The Floating Outfit 46 Page 7

  “I ride for Ole Devil’s floating outfit,” Waco answered and, despite her fear and anxiety, Lindy Tavener smiled at the obvious pride in his tones. “Name’s Waco. You tell me all about it.”

  Duke Tavener took a seat and Waco pulled up on the other side of the desk. Meanwhile. Lindy went to the stove and set a coffee-pot on it.

  “Pete Walls ran a spread out there in the range country. When some of his cows appeared with two calves, folks didn’t say much. He used to hooraw the town and kept most folks treed. Town was booming wide open and he rode with a bunch of real tough men. Then, when all his cows had three or four calves each, and even the bulls had a couple, folks got riled. They elected me Marshal. I got a posse and we went after Walls. We caught him dead to rights. I snuck up and buffaloed him and we got the rest. Walls pulled eight years in the Territory Pen, and swore he’d get me when he came out.”

  “He’ll be out and here in three days,” Lindy spoke from the stove.

  Waco was fitting the pattern together. He asked, “Who knows about your hand?”

  “Only two people, Lindy and you. I’ve tamed this town down and never needed to use a gun since the frostbite,” Tavener answered. “It was wild, but I managed to tame it. There are a few in town who think it is too tame. They don’t make the kind of money they used to in the old days. Well, a fortnight back, Krag and Hellem, two of Walls’s men who we couldn’t pin anything on, started to come to town again. They behaved and just hung around, telling me how long it would be before Walls came back. I can’t even prove they worked my deputy over. He wouldn’t talk. They just stay on here.”

  “Didn’t look like they were eager to match shots with you,” Waco remarked.

  “They aren’t. Yet. Walls wants to handle me himself.”

  Waco was thinking again, his brain racing over what he knew. He turned every aspect over in his mind and asked a question: “How would you and Walls stack up in a shooting match?”

  “We were about equal—that was why the town elected me Marshal.”

  “Where did Walls’s guns go?”

  “The County sold most of his effects. I kept his Colt in the safe here—don’t know why.”

  “Hodgkiss wouldn’t let it be sold for the price offered at the auction,” the woman put in. “He’s the town undertaker and was on the Town Council—until the better class of citizen turned him off. He is one who doesn’t like the idea of a clean town. We had at least one killing a week here until the cleanup; his business isn’t so good now.”

  Waco rose and paced the room. He stopped at the desk again. “I can’t stay more than the three or four days, unless Walls doesn’t come. I have to be in Tensonville before the end of the week. I’ll go across to the hotel and get some sleep, unless you want me to take first round of the town.”

  Tavener handed over a deputy’s badge and watched the young man pin it to his calfskin vest. After Waco left the room, the Taveners looked at each other. “He’s held a badge before,” Lindy remarked.

  “Sure. Looks like I’ve got me a deputy who’ll stick.”

  Waco was the first man into the hotel dining-room the following morning. A sleepy-eyed woman served him breakfast and, while he was eating it, the young man from the livery barn came in and joined him.

  “Morning, Mr. Longley,” he greeted. “See you’re staying on here.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Some of the boys are a mite rough on deputies—not that it would worry you. I saw you in the Texas House. My name’s Jack Walls.”

  “Kin to Pete?”

  “Nodding kin is all,” Walls answered wryly. “We never took to each other. I was with Duke the night we arrested him. He’ll be coming back real soon and looking for Duke. And me.”

  “Folks back Duke up?”

  “Some will, now. Pete was a good man with a gun. So are some of his boys. Word has it he’s hired Matt Chandler, too.”

  “Chandler?” Waco finished his breakfast and rolled a smoke. “I’ve heard about him, some.”

  “Some?” Walls stared across the table. “He’s the fastest man alive, even faster than Dusty Fog.”

  “He’s not. There is only one man who can shade Dusty, and none who can lick him with a brace.”

  The door of the room was thrown open and a man came in fast. “Mr. Longley, a bunch of cowhands are fixing to wreck the undertaker’s shop.”

