The Floating Outfit 15 Read online

  While hidden from the Kimble County men, Murphy knew himself to be far from out of danger. In fact his position rapidly went from bad to worse. Behind him, the clatter of fast-moving hooves heralded the arrival of yet another enemy. Twisting his head around without exposing himself to Starke Reynolds’ party, Murphy saw Dusty Fog race into view on the trail to his rear.

  Any pleasure that Dusty might have felt at seeing the killer pinned down and left afoot died abruptly. Possibly Starke Reynolds would have drawn the correct conclusion from Dusty’s hurried arrival, remembering that Murphy had been in full flight when first seen, but his young companion never gave the matter a thought. Slipping another bullet into the Sharps carbine’s chamber, Mack Potter aimed and fired at the small Texan, the bullet sending Dusty’s Stetson spinning from his head. Instantly Dusty left his horse, landing on the edge of the trail and allowing his impetus to carry him into cover. Wise in such matters, the big paint swerved off the trail as it felt its master’s weight removed from the saddle. Going off to one side, it slowed down and stopped outside the danger area.

  Landing on the ground behind the trunk of a tree, Dusty already held a Colt in his right hand. However he knew himself to be at a considerable disadvantage in the matter. He did not know who Murphy’s attackers might be, but guessed that they were unlikely to regard his own presence favorably. In the matter of raising objections, the men across the basin held a considerable edge. At a range of maybe two hundred yards, a rifle licked even the long-barreled Army Colt in the matter of accurate placing of its bullets.

  Regretfully Dusty glanced towards his paint as it stood patiently some distance from the trail and almost level with Murphy’s hiding-place. The brown butt of his Winchester Model 1866 carbine showed from the saddle-boot, but might just as well have been left at the OD Connected for all the good it did him so far away.

  In addition to practicing a fast draw and close range accuracy with his matched Colts, Dusty had spent time learning how to shoot over distances more suited to either a carbine or rifle. By resting his elbows on the ground, shooting from the prone position and supporting his right hand with the left, Dusty could hope to aim at and eventually hit one of his assailants. However, doing so meant remaining in the same position and exposed to the return fire of his target and the second man on the rim. As soon as the trio saw Murphy take cover, Rosa Rio’s employee took all the horses back over the rim and remained with them. So Dusty would only have two attackers to consider, unless he counted Murphy, but they were one too many to allow careful shooting over such a range.

  Another point Dusty had to consider was the standing of the two men who halted Murphy. It could be that they were honest travelers who saw the chase and stopped a man they believed to be a criminal. Even the shot fired at Dusty proved nothing as it could have been sent off by a youngster wild with excitement and unthinking as a result of it.

  Any further thoughts Dusty might have had on the subject ended as Murphy saw a possible way out of a real tight spot.

  ‘Hey, Fog! Dusty Fog!’ the killer called. ‘Them two up there’re the Kimble County boys and’re planning a robbery. If you want to know who hired me to kill McGraw, you’ll have to get them off my trail.’

  The words not only reached Dusty, they carried to the ears of Reynolds and his companion. A cold, quick grin of bitter appreciation crossed Dusty’s lips. All too well he understood the reason for the shouted speech. Caught between two enemies, Murphy hoped to set them against each other. If they did not wipe each other out, he might escape while they fought. Murphy knew that Dusty wanted the name of his employer badly enough to face the Kimble County men to obtain it. Even if the small Texan did not, Reynolds would not wish to have him alive and in possession of the knowledge, especially when his gang planned a robbery of such magnitude that they had to obtain aid from the Hole-In-The-Wall bunch.

  So Starke Reynolds would try to kill Dusty, that was for sure. Equally certain being that the only way the small Texan could reach Murphy was by taking chances. Dusty intended that they be calculated risks.

  Suddenly Dusty flung himself out of cover, bounding in a swerving dash for a large rock some feet closer to Murphy’s position. His movement took both men by surprise. Although both Winchester and Sharp’s cracked, their bullets missed Dusty’s racing body and before the men could reload, he landed behind the rock. In cover once more, he looked around and selected his next move. To the right stood a large and substantial rock, within easy distance for an unexpected rush, except that the two outlaws would figure on him making for it. On his left, the nearest cover was a small clump of bushes; not the kind of place one would choose under more favorable conditions.

