by J. T. Edson
Dillis made no attempt to defend himself or say a word to Waco. He hung on the bar, blood trickling down his chin and a scared glint in his eyes. His business in Two Forks was very good and he’d be lucky to get any sort of a price for his place in the short time at his disposal. One thing he knew for sure, he was going to be long gone by the time the deadline passed; a Texan did not give out with that particular warning without he meant every single word of it.
Turning, Waco faced the crowd. ‘I want this place cleared,’ he warned. ‘Two of you tote this hombre to the jail for me.’
There was a mass departure from the saloon; a man did not argue with a tough peace-officer like Drifter Smith. So they left and Dillis’ saloon was closed down permanently; the toughest, most crooked place in the town, yet it was emptied and deserted within fifteen minutes of Waco’s arrival. Only a dead body lying in a pool of blood showing that the law was in Two Forks and aimed to stay there.
Von Schnabel heard the news and flew into a rage. Dillis meant nothing to him and knew nothing of his plans, but the man had been a useful ally. Now Dillis was making plans for a rapid departure from the town and wanting a price for his saloon in the threat of telling Drifter Smith who laid on the plan.
Instead of being dead, Drifter Smith was very much alive. Worse, he was even more popular among the many people who wanted to see their town tamed and cleaned up. He was coming into the public eye more and more all the time and Von Schnabel knew that he’d helped make it possible.
CHAPTER FIVE
A BUSY DAY FOR DRIFTER SMITH
IN the days which followed, Waco found himself too busy to try to solve the mystery of the Gatling gun’s magazine. Posters stating ‘DRIFTER SMITH FOR SHERIFF’ appeared around town and although Waco had been sponsored by the banker and gunsmith, everybody knew Ella Baker stood behind him. He ran the law fairly and without fear. Folks talked of how he stood against the Ladies Social and Civic Improvement Society when they demanded that he closed the two brothels, stating that as long as the houses comported themselves quietly and honestly he would not interfere with their performance of a needed service. His stand raised him even in the eyes of several husbands sent to lodge formal complaints about his discourtesy. One tricky moment came when an old friend, professional gambler Frank Derringer, shot a man during a card game. Derringer had been in the right and their friendship did not come to light. Although several days in town, Derringer made no mention of Waco’s true identity and gave no hint of knowing the Texan.
By the eve of election day Waco knew himself to have built up a strong following in the county. He also found himself thinking that it never rained but what it poured. Not only had all the local ranchers paid off their crews, the cowhands flocking into town for the celebrations, but two freight outfits and a wagon train added their quota to the work on the lawmen’s hands.
Early in the evening all three deputies converged on Bonnie Hendrick’s brothel, brought by the noise of ten or so cowhands mixed in a fight.
There was no hesitation in the way Waco acted. He was at the scene ahead of Bix and saw Simon approaching from the other side even as he went into action. He grabbed two of the fighters by the scruffs of their necks, cracked their heads together and pitched them apart. Then he was into the rest, hard fists shooting out and sending the men staggering. His sudden arrival and fast tactics took the fighters completely by surprise. One of them caught a punch and landed flat on his back, his opponent started to throw a punch at Waco, only to get it blocked, then a rock hard fist caught him under his jaw and stretched him flat by the man he’d been fighting.
The fight broke up and the cowhands stood or sat staring at the three lawmen who surrounded them. Every one of the fighting group expected to be hauled off to jail and it came as a surprise when Waco asked:
‘What happened?’
‘Shucks, twarn’t nothing,’ one of the hands answered, holding his jaw. ‘Me’n the rest of the Lazy J boys here was just coming to Bonnie’s and we saw the Box O’s here coming. Started in to discussing them out of it. What’d you bit me with, Drifter? I feel like I been kicked by a knobhead.’
Waco could see that there was nothing more serious than friendly rivalry between the two outfits. The fact that fists and not guns were used in the fight showed that only cowhand high-spirits were involved. He’d been on a spree and in such friendly fights himself and knew how little it meant. However, he needed to give them a warning.