  Waco rose and left. He saw the trouble-spot with no eyestrain; a fair crowd was gathered outside and he watched them scatter to allow him through. The shop was dimly-lit but there was enough light for Waco to see what was going on. A thin, miserable-looking man in sober black cowered back at the counter, while several young cowhands crowded forward at him.

  “Hold it, gents!”

  The cowhands turned slightly, all looking at the tall shape in the doorway. One of them held a gun. He started to turn.

  “Pouch it!” Waco snapped.

  “Who’re you?” the cowhand asked.

  “You deaf?” The twin staghorn-butted guns were out and lined in a flicker of movement. “I said put it away!”

  The gun went back into leather, and the cowhand watched for the next development. He knew there was a new lawman in town; and, although Duke Tavener was fair, the hands wanted to know how this new man would be.

  “One of you’d better tell it,” Waco suggested.

  “Ole Eph there got himself drunk last night and just passed away. So we got to figgering it would be a good joke to tote him across here and put him in one of Hodgkiss’s coffins. It war—only, when he woke, he’d lost an eighty-dollar roll from his pocket.”

  Waco glanced at a tall, gangling man, who looked as if he was suffering the tortures of the damned. He lifted himself from where he was lounging on the counter and ambled forward, but Hodgkiss put his spoke in first.

  “Arrest these men, deputy!”

  “On what charge?”

  “They broke into my shop,” Hodgkiss snapped back.

  “Why, you damned ole goat—the door wasn’t locked. You allus leave it open, you’re so scared of losing a chance to make money,” the cowhand yelled back. “We just toted ole Eph in here last night. You came out just afore he did.”

  Waco turned his attention to Eph and asked to hear his side of it. “I woke up this morning, feeling that I’d be better dead—and I surely ain’t going to get drunk again. War comfortable and there was two lil men sat on my head, holding my eyes closed. Then, when I felt somebody in my pocket, I opened ’em—and found I was in a coffin.”

  The young cowhand who’d acted as spokesman gave a whoop of delight. “He sure did. Ole Eph howled like a stuck shoat and jumped clear out of that ole pinewood box. I tell you, Marshal, his feet never touched the floor until he was out in the sun again.”

  “About the money?” Waco went on doggedly.

  “It’s for the ranch supplies,” Eph answered. “War in my pocket.”

  “That’s right, Marshal,” the other hand agreed. “I checked afore I left. But I figgered it would be safer with him than me.”

  Hodgkiss’s thin face worked angrily. He scowled at the men and snarled: “You arrest them, all of them.”

  “Not so fast. This thing’s settled a damned sight easier than that. I’ll search the men who toted Eph in here. And you.” The cowhands agreed to this willingly enough, but Hodgkiss snorted and took a step back. “I won’t be searched.”

  “Then I’ll take you to jail, inciting a riot we’ll call it.”

  “What?” Hodgkiss almost screeched. “You can’t do that to me. I’ll have your badge for this.”

  “Sure. But, until you do, I’m still the law here.”

  “Not in my shop.”

  “All right.” Waco turned on his heel. “You boys just carry on.”

  “Wait!” Hodgkiss saw the eager looks on the faces of the cowhands. “I found this money on the floor of the shop and thought the man who ran out as I came in dropped it.” He pulled out a roll of money and handed it to
Eph. “He must have been robbing you.”

  “Why you scraggy ole vulture!” Eph growled angrily, starting forward. Waco stopped him.

  “You’ve got your money, friend, so go buy your supplies. I’ll arrest Mr. Hodgkiss if you like, but there isn’t a thing we could make stick. He was fair enough to stop that feller robbing you, and he’s forgotten all about you damaging his merchandise. Leave it lie, friend.”

  The cowhands agreed with Waco; they could see that here was a fair lawman and one who was worth backing. Hodgkiss grumbled a little and watched Waco leave the shop with eyes that were full of hatred. He found little support for his complaints among the other people to whom he talked. They knew him as a sanctimonious skinflint who was quite capable of rolling a drunk if he was given the chance. They also were not going against a man like Bad Bill Longley.

  Duke Tavener was in the jail when Waco finished the rounds and entered. The Marshal looked far happier than before; the worried, desperate look was almost gone from his eyes.

  “You riled Mr. Hodgkiss. He’s some annoyed.”

  Waco removed his hat and looked piously at the roof. “I mourns for Mr. Hodgkiss. And does the aforesaid Mr. Hodgkiss want me fired?”

  “He does that. Swore he’d go to the Town Council and use his influence. What do I call you?”

  “Bill, or Longley—if anyone’s around. Waco’s what I answer to most times.”

  “You mentioned Dusty Fog, and Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit.”

  Waco told the amused Tavener about the bet; and insisted that he’d only taken the job here because he’d lost the bet by getting into the fight. Then the Marshal pointed out that he’d won a fair sum at the Texas House and left in on the table. Claypole himself brought the money in that morning.

  “For a man who’s short of money, you’re sure careless with what you’ve got,” Tavener finished up. “I told Mr. Hodgkiss I’d talk real sharp to you. Consider it done.”

  “Sure. Now we’ve got to see about getting you ready to face Pete Walls. I want to see how fast you are.”

  They both unloaded their guns, then dropped them back into leather. Standing facing each other, they dropped their hands. Waco’s guns came clear, hammers earing back ready. Duke Tavener was fast; yet his draw did not have that extra flicker of speed which threw him into the class of the top guns. His draw alone was fast, his thumb was stiff and awkward, not earing back the hammer as was necessary with a Colt single-action revolver.

  “Any place we can do some shooting?” Waco asked after they reloaded their guns.

  “Sure, there’s a draw at the back of my house. We can go down there.”

  In the draw behind the house stood an old wooden shack, its walls pock-marked with bullet-holes. With a piece of chalk. Waco drew a rough outline shaped like a man. On the left side, he drew a heart shape, then stepped back.

  “Ever try fanning a gun, Duke?” he asked.

  “Sure, just for laughs. There’s no accuracy in fanning.”

  “Wouldn’t say that,” Waco disagreed. “You can’t do any fancy shooting with it. But at killing range you can hit.”

  He stepped back about twenty feet from the target. Then his right hand went down, the Colt coming clear and locking tight up against his side while his left hand fanned the hammer back. Five shots sounded as fast as the roll of a drum. When the smoke rolled away, they went to look at the target. Four of the shots were grouped in the heart, the other was two inches above it.

  “Man, that’s what I call shooting,” Tavener stated as he laid a hand over the holes, covering them. “It must have taken you plenty of time to learn how to do it.”

  “Some. But we’ve only got us three days right now. Take your gun out slow and ram your elbow tight into your side. Get that habit first.”

  Duke Tavener tried, taking the gun out slow and, instead of thrusting it out, held it squarely in the center of his body. He rammed his elbow into his side hard. Then the heel of his left brought back the hammer and fired. The bullet struck in the target area.

  After about an hour of practice, Waco and Tavener called it a day; or, at least, gave it a rest for a time. The Marshal shook his head, “I don’t know if it’ll work. But I’ve no other choice.”

  “Longley!” The voice brought Waco to a halt as he returned from attending to his horse. He turned to find Krag and Hellem facing him. “What you doing wearing a badge?”

  “I like wearing it. Makes hard men who don’t like lawmen come after me.”

  Krag moved to the right and Hellem to the left, watching him. Krag, the taller, went on: “Hear tell you’re a real man-eater in Texas. This ain’t Texas.”

  “It ain’t,” Waco agreed. “You pair think I’m no good here?”

  Hellem sneered: “Funny how tough they get when they’re behind a badge.”

  Waco’s right hand lifted to remove the badge. At the same moment, Hellem went for his gun. Waco shot him through the shoulder with the gun which came into his left hand, slamming him backwards on to the sidewalk. Krag’s hand stopped inches from his gun as the Colt lined on him.

  The Colt whirled on Waco’s trigger-finger and went back into leather as he faced Krag. “Go on, hard man, pull it!”

  Krag licked his lips, looking at Hellem, who was down and groaning in pain. “You got me all wrong, Bill.”

  Waco moved in, his right hand slapping hard across the man’s face, knocking him from his feet. “Mister, get out of this town. The next time I see you, there’ll be shooting. Two of you gents take this hombre to the doctor. Get him patched up and tell him to clear town fast.”

