by J. T. Edson
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
About The Drifter
One – Ella Baker’s Saloon
Two – Drifter Smith, From Texas
Three – Drifter Smith Intervenes
Four – Coming Into the Public Eye
Five – A Busy Day for Drifter Smith
Six – The Hold-Up
Seven – Beth Morrow Comes to Town
Eight – Beth Morrow Helps a Stray
Nine – Texas Proves His Worth
Ten – Texas Reads Sign
Eleven – Some of Drifter Smith’s Kin
Twelve – Captain Fog Takes Over
Thirteen – Beth Morrow Meets Her Mother
Fourteen – Waco Wins a Bet
Fifteen – Von Schnabel’s Challenge
Sixteen – If You Can’t Lick ’em, Join ’em
Copyright
About the Author
When Waco moseys into Two Forks, Utah, he orders up more than the cowhand special. What he gets for his two bits is a double dose of fast-shooting trouble. Five of the meanest toughs to ever saddle a stool at the Twin Bridge Saloon are hell-bent on pumping lead into Waco's hide. And a few well-aimed slugs teach them that the quick-drawing Texan is the wrong man to tangle with.
Obliging a passel of no-account gunslingers with a shooting lesson is only a start to the troubles waiting for Waco in Two Forks. Aiming to rid the lawless town of every pistol-packing varmint, Waco fixes to pin on a sheriff's tin star. But first he's gotta face a rattlesnake of a rival whose venom has already sent one sheriff to his grave...
WACO 5: THE DRIFTER
By J. T. Edson
First published by Transworld Publishers in 1968
Copyright © 1968, 2017 by J. T. Edson
First Smashwords Edition: August 2017
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
One – Ella Baker’s Saloon
The first thing Waco saw as he entered the Twin Bridge Saloon in the town of Two Forks, Utah Territory, was the complete lack of male help. The saloon was large, spacious, clean looking; but behind the polished mahogany bar, waiting on the tables, handling the dealing at the faro, vingt-un and chuck-a-luck layouts were girls. The only two men who worked in the place were never, or only rarely, seen in business hours, they were a couple of stove-up old cowhands who were employed as swampers.
If Waco was looking around him with interest, the occupants of the saloon were giving him their attention in return. They saw a tall, wide-shouldered, blond-haired, handsome young Texas cowhand. It showed in his low-crowned, wide-brimmed, expensive Stetson hat, which was pushed back from the curly blond hair. The face was tanned, young looking and handsome. It was a strong face, the blue eyes meeting a man’s without flinching, the mouth firm yet looking as if it would smile easily. Around his throat was knotted a scarlet silk bandana which hung long ends almost to the waistband of his brown levis, over his dark blue shirt. On his feet were star-decorated, high-heeled, made-to-measure boots with Kelly spurs. Around his waist was a brown leather buscadero gun-belt and in the holsters reposed a matched brace of staghorn-butted Colt Artillery Peacemakers. The holsters told a tale to a man who knew the West. This young man wore the clothing of a tophand of the cattle business, but the two holsters were those of a real fast man with a gun. They were cut to the contours of the guns, leaving clear and easy access to the trigger guards of the revolvers and flaring the butts out so as to be easily lifted clear. The tips of the holsters were tied down, another sign.
He moved from the door, sitting at an empty table and looking up at the pretty girl-waiter who came to him. She ignored his look and stared pointedly at a large sign on the wall over the door. Waco followed her gaze, reading: “CHECK YOUR GUNS HERE”.
“Why I tell you, ma’am,” he said, his voice a pleasant Texas drawl. “Was I to take ’em off I’d surely get so light I’d float away. That being so I’ll take me the cowhand special.”
The girl made no attempt to move, her eyes went to the two women who stood by the bar.
