, after his study of Wes, the Kid had resumed his alert watchful scrutiny of the surrounding range. Caution was taught early to any Comanche boy; the lesson of seeing others before they saw him was drilled home until it became second nature. So he spotted the two riders topping the slope of the valley side a shade before they became aware of him and his companions. Even as the raising of a rifle sent its warning to the Kid, he noticed one of the newcomers was an Osage buck dressed as an Army scout, the other a flashily attired Negro.

  ‘Watch your back, Wes!’ he yelled, throwing his own rifle from its resting position to its place against his shoulder.

  Fast though the Kid moved, he failed to prevent the Osage cutting loose with the Springfield rifle. Either the scout shot well, or received partial blessing from the Osage Great Spirit. He fired fast and might have been excused for missing. Instead the bullet slammed into the rump of Wes’ bay, angling forward into its chest.

  Feeling the impact of the lead and the horse going down, Wes jerked his Winchester from its boot. He kicked free his feet from the stirrups and leapt clear of the falling horse.

  Flame ripped from the Kid’s rifle, the crack of his shot drowning out the wind-carried bang of the Springfield. The Osage jerked backwards, his rifle’s barrel tilting into the air as he fell from his horse. Landing on the ground, Wes swiveled around. Fury filled him at the killing of the bay, but before he could raise and aim the Winchester, the Negro turned his horse and rode rapidly back out of sight.

  ‘Now me,’ Mark drawled, sliding the Winchester from its place under his left leg, ‘I’d say they’re not too far behind.’

  ‘Get on one of the horses, Wes!’ Dusty snapped. ‘We’d best make tracks.’

  ‘And back the way we come,’ the Kid concluded, starting to turn his horse.

  Running towards his cousin, Wes caught the mane of the grulla gelding Dusty led and vaulted on to its bare back.

  ‘Cut him loose, Dusty!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll go my own way. They’ll figure I downed the Injun.’

  ‘You’re staying with us,’ Dusty replied, making no move to obey but turning the horses. ‘Unc—’

  ‘Up there, Dusty!’ interrupted the Kid, having swung around, pointing ahead.

  Several men appeared at the top of the slope about half a mile from where the four Texans turned their mounts. Dusty summed up the situation rapidly, working out what to do for the best. There could be no running by the new arrivals along the trail, especially hampered by the led horses. From the direction the Osage and Negro came, and the latter fled, there would be more men behind them. So Dusty turned his attention to the river. Almost opposite where they sat, the bluffs curved back to leave a good-sized area well covered
by bushes enclosed by the walls. Nor would the water prove an insurmountable obstacle, flowing gently and not more than two feet deep.

  ‘We’ll hole up across the river!’ he ordered, starting to head the paint in the desired direction.

  Maybe the other three topped him in a matter of mere feet and inches, but they never thought of questioning his judgment. Swinging their mounts and bringing the led horses around with them, Mark and the Kid followed Dusty’s lead. Bullets flew around them as the horses churned up the Sulphur’s surface. However, fired from the backs of moving horses, only pure luck would guide the lead to its target. Luck did not favor the State Police, although one bullet came so close to the Kid’s head that he made an involuntary bobbing movement.

  Then the horses reached the other side, pounding up the gravel slope on the opposite shore to the trail. On reaching the top, Dusty found to his satisfaction that he had judged correctly. Not only did the bushes grow thick enough to offer excellent cover, but the ground sank away into a hollow where the horses might be left in safety.

  ‘Go see if there’s a way up the bluffs, Lon!’ ordered Dusty, dropping from his low-horned, double girthed range saddle and sliding free his Winchester carbine. ‘Stake down the horses, Mark, and bring some shells. Wes, you and I’ll keep them jaspers across the water—but don’t kill any unless there’s no other way.’

  Despite all the stories he had heard of the State Police’s inefficiency, corruption and brutality, Dusty could still not reconcile himself to killing appointed peace officers unless it became a complete necessity. So he gave the order and hoped his cousin would obey it.

