by J. T. Edson
JT
EDSON
WACO’S DEBT
Rancher Sam Catlan and his two sons had been murdered—shot in the back by person or persons unknown.
Sam Catlan had many friends—all of whom wanted to see his death avenged.
But one young man in particular, to whom Sam had been like a father, swore he would hunt down the killer and pay the debt he owed to the kindly old man who had raised him.
It was no empty vow.
FOR THE YOUNG MAN’S NAME WAS WACO.
Jocelyn moved forward, hand reaching out. Doc Leroy’s thin, almost boneless looking hand made a slight flip and the sun caught the glint on the four and three-quarter-inch barrel of his Colt.
The gunmen froze, all of them.
Jocelyn halted with his right foot raised from the ground and hands still half reaching out, looking like a rabbit mesmerised by a snake. The dandy gulped. That draw was as fast as he’d ever seen and he’d seen fast men. Here was no pasty-faced dude dressed up in range clothes.
WACO’S DEBT
A CORGI BOOK 552 07899 9
Originally published in Great Britain
by Brown Watson, Ltd.
PRINTING HISTORY
Corgi Edition published 1968
Corgi Edition reprinted 1969
Corgi Edition reprinted 1972
Corgi Edition reprinted 1976
Copyright © 1962 by Brown Watson, Ltd.
Copyright © 1968 by Transworld Publishers, Ltd.
This book is set in
Baskerville 9 on 11 Pt.
Corgi books are published by Transworld Publishers, Ltd.,
Century House, 61—63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing,
London, W5 5SA
Made and printed in Great Britain by
Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press), Ltd., Bungay, Suffolk
Conditions of sale
1. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
2. This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of Sale of Net Books and may not be re-sold in the U.K. below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.
CHAPTER ONE
OLE DEVIL GIVES THE WORD
IT was a man’s room. The furniture was good and comfortable but without any of the softer frills a woman would give to it. Over the big open-fronted fireplace hung the battleflag of the Confederated States of America, the Stars and Bars. Flanking the bullet-scarred flag hung two cavalry pennants, each also marked by bullets. Beneath them, obviously in a place of honour, was a shining, polished oak box, the lid open, the red felt caressing and holding two magnificently chased, pearl-butted and gold inlaid Colt Cavalry Peacemakers. On the lid of the box was a brass plate with the inscription:
COCHISE COUNTY FAIR PISTOL SHOOT
WINNER
CAPTAIN DUSTY FOG
Fanning out from the flags, hung on pegs, were revolvers and pistols. The line of Colt revolvers, from the first Paterson model, up through the Walker, the Dragoons, the Navies, the Wells Fargo, the conversion of the 1860 Army cap and ball by Richardson or by Thuer, the Peacemaker and the Lightning. Beyond them were other handguns, single-shot Remington cartridge guns, deadly pistols of a bygone age. There, mixed among the others, looking like a sawed-off Winchester rifle with a pistol butt, was a Volcanic; next to it a European-made ten-shot, pinfire revolver, smuggled through the Yankee blockade to aid the arms-starved Confederacy.
The man who sat in the wheelchair fitted well into this martial setting. He was tall, spare and hard looking. Not even the years he’d spent in the wheelchair had bowed his shoulders or relaxed the ramrod straight back in the coat of a Confederate Army General. His lean, tanned, fighting man’s face, the eyes black and piercing, the hooked nose and the tight, firm mouth with the tiniest hint of a grin at the corners, showed nothing of self-pity. He sat his chair as he’d always sat his horse, straight, and with the air of a man long used to command. He was Ole Devil Hardin, owner of the biggest ranch in this section of Texas, if not the biggest in the whole of the Lone Star State.
Right now he was relaxing, frosty eyes looking down unseeing at the book on his lap, mate to the many on the shelves at the far end of the room. He was, perhaps, thinking of the days when he commanded the Texas Light Cavalry in the War Between The States. Whatever the reason for his reverie, he paid no attention when the door opened behind him.
‘Is there any word from Dusty yet. sir?’
The voice, an easy and even Texas drawl, came from behind him, and brought him swinging the chair around to look at the speaker. The black eyes showed nothing of his thoughts, but his lips broke in a rare smile at the words. It was so like young Waco to ask this. He’d asked it nearly every day since the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, left with a herd for Texas John Slaughter over to Cochise County, Arizona. Waco gave to Dusty Fog the loyalty, devotion and hero-worship which would have gone to his father, had not Waco Indians left him an orphan almost from birth.
‘I heard from him when the mail came in this morning, boy. The Kid’s not fit enough to ride just yet, about another week and they’ll be on their way back home.’
Waco grinned at this. He was still hoping for a chance to saddle his big paint stallion and head for Escopeta County, New Mexico, and help Dusty Fog and Mark Counter find the men who shot down the Ysabel Kid. Now there was going to be no excuse for it and he would have to carry on his work with the floating outfit here at the O.D. Connected.