Ella Baker, a medium-sized woman in her late thirties, stood at the bar talking with her daughter Lynn and watched the byplay between the waitress and Waco. Folks in Two Forks wondered why Ella ran a saloon, but did not complain, for she kept an honest house. She was a good-looking woman, her shapely figure emphasized by a green satin dress.
While Lynn Baker owned girl’s clothing, she rarely wore it. A scarlet silk bandana trailed its ends over a black male shirt which tucked into blue jeans that showed off a slim, but shapely figure. Boyishly short black hair framed a pretty, tanned face which never felt cosmetics. Around her waist hung a gunbelt with a pearl-handled Colt Lightning .41 revolver in its cross-draw holster.
The reason for Lynn’s skill with a gun and her wearing men’s clothing most of the time came from being brought up by her father on a ranch in Wyoming. Ella and her husband separated soon after Lynn was born, the husband keeping Lynn on in the wild Hole in the Wall country, where she lived the life of a boy rather than a girl.
Before Lynn’s father died he wrote to Ella, who sent for Lynn to come along and live with her. Lynn did not wish to, but her friends insisted she did so. Lynn joined her mother in the thriving town of Two Forks and now, after six months, was completely devoted to the woman she could barely remember.
Ella caught the signal from the waitress but before she could reply, Lynn gave an angry snort.
“The nerve of that drifter,” she snorted angrily. “I’ll soon make him hand over his guns.”
“No, let it ride!” Ella replied, voice low and urgent. “He’s not just a dressed-up cowhand. He’s one of the good guns.”
“I’ve seen better,” answered Lynn. “We can’t
Ella’s hand caught her daughter’s arm, holding it. Her voice grew harder as she snapped, “Stop it, Lynn! I said cut it out!”
In the early days of their association Lynn tried to rebel against her mother’s will; but only once. The memory of the thrashing it brought her remained long after the ache had left Lynn’s saddle-toughened seat. Lynn learned her lesson that day and, strangely, was more devoted and respectful to her mother after it.
Lynn felt surprised at her mother’s attitude. Usually Ella insisted that the gun-checking rule be carried out and Lynn could see no reason why the Texan rated different treatment.
The batwing doors of the saloon were thrown open and five men trooped in. They were clearly on the prod and Ella felt scared. Before she could say a word to prevent her daughter moving, Lynn was crossing the room towards the men.
The five stood inside the doors, a tall dark-haired, handsome gambler in the center, his coat shoved back to expose the black gunbelt with the rosewood-handled, nickelled Colt in the gunfighter’s holster. At his right stood a tall, good-looking, dandy-dressed youngster wearing range clothes and with a low-tied Colt at his side. At the other side stood a short, swarthy man wearing dude clothes; a sly and vicious-looking man. The other two were typical hired guns, the kind who would sell their Colts and such loyalty as they felt necessary, to the highest bidder and stay fairly loyal until the pay no longer came.
“All right, Matt Kyte,” Lynn said. “Check your
guns in.”
The gambler threw back his head and laughed. “You hear that, boys?” he whooped. “A dame in pants giving men orders.”
“Yeah,” leered the young gunhand. “Only we ain’t taking them. See, girlie, we’re tired of taking orders from a skirt.”
“That’s right,” went on the small dude. “Ole Matt here says we should go for a drink.”
“Sure you can,” Lynn agreed. “We wouldn’t stop even you drinking here. But you check your guns first and you behave.”
“Behave, huh?” Kyte grunted, then nodded to one of the gunmen who kicked a chair over. “You mean like that?”
The customers and the girls were watching, ready to get under cover, for they knew Lynn was not the sort to take this treatment. Ella, face pale, moved along the bar and without needing to be told what to do, Molly, biggest of the bartenders, lifted the Merwin and Hullbert revolver and laid it on the bar top, sliding it to Ella, then lifting out a sawed-off shotgun.
“You’d best get out, Kyte,” Lynn warned, her hand lifting towards her belt.
“There she goes again,” Kyte snorted. “Ordering folks about. The gunbelt makes her think she’s a man. We’ll have to treat her like one.”
