The Floating Outfit 31, page 18
‘Good work, boy,’ Dusty praised, shortly after the youngster’s sotto voce comment, although he had hoped the landing would be carried out in silence. Leaping over the bows as the boat ran aground while still some feet from the island, an example followed by its other passengers, he waded rapidly ashore and continued, ‘You and Lon make sure none of the bunch on the north bank try to come over before the posse gets down from the woods. You and Tarbrush do the same on this side, Doc.’
‘Sure,’ grinned the Kid, looking at the Wedge cowhand. ‘Then, when them yahoos from Mexico get here ’n’ kill us, it’ll be your no-account outfits to blame.’ At that moment, he noticed Waco’s face. Previously he had not been close enough to discover the precaution which the men guarding the island had been compelled to carry out. ‘Hey, you-all look better that way, boy.’
‘You couldn’t look good any way,’ the youngster countered, delighted to have found that Dusty — whose opinion and friendship he admired more than that of any other person—was not angry over his failure to quell all the guards without gunplay.
‘Let’s go!’ Dusty ordered, holding two fused sticks of dynamite in his left hand and a hooded lantern in the right. ‘If there’s any delay, shout and let 'us know so that we can wait and all try to go in at the same time.’
Knowing what was expected of them and equipped in the same general manner as the small Texan, Belle Boyd—who was bare headed, clad in a man’s black shirt, riding breeches, Hessian boots and armed with an ivory handled Dance Bros. Navy revolver, butt forward in the contoured holster tied to her right thigh—Mark Counter and Jervis Tragg separated to attend to the tasks which had been assigned to them.
Chapter Sixteen – Leave Them to the Zombies
‘Well, Ivan, the first of our customers should be in Bannock’s Ford soon,’ Professor Hogreth Morbeus remarked, gazing complacently around the laboratory he had had set up in the largest ground floor room of the Island Mission’s main building. ‘Let’s hope they don’t recognize each other if they all come up from Brownsville on the Ranchero II. Or if they do, that none tries to stop the others reaching us.’
‘Would they do that?’ Ivan Petrov inquired.
‘I don’t see any reason why they should,’ Morbeus replied. ‘When I contacted them, I didn’t hide the fact that we’re offering the technique to the other countries and at the same price.’ He frowned for a moment, then asked, ‘Are you sure there won’t be any trouble with the other zombie we brought from Haiti?’
‘It’s not acting like the one that broke out,’ the Mid-European answered sullenly, making no attempt to hide his resentment at being reminded how an error on his part had allowed the big Negro to escape and endangered their project. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. If we have any doubts, we can hide it and show the ones we’ve created since we came here.’
‘It might be better if we do that anyway,’ Morbeus stated. ‘They might not look as hideous, but they’ll do everything it will. With the kind of money that’s at stake, we don’t want anything to go wrong.’
Even before he had qualified as a surgeon, the Professor—title he had conferred upon himself—had been fascinated by the subject of longevity. Assisted by two other members of General Smethurst’s medical staff during the War Between the States who shared his interest, 59 he had taken advantage of his official position to carry out experiments on Confederate prisoners-of-war. As this had been done with the knowledge and approval of their superior officer and his political faction, the trio had been allowed to evade the consequences when rumors concerning their activities had caused an investigation by the Union Army’s Adjutant General. Fearing that they would be marked for Southron vengeance, despite the way in which the War was going, he had separated from his associates and adopted the name ‘Morbeus’.
Still intrigued by the possibility of extending the length of life and being wealthy, the Professor had decided to try to find out if zombies offered an answer. Meeting with and learning of Petrov’s prowess as a hypnotist, Morbeus had secured his services and they had visited Haiti. While there, they had not only discovered how to transform a human being into a ‘zombie’, but contrived to smuggle two Negroes who had been subjected to the treatment back to the United States.