  Rifles in hand, Dusty and Wes lit down on the ground then flopped into cover at the top of the bank. Much to Dusty’s relief, Wes made no attempt to start shooting. Settling down, the youngster rested his rifle ready for use and studied the approaching party.

  ‘Two white men, the rest Negroes,’ he said. ‘State Police for certain sure.’

  ‘They’re not coming on anyways,’ Dusty answered, watching the two white men in the lead bringing their horses to a halt.

  ‘Likely waiting for help,’ Wes answered, following the direction in which one of the pair pointed.

  More men rode into view over the rim where the Osage’s body sprawled. Without halting, or so much as a glance at the unmoving figure on the ground, the new arrivals galloped along the slope towards the first party. Six Negroes and a white man, Dusty counted. Stiff odds taken with the bunch they rode to join.

  Coming together, the white men from each party began to talk and the Negroes mingled, also discussing the situation if their pointing fingers and gesticulations were anything to go on. Clearly the leaders of the posses did not come to an immediate agreement on a course of action and the big, smartly dressed newcomer pointed in the direction from which he came at one point, then turned in an angry manner to snap an answer to a question put by the others.

  Mark returned from securing the horses, carrying his Winchester and two boxes of ammunition. Slipping into cover by his companions, he tossed one box to Dusty.

  ‘What’s doing?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Nothing much,’ Dusty admitted. ‘That feller in the artillery jacket’s wanting the others to wait for something, more men most likely.’

  ‘Looks like he’s getting his way,’ Mark commented, watching the other two ride back towards their men and the one Dusty mentioned advance towards the river.

  ‘Hey!’ Rocket Robbins yelled, halting his horse at a safe distance. ‘You down there!’

  ‘Yeah?’ Dusty answered.

  ‘That’s Wes Hardin with you. Send him on out and the rest of you can go.’

  ‘There’s a real tempting offer for you, Cousin Dusty,’ Wes grinned.

  ‘Happen we took it, I bet we’d get easy to the other side of the Sulphur afore they shot us down,’ Mark went on.

  Dusty did not smile, but raised his voice again. ‘What happens to him?’

  ‘We’ll give him a fair trial,’ yelled one of the other white men. ‘Then we’ll hang him.’

  Swinging around, Robbins snarled something at the speaker. It seemed as if he had not wanted such a comment made. With it made, there could be only one answer.

  ‘If you want him!’ Dusty shouted. ‘You’ll have to come over and get him.’

  Seven – Ka-Dih’s Done Forgot His Wandering Boy

  ‘I couldn’t’ve put it sweeter, nor better myself,’ Mark drawled, settling his rifle a touch firmer against his shoulder ready for the rush which might be expected in reply to Dusty’s defiance.

  None came. Instead the posse remained on their horses, but unmoving. Turning back from his companions, Robbins drew a watch from inside his jacket.

  ‘Listen, you cowhands!’ he shouted. ‘Hardin’s not one of you now. He’s a killer and running from the law. I’ll give you ten minutes starting from now to get him sent out here. If he’s not across the river, alive or dead, by then, we’re coming after him and we’ll treat you the same as him.’

  ‘I’m going out, Dusty,’ Wes said grimly.

  ‘The hell you are,’ Dusty answered. ‘Stay put until we hear what Lon has to say about sneaking up the bluffs.’

  ‘It’ll be dark afore long,’ Mark went on, looking at the sinking sun.

  ‘Longer than ten minutes though,’ Wes pointed out. ‘There’s no sense in you boys getting shot up on my part, Dusty.’

  ‘Uncle Devil sent us to see if we could help out,’ Dusty replied. ‘We’d’ve been here sooner, only we’d gone into the Rond River country after wild hosses and he couldn’t find us. As soon as we came in, he sent us off.’