Waco was watching every move. The five men were set on trouble, that he was sure of. He was also sure that he could not sit by and watch the girl cut down. Then Waco’s eyes narrowed, he saw the gambler lift a hand, it brushed against the butt of the gun, pushing down slightly, then lifted to hover the gun butt. It was then Waco knew he must cut in and help. The girl looked capable enough but she did not know the danger she was in.
“Hold it!”
Waco’s warning came as he pushed back his chair and stood up, facing the five men. They turned their attention to this new factor in the game, eyes taking in every detail of his dress and armament. Waco stood without moving, allowing the men to look, his hands hung by the matched, staghorn grips of his Colts, ready to move and turn all hell loose.
“Who asked you to bill in?” Kyte asked.
“I’m in, likewise I’m asking you to leave peaceable and let me eat my food.”
“Yeah?” sneered Kyte, glancing at the others. “Well, I—”
“I requested it,” Waco drawled evenly. “Hereby I demonstrates.”
The crowd let out a concerted gasp. The five men stood without a movement, frozen fast and solid. Waco’s hands had moved, and how they’d moved. The matched guns were out, the five-and-a-half-inch barrels lining on the men.
There was not a move from Kyte’s bunch; the young gunman had begun what he fondly imagined to be a fast draw, but now stood with his hands a scant half inch from his gun butt. The others were not making a move, they’d no intention of doing so. A man did not learn to draw as fast as that without attaining a considerable accuracy in calling his shots after the draw.
“That, gentlemen,” the soft-drawled voice went on, “is the third fastest draw in Texas.”
Staring at Waco in admiration, Lynn suddenly realized this was the man she spoke so airily of disarming on his arrival.
For a moment Kyte’s eyes met those of the Texan, then he looked down at the floor again, and growled, “Who asked you to cut in?”
“Just say I’m a hide-bound natural homer-inner,” answered Waco. “I’m in, gambling man, and in I stay. Unless you and your four brave amigos want to take me out again.” There did not appear to be any great delight at this offer so Waco went on, “Lift your hand, gambling man.” He saw the eager glint in Kyte’s eyes and punctured his pleasure at birth. “Do it fast or slow and I’ll string along.”
The words hit Kyte hard, especially the way one of them was emphasized. A look of hate and anger crossed his face. The Texan knew his ace in the hole, knew it, could copper the bet and call “keno” at the end of it. The gun in the trick holster was still a good bet for a man to call on, all it needed was the sense to back the play to the end. If he started to use the gun he would have to back it to the end. Kyte knew that he could see no sign of worry or indecision on the young Texan’s face.
Slowly Kyte started to lift his hand. The other men tensed for they knew the secret of the trick holster. They were ready to back Kyte if he called the play but were leaving it to him.
Lynn stood watching; she saw Kyte’s hands lift. Suddenly the gun kicked up out of the holster and started to fall towards the floor, only to be arrested by a thin black cord which was looped around the gun-butt and invisible against the black of his jacket. She gasped, this was a trick she’d never seen or heard of before and one which would have taken her by surprise.
“There’s a spring in the bottom of the holster,” Waco said, seeing the amazement on the girl’s face. “I figured you didn’t know that one.”
Kyte stood still, face working in rage. The trick holster was costly and now the secret was out he could never rely on it again. His temper made him snarl out a threat at the man who had humiliated him.
“You’ll be sorry you cut in, drifter!”
Waco’s right-hand Colt roared, the cord suspending Kyte’s gun was cut and the rosewood-handled Colt started to fall. Before it hit the floor, Waco’s left-hand Colt crashed, kicking back against his palm, the bullet smashing Kyte’s Colt in midair and knocking it across the room. Then, almost before the colt hit the floor, Waco’s matched guns whirled on his fingers and went back into leather.
“Like the lady said,” he drawled. “Either check the guns or leave.”