‘Just get one thing into your fool heads,’ he snapped. ‘There’s a bunch in this town that wants the houses closing down. You bunch pulling fool games like this outside don’t help to keep them open.’
Bonnie Hendricks licked her lips and her face flushed angrily. She knew of the moves to get her closed down and had seen other places closed by a man seeking public acclaim during an election. She quite expected that she would either be closed or that a large bribe, termed ‘campaign funds’, would be called for, even though the Texan had not demanded such so far. He must have been waiting for just such a moment and the bite, when it came, would be very heavy.
‘Smith,’ she said, meaning to get down to business and to hell with doing it in private, ‘I—’
‘Howdy, ma’am,’ replied Waco, removing his hat. ‘Take the boys in and give them something for their heads.’
‘You mean you’re not closing me down?’ she gasped.
‘Why for, ma’am?’ replied Waco, putting his hat on again. ‘They weren’t in your place when the fighting started and you’d no part in starting it.’
Bonnie gulped. She was not used to this sort of treatment from a peace-officer, especially as she was known to favour Von Schnabel in the elections. She looked at the cowhands who were getting to their feet, grinning sheepishly at her and at each other.
‘Go on in, boys,’ she said. ‘Tell Jack the drinks are on me.’
Before Bonnie could follow the cowhands into the house Waco stopped her. He gave her a gentle spoken warning. ‘One thing, ma’am. You don’t have any trouble as long as there’s no wild parties, drunk rolling or cat-fights——’
‘Did Ella Baker tell you that I allowed those sort of things?’
‘Don’t recollect Mrs. Baker ever saying anything much about you, except that you and Miss Meg run clean houses,’ replied Waco, tipping his hat to her. He took out some money and passed it to the woman. ‘Buy the boys a drink on me. Then tell them there’s a nice, big, wide open country outside the town limits all set for them to start fighting in.’
A man wearing a striped apron came running up yelling, ‘There’s going to be some trouble at the Brown Doll Saloon.’
Waco and his deputies turned and headed back towards Colorado Street and the woman watched them go. She’d never come across a lawman like Drifter Smith. Any other, almost every other she’d known, would have closed her; extracted a bribe for allowing her to stay open; or at worst expected her to buy drinks in his name all night. Drifter Smith had done none of these things. He even paid for the round of drinks himself.
The leaders of the two ranch crews were standing at the door of the house. ‘Sorry about that, Bonnie,’ one said. ‘Man, that Drifter Smith sure packs him a mean right hand. There’s a whole lot of lawmen who’d have taken us all to jail, some of us with broken heads.’
‘Sure would,’ agreed the other. ‘I tell you, Pete, Drifter Smith’s the best man for the Box O.’
Bonnie Hendricks followed the two cowhands into her place and closed the door, wondering if perhaps Drifter Smith was not the man for her also
Waco and the other two deputies arrived at the Brown Doll Saloon, one of the larger and better-class places of the town. They forced their way in through the doors in time to prevent a full-scale battle between the cowhands and the saloon staff.
‘Hold it!’ Waco ordered, coming through the batwings with Bix and Simon fanned out behind him.
Brown, the owner, looked considerably relieved. ‘Arrest this bunch, deputy!’ he yelled.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Brown squealed like a stuck pig. He was not a Von Schnabel supporter and thought merely demanding the arrest of the cowhands would be all Waco needed to hear. ‘Why?’ he repeated.
‘Sure, but that’s not the answer.’
‘Lookee here, deputy,’ said a grizzled old cowhand, stepping forward. ‘The bardog got ole Nimble here,’ he indicated a vacant-looking cowhand, ‘to take a bet for his month’s pay on a go of One Flop. Then tried to use a slick cup on him. Ole Nimble surely annoyed the bardog when he starts to whirl that slick cup round and drop out five little old sixes.’