He was a tall, young man, over six foot, with wide shoulders and a lean, trim waist. His face was tanned by the elements, handsome and young looking, his blond hair curly and taken straight back. In dress he could be mistaken for nothing but what he was; a Texas cowhand and a good one at that. He’d hung his low-crowned, wide-brimmed J. B. Stetson on the peg behind the door and was now hanging up the buscadero gun-belt on the hook, the matched, staghorn-butted Colt Artillery Peacemakers in the holsters. Around his throat was a tight-rolled, long, blue silk bandana, the ends falling down over his dark blue shirt and calfskin vest. His brown levis hung outside his high-heeled. fancy-stitched and costly boots. The boots themselves had Kelly spurs at the heels and were real, genuine Justins.
After his query into Dusty Fog’s welfare, Waco crossed the room and sat at a side table, taking up the deck of cards which lay on the table ready for use. Two more men followed him into the room and were hanging their hats on the hooks.
The first was as tall as Waco, just as well built, though not so trimmed down towards the hips. His hair was a violent red, curly, rumpled and untidy as if it rarely felt the mercies of comb and brush. His face was freckled, tanned and handsome, a happy untroubled face. His clothes showed him to be as much a Texas cowhand as Waco and, unless the sign read wrong, one of the top water. The bandana around his throat was of silk and brilliantly coloured. He stripped the heavy gunbelt with the twin, walnut-handled Colt Cavalry Peacemakers butt forward in the holsters, and put it under his hat.
The last of the trio was also tall, though not as tall as Waco or Red Blaze. He was slimmer, his face studious, pallid with a tan-resisting pallor, mild almost. Yet for all of that he wore the dress of a tophand cowboy and the gunbelt around his waist, with the ivory-butted Colt Civilian Peacemaker at his right side spelled only one thing. Here was a fast man with a gun. The only difference between this man, Doc Leroy and the other two was that he invariably wore a brown coat, the right side stitched back to leave him clear and fast access to his gun.
These three young men, Waco, Red Blaze and Doc L
eroy were members of the elite of the O.D. Connected Ole Devil’s floating outfit. They, along with Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid, were the floating outfit, picked men, skilled with cattle and all branches of the cattle industry, but also skilled in the use of their guns. They alone of the ranch crew had access to this room here, Ole Devil’s library. Here Waco spent much of his spare time, improving his education from the books in the library, cleaning or just examining the guns, or playing poker with .Doc Leroy, practising the skills of a crooked gambler.
Right now, poker was in the offing and Waco gave the cards a fast riffle stack then said, ‘You playing, Red?’
‘Not me, boy. I like to play fair when I play.’
Waco chuckled and gave the cards a fast riffle again, passing them to Doc to cut. Doc was no mean hand with the paste-boards himself and their games were not so much poker playing as a battle of wits as each tried to outcheat the other.
Red Blaze joined his uncle, answering questions about the work they’d done on the range that day. Then he took up a newspaper which lay on the table and opened it out. The front page was typical of the day, nothing out of the ordinary on it. He looked down the columns where the news was recorded and an editorial damned Sam Bass’s efforts at train robbery. Then another item caught his eye.
‘You hail from the Ranse country, don’t you, Waco?’
‘That where I started out from,’ Waco agreed as he flipped a desired card from the centre of the deck for the first time without Doc detecting him.
‘There’s a rancher been murdered up there. Him and his two sons. Name of Sunshine Sam Catlan—’
The cards fell from Waco’s hands. He thrust back his chair and came to his feet. His usually expressionless face was hard and set and his voice brittle and cold. ‘What did you say, Red?’
Crossing the room Waco took the paper and looked down the columns of print until he saw what Red was talking about. His hands were not as steady as they usually were as he read the item:
PROMINENT RANCHER MURDERED
Today in Hood City, County Seat of Ranse River County, a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown was brought by coroner’s jury investigating the murder of rancher Sunshine Sam Catlan and his two sons, Race and Matthew. Sunshine Sam was noted for . . .
Waco read on through the article, his face losing colour and turning pale under the tan. He crushed the paper in his powerful hands without even knowing what he was doing as he stood still, swaying slightly. Red caught the youngster’s arm, steadying him and easing him into a chair.
‘What is it, boy?’ Ole Devil’s voice cut in gently.
Waco’s head was bowed for a moment then he got a grip of himself and looked up, face drawn. ‘Sunshine Sam and his family raised me after the Indians got my folks. They’d nine kids of their own, but they still took me in. Lost all the kids ‘cepting Race, Matt and Mary Anne. They lost all the others, Indians, illness, accidents. Yet they always treated me just like I was their own. Mary Anne, she was eighteen months older’n me and she looked after me. Used to call me her baby brother. Sam had him some bad luck, lost the kids, then just after I pulled out on my own he made him a killing in a poker game, started to build up the S.S.C. Made it real big, made it by hard work. I always aimed to go back up there and see them again but I never did.’
Red smoothed out the paper, cursing himself for being all kinds of a fool. It must have hit Waco hard, being told that the man who raised him was murdered. He read the article and said, ‘Says here that Mary Anne’s in school back in St. Louis and they’ve sent for her to come back. This paper’s a week old and the killing took place three days afore that. She’ll be nearly on home, not more than a couple of days off it at most.’
‘You’d best go along, boy. She’s going to need some help.’