Although the four men looked to their leader for guidance, he gave them none. Kyte’s boss did not care for failure, but the gunman had no way of carrying out his orders. Turning, he walked towards the door and the others followed.
Waco grinned at Lynn, looking about fifteen years old as he did. “Reckon I could have a meal now, ma’am?” he asked. “Without checking my guns?”
Lynn chuckled, there was admiration in her eyes. “Sure, it’s on the house.”
Ella Baker looked thoughtful, studying Waco with interest. She slid the gun along the bar top and without even looking Molly caught it, placed it and the shotgun under the counter, then went on serving.
Waco was just sitting down when Ella walked towards him. He pushed back his chair and came to his feet politely. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m the owner of this place. Lynn’s my daughter. May we join you?”
“Be my pleasure, ma’am,” Waco replied, pulling Ella a chair out. Lynn took her own, kicking her leg over the back and sitting down as if mounting a horse.
Ella noticed the young man did not offer his name, not even after she introduced herself and Lynn to him. She made no attempt to get his name for she’d a shrewd idea who he was and what he was doing here. She offered him a drink but he refused, saying he wanted a meal, and was then going to find work.
“You said the third fastest double draw in Texas,” she said, checking her suspicions as to his identity. “Who’re the other two?”
“Dusty Fog and Mark Counter, ma’am.”
“Are you staying in town?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, a man likes to try eating regular and I’m not overlong on cash. I allowed to head out and get me a riding chore.”
“The town needs a lawman,” Ella remarked. “A good man. There’s an election for sheriff in a fortnight. The right man could get in.”
“Sure, ma’am. I’m not known hereabouts and not likely to get known.”
Ella did not reply for a moment. She glanced at the barroom, her girls were busy working among the customers who were in at this early hour. Then she studied Waco again. The visit from Matt Kyte warned her that she’d almost left things too late, only this young Texan being here prevented a tragic shooting.
“The last place anyone would think of looking for you would be handling the law in a wide open town like this,” she remarked casually. “Especially if you didn’t use your own name. I could help you get known and I think you’d make the kind of lawman I want.”
Waco took his makings from his vest pocket
and rolled a smoke, offering Lynn the sack but she declined. With his smoke going, Waco gave the matter his thought. He needed work, but also needed to keep out of sight for a few more weeks. The Pinkertons were looking for Waco, Captain Mosehan and Doc Leroy. i
The handling of the law in a town like Two Forks was something he was qualified to do. He’d learnt his trade under Dusty Fog in Mulrooney, Kansas, and finished his education as an Arizona Ranger. However, there was something he needed to be sure of before he took on. The answer to the next question would tell him if he should or should not take the job.
“I learned me a rule from Dusty Fog,” he said. “Never take money from two sets of folk. If I take on as law I don’t take sides or play any favorites.”
“Which is just what I want. You know more than a little about crooked gambling, I hear. My games are open to your inspection at any time. I don’t need a man of mine in office, but I do need a fair man. There is only one other candidate for office, Von Schnabel. If he gets in I won’t last a week here.”
“He’s that big?” inquired Waco mildly.
“He runs the Guesthouse across the street from here. Those were five of his men who just came in. And he’s got the backing of every crooked grafter in town.”
“Which same being a fair piece of backing for one man,” said Waco dryly. “How do you stand with the town?”
“Pretty well. I was one of the earliest settlers, ran this place before the boom came. There are a lot of decent folks who want to see the town cleaned up. I could hold Von Schnabel but there’s the floating vote, the fence-sitters who’ll go for the man they think best suited. With what I know of you, and what I could to help they’d go for you.” A man entered the saloon and came to the table. “Hear about Von Schnabel, Miss Ella?” he asked. “Had him a falling out with Matt Kyte and four more of his men, turned them out, fired them.”
“When was this?” asked Waco.
“Early this morning,” replied the man, then headed for the bar.