  ‘Maybe we’d best hear all about it,’ Mark suggested.

  ‘Sure, Wes,’ agreed Dusty. ‘Start at the beginning and tell us it all.’

  Quickly Wes went into details of how he came to be on the run, starting with the killing of the Negro and going through the events until meeting his cousin that afternoon. While keeping an eye on the State Police, Dusty listened to the story. The more he heard, the more he realized that helping Wes would be a very difficult and dangerous task. Several aspects of the business interested the small Texan and he asked about one of them.

  ‘Have you any idea how the fire started at your place?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Does Uncle Joel know?’

  ‘I reckon not. He got word to me that a State Police posse went out there looking for me. Only I wasn’t there. They claimed my pard, Flip, killed Doc James when the fire drove them out.’

  ‘Flip’s dead,’ Dusty said.

  ‘They killed him and Doc James outside the house.’

  ‘So’s the sheriff and the Negro who was with Spargo. Everybody who knew what happened in the office.’

  ‘Sure, Dusty,’ Wes answered. ‘All of the—’

  An interruption came before Wes could complete his bitter comment on the death of every witness capable of clearing him from the charge of murdering Sheriff Waggets. Only half the allotted ten minutes had gone by, but one of the white men let out a yell of ‘Charge!’

  While the posse did not show the concerted forward movement a company of drilled, disciplined cavalry might, they started their horses moving in a determined manner. Once on the move it became noticeable that the white men held back their horses, allowing the Negroes to come between them and the Texas rifles beyond the water. Wild with excitement, waving their carbines or rifles over their heads, the colored members of the posse continued to charge at the river.

  ‘What now?’ asked Mark, watching the onrushing posse.

  ‘Hold them back without killing if we can,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘When do we figure they’re not getting scared and stop trying?’ Wes inquired as he lined his rifle.

  ‘When they reach the water and start crossing,’ Dusty told him.

  With that the small Texan aimed his carbine carefully and touched off a shot to demonstrate what he wanted his companions to duplicate. His bullet ripped the derby hat from
the head of the leading rider. Hauling back on his horse’s reins, the startled Negro caused it to start sliding to a halt.

  ‘Nice shot,’ commented Mark, taking a careful sight on the rifle waved above another Negro’s head.

  Again powder cracked and the bullet flew right where Mark wanted it. Catching the rifle’s foregrip, the flying lead batted it from the Negro’s hand and caused him to let out a yelp of pain.

  Seeing what Dusty had in mind, Wes looked for a suitable target. When the first Negro lost his hat, his slowing horse caused some confusion among the others. Cradling his Winchester, Wes peered along its barrel and squeezed the trigger. The lead spanged into the dinner-plate sized horn of a Negro’s Mexican-style saddle and its rider fell backwards over the horse’s rump as flying metal splinters hit him.

  Again and again the Winchesters from the rim sent lead across the river. So carefully had the trio selected their positions that they offered only a small target. Far too small for marksmen of State Police quality to hope to hit when mounted on bullet-spooked horses. The charge lost its impetus, slowed down and turned to a retreat which the cursing white men could not halt.

  Watching his white companions, Robbins smiled dryly. Although he had helped to plan the treacherous attack, insisting that they allowed enough time to elapse so that the Texans would believe the ten minutes would be granted, he felt no anger when it did not succeed. In fact he had hoped from the start that it would fail, preferably with some loss of life among the posse. Then he could make use of his rockets and gain acclaim by succeeding where more conventional methods failed.

  ‘What now?’ asked one of the Delta officers.

  ‘We do what I wanted in the first place,’ Robbins answered.

  ‘What?’ growled the second white man.

  ‘Wait for my boy to arrive with Old Spitter and root them out with rockets,’ Robbins stated. ‘Spread some of your boys along the slope, to make sure they can’t go up over the bluffs. Take the rest back there a-ways, then we’ll hold on until Eli brings my gear.’