Waco went to the bar, taking the leather dice cup and five dice from the top of the counter. The inside of the cup was smoothed down to a fine finish and Waco knew why. The five dice were loaded to throw sixes when the cup was worked in a special way. The ordinary player would place the dice in the cup, shake them and then throw, counting whatever his score was. At One Flop, just one throw decided the game, the score was added up and the other man must try to beat it. The crooked player counted his opponent’s score, then took the cup and instead of shaking, moved it up and down with a rotating action. The centrifugal force lined up the dice with the unweighted six sides ready to throw, then they were thrown out parallel to the bar top, the crook giving a slight forward shove and quick pull back to drop the five sixes in plain view. Usually the cheater would not have the dice all weighted to come out sixes, but must have thought the vacant-looking cowhand would be dumb enough to fall for it.
Waco could imagine the consternation when the lamb for the slaughter used the same method to throw an unbeatable score. It must have been just the same as if a lamb had turned round and pole-axed the butcher.
Waco grinned, slipping the dice in the cup and turning it until he felt the five dice laying dead, then slid them forward. The five sixes were exposed to view and he turned back to Brown. The man was livid with anger.
‘That damned cowhand tried to rook me,’ he snarled. ‘I want him arrested.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Waco. ‘Bix, take the cowhand to jail. Simon, take Mr. Brown along for running a crooked game. The cup’s your’n, isn’t it?’
Brown looked almost fit to be tied. ‘Sure the cup’s mine. But I didn’t know it was worked on. I’d never even heard of slick cups.’
‘Waal, give back the stake money, call off the arrest and thank this cowhand for saving you some bad trouble later on,’ Waco drawled. ‘It’s one or the other.’
The saloon keeper was in an awkward spot. He’d guessed his bartender was swindling customers but was not sure how. The man was very good at his other work and Brown had not wanted to fire him. Now he was left with the choice of letting the charge against Nimble drop, or being jailed himself.
‘All right, damn it,’ he snarled. ‘Forget it. Get them cowhands out of here. I was going to give you my vote tomorrow.’
‘Now you don’t aim to,’ Waco replied.
For all that he was not worried. He might have lost one man’s vote but he’d be willing to bet he’d made many more.
The saloon was cleared of hostile cowhands, business was resumed and Brown got rid of his dice cups.
After leaving the Brown Doll, Waco went to the deputies’ quarters at the jail and took time out to change his shirt. A slight sound brought Waco’s attention to the door, moving with near silent feet in a manner which was not calculated to make Waco feel easy in his mind. People rarely sneaked around the rear of the jail without having some sinister reason for so doing. So Waco took precautions. He moved to the side of the door, flattened against the wall with his right-hand Colt ready for use. His hand reached down towards the door handle, ready to tear it open and go out fast, when he saw something white being slipped under the door: ‘DRIFTER SMITH.’
The young Texan did not bend down immediately; he heard the sound of fast departing feet and looked around. His rifle was in its saddleboot and hung above the bed, so he reached out, drawing the Winchester and then used it to pull the letter towards him. He knew that an attempt on his life might be in the offing, a man waiting outside with a gun lined ready to pump lead through the door towards whoever picked up the letter.
There was no shot, nothing at all, as Waco bent and took up the letter. He shoved the rifle back into the boot and sat down on the bed to rip the envelope and take out a plain, cheap sheet of writing paper on which was printed a message in the same neat hand.
‘Tomorrow morning the stage will be held up at that dry-wash three miles out of town. Expect five men in the gang.’
There was no signature and Waco did not expect one. He sniffed at the letter, a smile coming to his lips. The writer took care that the handwriting would not be recognised, but that faint smell of perfume told him all he needed to know.
At that moment, Waco heard voices in the office so stepped through the door to find Bix Smith taking a couple of men to the cells.
‘Found ‘em rolling a drunk,’ the old deputy remarked as he brought the keys of the cells back and laid them on the desk. ‘What you got there?’
‘A letter from a lady,’ Waco replied. ‘And it wasn’t Mrs. Trenard apologising and telling me all’s forgiven. What do you make of this?’
Bix took the letter, reading it, then handed it back and replied wisely, ‘The stage’s going to be held up tomorrow morning.’