  Duke Tavener arrived at a run; he watched Krag walking away and two men helping Hellem in the direction of the doctor’s office. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Justa couple of gents who decided they didn’t like lawmen,” Waco answered. “Which same they tried real hard to prove.”

  “Hellem was more than fair with a gun.” Tavener’s voice was low, talking more to himself than to his deputy.

  “Tolerable, only tolerable. We use faster’n him for the young ’uns to start on back home to Texas.”

  “Huh, you can always tell a Texan,” Duke grunted disgustedly.

  “Sure, but you can’t tell us much.”

  They walked on together to the jail and entered the office.

  “All right, Duke. I want to see your draw again,” Waco said again.

  Duke rose, unloading his guns and slipping empty cartridge cases into the chambers. This was to protect the firing-pin on the hammer—for repeated dropping on an empty cylinder could smash the pin and damage the hammer. His hand went down, the gun coming out; and, through sheer instinct, he tried to thumb the hammer back.

  “That’s no good,” Waco snapped. “Keep thinking about fanning the hammer. Keep it on your mind all the time. Draw, then slap back the hammer hard. You’ve got but two more days to learn.”

  “If I don’t?”

  “Then Pete Walls will do what you wanted me to do last night.”

  Tavener looked at the Texan’s expressionless face. For a moment he was silent, then asked: “How did you know what I wanted to happen?”

  “It figgers. You’ve been living on raw nerves for weeks. Last night you saw a chance to end it, one way or another. So you aimed to make Bad Bill Longley go against you and end the waiting for good.”

  Tavener paced the room. He halted and looked down at Waco. “You’re a smart young feller.”

  The door of the jail opened and Darcy came in. He beamed at Tavener and Waco and dabbed perspiration from his face. “Just came by to ask if you want any more deputies.”

  “Could I get more?” Tavener asked, remembering the night before.

  “Near on every man in town’ll stand by you.”

  “Me—or Bad Bill Longley?”

  “Both. Oh, I know we’ve been kind of slow offering to help, but you know how it is.”

  “Sure.” There was a touch of bitterness in Duke’s tones. “I know how it i
s. I’ll let you know about the deputies.” Waco watched the banker leave before he spoke: “Folks are funny, I reckon. They know that you and Walls were about equal with a gun. It is the rest of his bunch that spooks them.”

  He walked across the room, looking down at the floor. The jail had not been swept in the past couple of days, so there was a layer of dust over it, marked with footprints. He halted in front of the safe, looking down at the ground. The Ysabel Kid was a tracker with few equals, and he’d taught Waco much. Enough to know those footprints in front of the safe door did not belong there, nor were they Tavener’s. He, himself, had not been near the safe before. The young Texan looked at the lock and tested the handle. Then he returned to the table.

  “Who had a key to the safe?”

  “Myself. There’s a spare at home and the town council usually have one. Why?”

  “Curious. We use the same system down in the Rio Hondo,” Waco replied. “I reckon I’ll stay on at the jail all night, bunk down in a cell.”

  “Why?” Tavener tried to read something in that bronzed handsome young face.

  “Just too tired to walk up the hotel stairs. Say, can I put my money in the safe? I’m likely to get into another poker game and lose it all if I don’t.”

  Duke tossed Waco a key and the young man went to open the small safe. He looked in. The top shelf was empty, but the second held two guns—one was an old, beat-up Remington; the other a well-cared for, clean and oiled Colt. Waco felt relieved. He shut the door again, but did not leave his money inside.

  “Let’s get us back to practicing that fanning again,” he said.

  There was a marked difference in the attitude of the people in town when Tavener made his rounds that night. The faces which had been tense and scared were smiling and friendly again. Several times he received offers of help when Walls came back, but refused them all. He saw his deputy once, coming from the store and carrying a small package; but Waco did not offer to explain what was in it, so he didn’t press it any.

  It was shortly before midnight when they met again at the jail. Tavener came in and found Waco sitting at the desk. “Still thinking of sleeping down here?” he asked.