With Petrov to keep the original pair of zombies under control, and to help transform three Negroes they had kidnapped since their return, Morbeus had found a safe haven from which to carry out their schemes. Purchasing the Island Mission, he had blackmailed a few now prominent politicians who had belonged to the late General Smethurst’s clique into presenting him with letters of introduction. They had also produced the names of men serving in various countries’ diplomatic corps who might be interested in learning a means by which large populations of illiterate, backward and superstitious people could be kept subservient. 60
At first there had been few snags. Then one of the Haitian zombies had started to misbehave and they had coupled the shackle bands already on its wrists together with a length of chain which it had subsequently snapped in a paroxysm of strength. Petrov’s over confidence and negligence had allowed it to escape from the Mission. However, despite the concern its departure had caused, the affair had passed over. In fact, Morbeus was beginning to believe that Silkie Roelich’s misgivings over the young cowhand, Waco, were groundless. He was also taking comfort from the thought that the representatives of the various countries would soon come and, with the sales made, he would be able to leave Texas forever.
‘Nothing can go wrong with them,’ Petrov promised and his swarthy face came as close as it ever managed to smiling. ‘Nor with the sale, as we have nothing written down until we’ve been paid. So—!’
‘What the hell?’ Morbeus barked, as the hypnotist’s words were brought to an end by the sound of two rifle shots very close together from somewhere at the rear of the building. ‘Come on!’
Dashing from the laboratory, the two men went just as rapidly up the stairs to the first floor. There, they hurried to a window which would allow them to investigate. Although the surrounding wall restricted their view, they could see a strange rowing boat grounded in the shallows. At the edge of the island, a Texas cowhand and a Negro in similar attire, each holding a rifle, stood gazing towards the Mexican bank of the river. Not far from them, Boker lay sprawled motionless on the ground.
‘God damn!’ Petrov ejaculated in his native language, then made an effort and returned to English. ‘Somebody has landed. Are they from one of the buyers?’
‘No, those two were with Fog!’ Morbeus corrected angrily. ‘So that tricky son-of-a-bitch wasn’t fooled after all. He must have sent that young bastard here!’
‘What are we going to do?’ Petrov wanted to know.
‘That boat can’t have brought many of them here,’ Morbeus estimated. ‘So we’ll stay in here until—’
However, before the Professor could complete his suggestion that they waited for the hired guns to arrive and save them, gunfire from both sides of the river warned that help might be delayed or not even be forthcoming.
‘They’ll be breaking in here soon!’ Petrov almost screeched. ‘Go and collect your property and we’ll leave them to the zombies!’ Morbeus replied, having insisted that they were prepared for such an eventuality. ‘While that’s happening, we’ll go over the wall and get away in the steam launch.’
As the Professor was running to his bedroom, he was thankful for the foresight he had shown in keeping only sufficient money for his immediate needs at the Mission. He had deposits in banks at Bannock’s Ford and Brownsville as well as his main account in New Orleans. So he would not lack funds for the flight which was almost certainly to be necessary.
Collecting his jacket, with all his ready cash in its pockets, a revolver and a loaded double barreled shotgun, Morbeus went to a window on the eastern side of the building. Opening it while waiting for Petrov, who arrived armed in the same way, he climbed through on the flat roof of a shelter which extended to the perimeter wall. Leading the way across, he was just throwing over a rope attached to a hook on the wall when there was an explosion and the gate to his right was blown open. Similar sounds occurred almost simultaneously from the other three sides, warning that entrances were being effected there by the same means.
‘I’ll go first,’ the Professor growled, passing his weapon to the hypnotist and, grasping the rope with both hands, he lowered himself over the wall. ‘Drop the guns to me when I get down. Then we’ll run for the boat and kill anybody who tries to stop us.’
Having uncovered her lantern so that she could not only see what she was doing, but had the means to light the fuse of the dynamite she was carrying, Belle Boyd placed the stick under the single gate in the Mission’s eastern wall. Then she waited for either Dusty Fog’s signal, or one of the others to announce that he was not yet ready.
A few seconds ticked by, punctuated by a commotion on both of the Rio Grande’s banks as the posse from Bannock’s Ford and the Wedge cowhands charged towards the buildings with the intention of preventing reinforcements leaving for the island.
‘Let her blow!’ the small Texan’s voice thundered, as he realized that there was no longer any point in trying to conceal their presence by giving the call of a whip-poor-will.
Hearing the words and duplicating the speaker’s actions, the Rebel Spy, Mark Counter at the rear double gates and Deputy Sheriff Jervis Tragg by the single entrance in the western side, each applied a light to the fuse in their explosive charges and withdrew to a safe distance.
When the dynamite he had placed went off, Dusty saw the massive front gates burst asunder. Leaving the lantern on the ground, he advanced and became aware of an enormous figure which was lumbering rapidly across the courtyard towards him. It was a Negro with an equally hideous set of features, deliberately worsened by the voodoo priest controller to enhance his awesome appearance, to those of the man who had attacked him on the banks of the small stream.
At the rear, Mark’s detonation had produced a less successful result. Instead of blasting the way clear, it had only caused the two portions of the gate to open a few inches. Returning the Colts to their holsters, he ran forward. Aware that time was of great importance, he ducked his left shoulder and charged the near side section. It yielded more easily than he had expected. Stumbling through, he found himself confronted by a charging, half naked, colored man who almost matched his height, weighed heavier and bulged with what were obviously immensely powerful muscles.
Although Belle effected her entrance without difficulty, her problems commenced as she went through the ruined gateway. Being on the side of the establishment which was in the shadows, she carried the Dance in her right hand ready for instant use and had retained the lantern in the other. Hearing footsteps to her left, she glanced in that direction. What she, discovered was highly disconcerting. On seeing her, instead of following Professor Morbeus over the wall, Ivan Petrov dropped one of the shotguns he was holding. She did not need to wonder why he had done so. Nor did she believe that he was intending to use the other weapon to defend her against the massive zombie who was emerging from the shelter upon the roof of which he was standing.
Like the Rebel Spy, Jervis Tragg was carrying a cocked gun—but had left his lantern behind—as he arrived in the compound. Seeing the gigantic, glaring eyed Negro who was approaching in a threatening fashion, he doubted whether he would get anywhere with verbal reasoning. Nor would he have a chance at close quarters against such a heavier and muscular assailant. However, as he was far from a cold blooded killer, he lined his Colt and sent a bullet into the man’s shoulder. For all the result he achieved, he might have thrown a spit-ball. Nearer rushed the Negro. The deputy fired again, this time into the broad black chest—but the man still came on without showing any effect from what should have been an incapacitating wound.
Completing the descent of the rope, Morbeus looked up. There was no sign of the hypnotist, so he opened his mouth to bellow a command for haste in dropping the shotgun.
As Tragg had, Dusty appreciated that there was no hope of stopping his attacker without gunplay. However, his last experience with a zombie suggested how to deal with the situation. Crossing with extreme rapidity, his hands swept the matched Army Colts from their holsters. Turning outwards as if of their own volition, so perfectly did he coordinate the movements, they roared at the same instant, slightly over three-quarters of a second after he had commenced his draw. Each bullet went into the zombie’s head, shattering the brain and toppling him lifeless to the ground.
With an effort, Mark retained his balance. Instead of trying to halt and take action, he kept going. Bounding into the air, he sent his right foot crashing on to the center of the huge Negro’s chest. Immune to pain though the treatment to which he had been subjected made him, not even the man’s great bulk could fend off such an attack. He was thrown backwards several feet by the impulsion of the blond giant’s two hundred and eighteen pound body. While he did not go down, by the time he had come to a stop, Mark was alighting from delivering the kick. Watching the man returning, the big blond drew the right hand Colt and, profiting from the small Texan’s advice, shot him between the eyes as the only way of stopping him.
Displaying the fluid speed which made her so capable as a savate fighter, Belle launched herself into a graceful yet deadly pirouette. She employed some of the impetus gathered in the turn to propel the lantern at the Negro’s head. Making the desired contact, it shattered and its fuel ignited to engulf the black face in flames. Aghast at the sight, she forced herself to continue thinking and acting. A leap carried her clear of the burning zombie and he blundered onwards.