‘Naw!’ replied Waco, showing his amazement at such brilliance. ‘How’d you work that out all on your tired ole self? What do you know about it, Bix?’
‘Know the drywash they mean,’ the old-timer answered. ‘Thought plenty of times how good a place it’d be for a hold-up, ‘cepting it’s a mite too near town.’
‘Reckon I’ll go out there in the morning,’ Waco remarked.
‘Folks might start believing there was no respect for the law happen a bunch of owlhoots pulled a raid so close to town.’
CHAPTER SIX
THE HOLD-UP
WACO got little sleep the night before Election Day, but he’d missed sleep before and doubted if another night would harm him. The jail cells held a fair crowd, mostly drunks who’d been brought in. Some were hauled in asleep; some came quietly, or noisily; just a couple made it the hard way and would have painful heads beyond a mere hangover when they woke, for the three lawmen were busy and applied the barrel of a revolver when it was called for rather than waste time. There was no serious crime and only the one shooting. This was a tribute to the fast and very efficient way in which Waco administered the law, ably backed by Bix and Simon.
He was shaving when Bix opened his eyes and groaned, ‘Can’t you sleep none?’
‘Not the,’ replied Waco, eyeing the old deputy critically. 1 ain’t old and with one foot in the grave.’
‘Is that right,’ growled Bix, fingering his whiskers tenderly. ‘Waal, I never saw you do nothing to help me when I need it wust.’
‘Not me. I’ve got more sense than tangle with two gals like that. I went for help, didn’t I?’
Bix snorted. There’d been a fight between two drunken dance-hall girls outside the Guesthouse, and when Bix tried to separate them they had turned on him, both taking a healthy hold of his whiskers and yanking them hard. Waco took the easy way out; he went to the Twin Bridge and fetched along Molly, the tough lady bartender, who ended the fight by cracking the girls’ heads together.
‘Whyn’t you go stop them, you was there first?’
‘Me?’ Waco replied, looking horrified. ‘Why, it ain’t fitting for the third deputy to take over from the first.’ He paused, grinning broadly. ‘It surely was a sight when they tailed down on your whiskers.’
Bix did not see the humour of the situation, nor did Simon, who scowled from under the blankets. He growled a plaintive desire to be let sleep until it was daylight and Bix snorted angrily.
‘I surely hopes they feel as sore in the head as I feel in the whiskers.’
‘There’ll be some as’ll say you should have brung Frank Derringer in, boy,’ Simon
remarked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘Why? He was playing a fair game. The Judge told me to use my own judgement in cases like that, so I did. I’ve known ole Derry a long time and never once known him to cheat at cards.’
‘How about that letter, boy?’ Bix inquired. ‘The stage’ll be along there at about nine. Ole Axel, the driver, don’t never run more than a couple of minutes late. It’s one of the things he boasts about.’
‘I’m going out there to take a look, be a fool not to.’
‘Want one of us along?’ asked Simon.
‘Nope. It’ll take both of you to tend to things here in town. There’s only five in the gang and they’ll likely not be hanging about and doing any fighting.’
With that, Waco slid his rifle from the saddleboot, cleaned it and slid a full twelve bullet load into the magazine. Next he cleaned and reloaded his matched Colts; if there was a fight he did not aim to be unprepared. After eating his breakfast he collected his big paint stallion and headed out of town. It was not much after seven o’clock and the town was silent, deserted, resting after the hectic previous night’s celebrations.
Waco left town over the Colorado river bridge, behind Ella Baker’s saloon. He saw a curtain at one of the upper windows draw aside but did not try and see who was watching him. He rode along the stage trail, keeping a careful watch around him. It could possibly be a trap, luring him away from town for an ambush, but he doubted it. Allowing the big paint to make a good pace Waco examined the land ahead of him. He’d ridden along the stage trail, exercising his horse, a couple of times since his arrival and knew the place well. It was the only one of its kind within three miles of the town and he’d looked it over once before as a possible place for a hold-up, discarding the idea as being too close to town.