  Having decided which way the men expected him to go, Dusty went the other. Darting to the left, he reached the cover of the bushes before either Reynolds or Potter managed to correct their aim. Near the bushes, a shallow, depression offered better protection and Dusty rolled into it. He found that by keeping down, he could move in the required direction. Up the slope, Reynolds and Potter exchanged curses as they scoured the ground ahead of them and failed to locate Dusty’s position.

  Cautiously the small Texan eased himself up the side of the depression, picking a point between two smallish rocks which offered a clear view of the two outlaws. When no bullet came, Dusty guessed they had not seen him. Then he looked to where Murphy crouched, not ten yards away.

  ‘Throw your gun out here, Murphy!’ Dusty called, just loud enough for the killer to hear him. ‘Make a move to show them where I am and I’ll blow your head off.’

  A shocked thrill ran through Murphy at the sound of Dusty’s voice. While the Kimble County boys could not see the hired killer, he must be in plain view of Dusty Fog and within what to the Rio Hondo gun wizard was easy revolver shot. Then another thought hit Murphy with shocking impact. It seemed that Rosa Rio sold him out on all sides, for the small Texan used his name. Not that it would matter if Murphy’s escape plan worked—or failed.

  To make the plan work, Murphy must lure Dusty Fog up close and that meant complying with the order to throw away his revolver. Slipping the Allen & Wheelock from its holster, he threw it well clear of his position. While doing so, his eyes flickered to the patiently waiting paint stallion. With that fast, powerful animal between his knees, Murphy knew he could outrun the two owlhoots. He felt certain enough of it to gamble on reaching the horse, although that meant running the gauntlet of Reynolds’ and Potter’s weapons. Only to reach the horse, Dusty Fog must be dead.

  Clearly Dusty did not intend to rush blindly forward. With his Colt gripped in both hands, he sighted carefully up the slope. Neither of the outlaws appeared to be taking any great precautions, having seen that Dusty did not hold a rifle when he quit the paint’s saddle. Although lying down, they left themselves exposed in a casual manner. Using all his skill and knowledge, Dusty lined his Colt. At that moment as on other, less dangerous, occasions, he wished that Colonel Sam had fitted the Army Colt with a better rear sight than the notch cut into its hammer’s lip. Taken with the low blade foresight, the V-shaped nick did not make for an accurate sight picture.

  When sure that his aim could not be improved, Dusty squeezed the trigger. He felt the Colt buck in his hands and powdersmoke blotted his vision. The bullet’s arrival came as a complete surprise to both Kimble County owlhoots, but especially to Reynolds. Suddenly lead struck the rock behind which he lay partially hidden and flung chips of it into his face.

  Dropping his rifle, spluttering curses and grabbing at his face, Reynolds still retained sufficient control of himself to think and give orders.

  ‘Watch him, Mack! He aims to make another move!’

  ‘Who’d you want, Fog or Murphy?’ Potter countered.

  ‘Eith—’

  Before Reynolds could finish his words, Dusty left the depression and hurled himself towards where Murphy crouched. Potter cursed as he suddenly became conscious of his carbine’s inadequacy. With only one shot available, he did
not want to shoot unless sure of making a hit.

  A low hiss of triumph broke from Murphy as he saw Dusty dashing towards him. Dropping his right hand, the killer slid the thin-bladed Arkansas-toothpick from its boot-sheath. Then he waited, tense and ready, watching Dusty come closer.

  It took even a good rifle shot around four seconds to make an aimed discharge at a running target. Bearing that in mind, Dusty counted the seconds as he ran. Then he remembered the knife Murphy carried and realized the danger it put him in. There would be no time to change direction, or find fresh cover. So Dusty did not try. Instead he made a jumping slide, going rump-down along the ground like a baseball player trying to slide home and beat the ball. Up rose Murphy’s arm, the knife held Indian fashion for a downwards stab. Only before he could send the knife on its way, he saw Dusty’s body twist. Driving up his right leg, Dusty smashed the bottom of his foot into Murphy’s face. Even from such an awkward position, the kick packed enough force to slam Murphy backwards. Before the man could stop himself, he reeled from behind the rock. Up the slope, Potter changed his aim and fired at Murphy as the killer crashed to the ground. Caught in the body by a .50 Sharps bullet, Murphy slammed over, screamed and lay kicking in agony.

  ‘Get one of them?’ demanded Reynolds, rubbing his eyes clear of tears.

  ‘Murphy,’ Potter replied. ‘He rolled like a gut-shot rabbit.’

  ‘Where’s Fog?’

  ‘Behind the rock Murphy was using.’

  Joining his companion, Reynolds studied the situation and assessed it. Usually where Dusty Fog was, there could be found Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid. If that pair of handy jaspers should be anywhere within hearing range, they would be headed to their amigo’s aid. Which meant that time did not exist for an extended shootout.

  ‘I’ll keep him there,’ Reynolds decided. ‘You move off along the slope until you can get a clear shot at him.’

  ‘Sure, Starke,’ Potter agreed eagerly.

  ‘And don’t take fool chances,’ Reynolds warned. ‘You’re not safe from that damned Colt even this far off.’

  A point Potter did not need reminding about. Not a prudent young man, he still possessed sufficient caution to avoid stupid chances when dealing with somebody like Dusty Fog. Yet as he moved along under the cover of the rim, Potter felt sure that his presence was unsuspected by the intended victim.

  In that Potter made a mistake and underestimated Dusty’s ability to follow an enemy’s line of thought. Knowing how most people expected his two companions to be around wherever he might be, Dusty figured that the outlaws ought to make some move before Mark and the Kid came on to the scene. With that decided, one did not need great military genius to guess at the next move in the game. Knowing what the outlaws planned, Dusty sought a means of countering them.

  Once again he glanced with regret at the butt of his carbine. If he could only lay hands on the little saddle-gun, the affair would take on a different complexion. Unfortunately the paint stood too far away for him to reach it in a single dash and he did not wish to endanger it by drawing attention to the carbine. Even if his attackers decided he offered too chancy a target, they might shoot the paint and hope it fell on to the saddle-boot, so preventing him from obtaining a means to counter their superior-ranged weapons.

  Then Dusty brought back his eyes to Murphy’s dead horse. It lay on its right flank and not far from his position. In common with most western men, the killer carried his rifle booted on the left side and favored the system of pointing it in a rearwards direction. So there, exposed to Dusty’s gaze, lay the means to equal his enemies’ armament—if he could only reach it.

  Glancing up the slope, Dusty noticed that only Reynolds remained in the original position. Which meant that the other owlhoot sought a place offering an unrestricted line of fire on to the small Texan. At any moment a bullet might come crashing into Dusty from the Sharp’s carbine. A further state of urgency came as Murphy stirred and moaned.

  ‘A—a doctor for Gawd’s sake!’ the killer gasped.

  The movement drew Reynolds’ attention to Murphy and Dusty saw the Kimble County man’s rifle alter its aim. Instantly the small Texan hurled himself from behind the rock and towards the dead horse. Taken by surprise, Reynolds jerked his Winchester back in an attempt to take sight on Dusty. Already set to shoot at Murphy, his finger squeezed the trigger and the bullet flew harmlessly down to kick dirt up on the trail. Before Reynolds could lever home another bullet, Dusty leapt over the horse’s body. In passing he gripped the butt of the rifle and slid it from the saddleboot. Landing beyond the animal, Dusty twisted around and behind its body. He threw forward the rifle’s lever and fed a round into the chamber; or hoped he did, for he had no way of knowing if the magazine be loaded. Few men, especially those following Murphy’s trade, carried an empty rifle, so Dusty felt he could safely assume the one in his hands held at least some bullets. Carefully Dusty began to move himself up behind the horse, easing the borrowed Winchester ahead of him.

  Having reached a place from which he could cover the previously hidden side of the rock, Potter saw Dusty vacate it and started to raise his carbine.

  ‘Drop it!’ shouted a voice.

  Swinging in the direction of the speaker, Potter saw a tall, redheaded cowhand wearing an eye-catching red and white vest standing not thirty yards away. With a snarl of rage, the outlaw turned his carbine in the direction of the newcomer, sighted fast and fired.

  Although eager to reach Dusty, Red Blaze knew better than charge headlong down the trail. Instead he left his horse standing out of sight and advanced on foot. Nor did he intend to rely upon his Colts, but held a Spencer carbine at the ready. Searching the ground ahead of him, Red saw the threat to his cousin’s life and yelled a challenge.

  Whipping up his Spencer, undeterred by the sound of Potter’s bullet hissing by his face, Red snapped off a shot and also missed. Immediately they both started to reload. Each gun worked on the same basic principle. Lowering the lever which served as a trigger-guard opened the breech and ejected the empty cartridge case. At which point the Spencer’s action differed from that of the single-shot Sharps. The spring feed of the magazine thrust the next .52 caliber bullet into the chamber instead of its user needing to drop it home by hand. Returning the lever to perform its secondary function of trigger-guard left only the need to thumb-cock the hammer before making all ready to fire again. ix

  The need for thumb-cocking prevented the Spencer from being appreciably faster than a well-served Sharps carbine—but the slight edge in speed proved to be sufficient. As Potter started to draw back his Sharps’ hammer, Red aimed and squeezed the Spencer’s trigger. Under the circumstances Red shot the only way he dared, to kill. Give a hardened young outlaw like the one before him half a chance and there would be no hesitation in the way he acted. So Red drove a bullet between Potter’s eyes and tumbled him over the edge of the rim to roll down the slope.

  When he heard the fresh burst of shots and saw his companion’s downwards roll, Starke Reynolds decided the time had come to yell ‘calf rope’ and quit. From the rag-doll, limp manner in which Potter moved, Reynolds knew he was dead or so close to it as made no difference. That would be all to the good, for dead men gave no information. Swiftly Reynolds backed from the rim and, when sure Dusty could not see him, rose to make good his escape. He ran to where Rosa Rio’s man waited with the horses and snatched his mount’s reins from the other’s hand.

  ‘Where’s the young one?’ the man asked.

  ‘Cashed in!’ Reynolds replied. ‘Tell Rosa the job’s off. It’s been a damned sight too unlucky so far for it to go right.’

  With that Starke Reynolds mounted his horse and galloped off in the direction from which he came. Dusty Fog would never learn the objective of the big robbery which called for the services of two powerful gangs, for it never happened.

  Chapter Eight

  A groan from Murphy, mingled with the sound of departing hooves beyond the rim, brought Dusty to his f
eet. Tense and watchful, the small Texan stood for a moment looking around. Then he heard Red’s voice.

  ‘How many of ’em, Cousin Dusty?’

  ‘I’ve only seen two.’

  ‘The other one just lit out then,’ Red commented.

  ‘Sounds that way,’ Dusty agreed, listening to two distinct sets of hooves fading away.

  Shoving the rifle back into the saddleboot, Dusty went to Murphy’s side and bent down. The Sharps’ bullet had caught the killer in the back, just missing the spine. Being made of solid lead, it ranged through the man’s chest cavity with a terrible mushrooming effect. Although Murphy still lived, it would only be a matter of time before death claimed him. Nothing could save the man with such a wound, so Dusty decided to learn as much as he could about the attempts on Sandy McGraw’s life.

  ‘Murphy,’ he said quietly. ‘Who hired you?’

  Slowly the killer turned his face and looked through pain-creased eyes at Dusty. ‘A—a priest. I—want—a—priest.’

  ‘And I’ll see you get to one,’ Dusty assured him. ‘Who paid you to kill Sandy McGraw?’

  ‘I—I—only want a priest,’ Murphy mumbled.

  Having made sure that nothing could be done for the man he shot, Red joined his cousin in time to hear the last answer. Both of them had seen enough of the Catholic border-dwellers to know the futility of asking further questions.

  ‘He’ll tell us nothing, Cousin Dusty,’ Red stated.

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘Shall I take out after that jasper who got away?’

  ‘Let him go, Red. He’s got too good a start on you and won’t be back.’

  At that moment they heard hooves drumming on the trail and turned to see Billy Jack galloping up. Bringing his horse to a halt, the lean cowhand dropped out of the saddle. An expression of relief flickered across his doleful face at finding Dusty safe and unharmed. Then he looked down at the groaning killer.