Landing, Belle saw that Petrov was raising the shotgun. With her left hand joining and supporting the right, she elevated the Dance even more quickly. Displaying the kind of accuracy that had saved Tarbrush from Toby Hooper, she planted a .36 caliber ball in the center of the hypnotist’s chest. He took an involuntary step to the rear, striking the wall and tumbling over with the weapon leaving his grasp as he disappeared.
Having been sent by Doc Leroy to help, when it was obvious that the guards on the Mexican bank were fully occupied, Tarbrush came into the compound through the east gate as the Rebel Spy shot Petrov. He used the bullet from his Ballard to end whatever suffering the flame encrusted zombie might have been experiencing.
Until the failure of his second shot to elicit any response from its recipient, Tragg had not been convinced that such things as zombies could exist. However, faced with a human being who could withstand two bullets and still keep coming, he found that his point of view was undergoing a drastic revision. Retreating a couple of strides and thumb-cocking the Colt, he sent the third load to where he hoped it would achieve its purpose. As a hole appeared just above the Negro’s staring eyes, he seemed to crumple. Buckling in midstride, his legs deposited him face down at the deputy’s feet.
Before Morbeus could speak, he saw Petrov take Belle’s lead. Jumping aside as the hypnotist toppled from above, the Professor managed to catch the discarded shotgun. He manipulated it into a firing position while running to the front end of the wall. As he had feared, he found on passing beyond the corner that there were sufficient invaders for a guard to be placed over the steam launch. However, as they had apparently decided that their presence was not needed and no reinforcements would be coming from the buildings on the Texas bank, they were making their way towards the front gate.
Until Morbeus noticed one of the pair was Waco, he had contemplated surrendering and trusting his political associates—under the threat of his betrayal of their secrets—to save him from the ultimate penalty for his misdeeds. Savage fury gripped him at the sight of the youngster who, despite a lack of formal education, had tricked him and been a major factor in his downfall. Snarling with anger, he started to elevate the butt of the shotgun towards his shoulder.
It proved to be the ‘Professor’s’ final mistake!
Lacking the time to aim in a formal fashion, the Kid and Waco pivoted their Winchesters no higher than waist level. Firing fast and moving the barrels in a horizontal arc while operating the levers, they directed their shots like spokes extending from the center of a wheel. Encompassed in the torrent of flying lead, Morbeus was swept off his feet without having a chance to return the fire. When his body was examined, there were four bullets in it—any one of which would have proved fatal—as evidence of the pair’s unorthodox effectiveness.
‘Well, it’s over and I’m not sorry we haven’t found anything to tell us how they made the zombies,’ Dusty remarked, as the invasion force gathered after searching the Mission. 61 He glanced at Belle and Tragg, continuing, ‘So, happen you- all don’t need us any more, we’ll head into town and grab some sleep before we go and fetch along our herd.’
‘Not me,’ Waco put in, from where he was standing with Mark and the Kid.
‘Why not?’ Dusty asked, although he had a good idea of what was coming.
‘Way I recollect it,’ the youngster replied. ‘You-all fired me and set me a-foot in the Man On The Wall Saloon and I don’t work for you no more. So, happen you’ve a mind to get back my invaluable services, you’re going to have to come in there and offer most humble to take me on again.’
‘All right,’ the small Texan said, slapping the young blond on the back. ‘Although I’m damned if I know what invaluable services, I reckon you’ve earned that.’
About the Author
J.T. Edson was a former British Army dog-handler who wrote more than 130 Western novels, accounting for some 27 million sales in paperback. Edson’s works - produced on a word processor in an Edwardian semi at Melton Mowbray - contain clear, crisp action in the traditions of B-movies and Western television series. What they lack in psychological depth is made up for by at least twelve good fights per volume. Each portrays a vivid, idealized “West That Never Was”, at a pace that rarely slackens.