Waco hardly understood Ole Devil’s quiet spoken words. He was shocked more than ever before in his life. Since he was thirteen he’d ridden with death as a constant companion but never before did it strike so close to him. Sunshine Sam was the only kin he’d ever known. He’d taken him in and made him one of the family; he and his wife couldn’t have treated Waco better had he been one of their own. Now out of all his family only Mary Anne was left. Sunshine Sam’s wife went the year before, according to the paper. Now Mary Anne his little Rusty gal, was alone in the world, going back to the S.S.C. She was going to need a lot of help now her father was dead, murdered by person or persons unknown. Then slowly the meaning of what Ole Devil said came through his jumbled thoughts. Ole Devil was giving him permission to go off; at this time when they were all needed here at the ranch he was allowing a tophand to go off on a mission which might take any length of time. He started to Stammer out his thanks, the words coming awkwardly from his usually glib tongue.
Ole Devil waved the thanks aside and snapped, ‘Red, tell Kiowa he’ll take over as segundo and handle your work for a piece. Doc, check over your gear and see if there’s anything you need. If there’s anything at all you want go collect it from town. You’ll be riding from here at sunup tomorrow.’
Waco could hardly believe his ears. It was now, more than ever before, that he realised why the men of the O.D. Connected would gladly have died for this hard-faced man who ruled them with a rod of iron. Not only was Ole Devil allowing him to go to Ranse River County, but he was also sending along two men who would be of the greatest use in case the murderers of Sunshine Sam Catlan wanted to get the rest of the Catlan family.
‘I—er, I—’ Waco began again, trying to show his gratitude to Ole Devil. Red and Doc were his friends and they were the ones he would want along with him in this, with Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid not being here.
‘You’ve got some riding to do, Doc,’ Ole Devil Hardin cut in before Waco could finish. ‘Go make your check. Red, head down right now and see Kiowa.’ The two turned and left the room and Ole Devil gave his full attention to Waco who was still seated in the chair and staring, without really seeing, at the paper before him. ‘All right now, boy. You stay here and tell me all about Sunshine Sam Catlan.’
CHAPTER TWO
MARY ANNE COMES HOME . . .
‘I’LL give five to one she sells, boys!’
Doctor Henry J. Smethers, sole medico for Ranse River County, glared at the speaker, his usually mild, sun-reddened face showing some anger. The woman who was shouting this speech stopped, studied the doctor for a moment, then came forward with her hand held out in a warm and friendly greeting.
‘Why Doc.’ she said winningly, ‘We don’t often see you in here.’
Della Christine was a beautiful woman and knew it. It showed in the arrogant way her blonde hair was piled up on top of her head, in the beautiful, almost flawless contours of the face with the pouting, sulky lips. It showed in the skin-tight, figure-showing red dress, a dress which was slit to the hip on one side showing her black stockinged shapely legs to anyone who wished to look at them. She wanted them to look, for Della Christine lived only for the admiring glances of men.
Doc Smethers was one man who did not admire her. He was a small, cheery, bald man, fat and passing middle-age. His town clothes were rumpled. his shirt open at the neck and tieless. His admiration for Della was not so large as other men’s for he was not fooled by her. She was something he’d seen from New Orleans to San Francisco and back the long way, a woman preying on the woman-hungry men. It was the way she made her living, and Della Christine was good at it.
The saloon here. Della’s Tavern, was not what one would expect in a small Texas cattle town. There hardly appeared to be sufficient trade for so garish a place. Smethers thought that when the place was built a few months before. It was bigger than most every other place in town, a two storey construction which dwarfed the surrounding buildings on Whittle Town’s Front Street. The saloon inside kept up with the pretentious appearance of the outside, the gaming tables as good or better than could be found even in Hood City, the county seat. The bar was long and of shining mahogany; behin
d it an array of bottles and a long mirror which showed the whole of the room. It was surprising that such a place should be here in this small town, for there did not appear to be any use or need for it.
‘I see you’re betting that Mary Anne Catlan sells the S.S.C.’ Doc ignored the hand, his voice mild compared with Della’s strident tones.
‘Sure, Doc,’ Della threw back her head and laughed. ‘What would a milk-faced dude like her want with a ranch?’
Smethers held down a smile. Mary Anne Catlan was far from a milk-faced dude. She’d been as wild and reckless a tomboy as could be found in the West. The Catlan family were proud of her prowess on the back of a horse or in a hair-yanking battle with some other girl. She’d been sent to the Eastern school in the hope it would teach her the social graces which Sunshine Sam thought she needed. Today she was due back; would be coming in on the stage which would soon arrive.
Doc studied Della for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll lay fifty dollars on that, with you.’
‘It’s a real foolish chance, Doc,’ Della answered.
‘I doubt it. Besides I make enough when Brarsand’s guns shoot each other up.’
Della frowned. She did not like Smethers’ attitude. She was used to respect from men and the old doctor never showed her any. She did not care for anyone talking in such a manner about her boss, Carl Brarsand. Her fingers drummed on the bar as she frowned at Doc, then she said something which under normal circumstances she would not have thought of saying:
