by J. T. Edson
“Bah! Why should I do the work of the sheriff’s office?” he snorted. “There are three of you here and that should be enough. I pay heavy taxes to keep three men in office, why should I have to do their work? What are you going to do about this, Smith?”
“That I haven’t decided, yet,” Waco admitted. “And won’t until I get down there and can take a look. Coming, Cousin Bix?”
“Soon as I get me walking cane and spectacles,” replied Bix, going to the wall rack and taking down a ten-gauge shotgun. He broke it, caught the box of shells Simon threw, inserted two into the barrels, put the rest into his pocket and closed the breech. He followed Waco from the office without bothering about the missing walking cane or spectacles.
After the two men left. Von Schnabel let out an angry snort and stalked from the room. Watching the German pass the office window, Simon gave a quiet, contented chuckle.
“Must want to get back to his poker game,” Simon mused, then a grin came to his face. “That lil ole Drifter Smith surely sat him back on his heels.”
A heated discussion raged in the Twin Bridge Saloon as the crowd related Waco’s recent achievements and suggested various exponents of the art of fast draw as his true identity. Taking a chance to extol “Drifter Smith’s” virtues to her friends on the board of County Commissioners, Ella saw no need to interfere with the general discussion until one of the crowd offered Dusty Fog as being Waco’s real name. Ella realized she must change the subject before somebody recalled the boy named Waco who once rode with the Rio Hondo gun wizard. So she took the quickest way to peace by calling for drinks on the house with which to toast Drifter Smith. That ended the discussion. Before it could start again, hooves thundered in the square and several horses halted outside the saloon.
“You in there!” a voice bellowed from outside. “Come out, for we are going to burn down this place of evil.”
“Mormons!” yelled a man, staring through the window.
While the milder spirits in the crowd showed concern, most of the men stated willingness to back Ella in defense of her saloon, Knowing there would be hot-heads in her backing, the woman gave a warning.
“No trouble, boys!” she warned. “I can straighten this out.”
With Lynn at her side and some fifteen men following, Ella stepped from the saloon and looked at the dozen or more bearded, somberly dressed, hard-eyed Mormons who sat their horses in line before the building, each man belting a revolver and cradling a Winchester on his arm. A thin old man sat in the center of the line, his face working in anger.
Although Ella met the old man’s accusing glare without visible flinching, she felt very concerned. For deeply religious people the Mormons could handle their end in any man’s fight and the weapons they carried were far more than a mere bluffing threat.
“What’s your trouble, Elder?” asked Ella.
“Scarlet woman,” replied the Elder, voice pitched high with rage. “A man of my people lost money in your house of sin.”
Ella nodded. “Sure, he came in with a big roll and lost it playing poker.”
The angry murmur which rose from the Mormons met grim silence from Ella’s party who all knew the woman ran an honest place and that the money was won fairly.
“It was my son!” yelled the Mormon Elder. “I sent him into town to buy some supplies and instead of doing so he was lured inside your saloon by one of the painted women and stripped of his wealth.”
“That’s right, he lost his roll. But he lost it fairly.”
The Elder’s face was almost black with rage, his fists, gripping the rifle, shook and Ella thought he would lift it to shoot her down as she stood on the porch. Behind her the men tensed ready to go into action.
“You lie!” the Elder shouted. “You who batten on the flesh of men. Whose painted women rob the poor fools who are enticed into your den of evil!”
“Shut your mouth, old man!” hissed Lynn. “Open it anymore and you’ll be picking lead out of your back teeth.” Waco and Bix Smith came along the street at a run. The young Texan had taken time out to collect the .45/.75 Winchester Centennial rifle from his saddleboot, for he knew that a rifle was an effective means of stopping a mob, almost as effective as the ten-gauge Bix carried.
On reaching the square, Waco took in the situation and knew what must be done. Tossing his rifle to Bix, Waco vaulted on to the Guesthouse’s hitching rail, stepped on to a tethered horse’s saddle from which he caught hold of the building’s balcony and hauled himself over its rail. Being interested in their own affairs, none of the crowd before the Twin Bridge saw the arrival of the law or noticed Bix toss Waco the rifle, then dart across the street.
Resting his left leg on the balcony rail, Waco sighted the rifle and fired two shots, sending dust spurts leaping on either side of the Mormons.
“Up here!” Waco called, rather unnecessarily. All eyes turned to him, seeing the way he stood, the way the rifle was held. He’d fired two shots, but, even with the new model Winchester there were still ten more bullets in the magazine tube and each bullet was powered by a charge of seventy-five grains of powder. “Nobody make a move.”
“What do you want, Gentile?” yelled back the Elder.
“Boot the rifles!” Waco answered, and sent a bullet to knock the Winchester from a Mormon’s hands as the man started to turn and raise the weapon. “I’ll kill the next man to try anything—and that goes for the saloon porch. You! That redheaded feller at the left!”
Knowing Waco meant what he said, the man in question took his hand from his gun.
None of the Mormons offered to boot their rifles and Waco knew why. To do so would put them at the mercy of the men on the porch.
“Mrs. Baker, ma’am!” Waco called. “Tell all your friends to go back inside and take a drink.”
“Says who?” one of Ella’s party asked, noticing the lack of any badge of authority upon the Texan.
“Says Cousin Drifter!”
Bix Smith peered around the end of the Twin Bridge Saloon, his old ten-gauge held hip high but the bore lined on the men.
Seeing the way Waco wanted to handle the affair, Ella told her friends to go back inside the saloon. They noted the grim determination on both lawmen’s faces, knew neither would hesitate to do his duty, and went without question. That left the way clear for dealing with the Mormons.
The men clearly did not take to this idea at all. They none of them trusted the Mormons, but Ella seemed sure of herself. So all but Brentford trooped towards the door. He paused and looked up at Waco, then asked, “Reckon he’d shoot me if I don’t go, Ella?”
“About them rifles, Elder!” called Waco, a hard note creeping into his voice. “I’m getting quite sick of asking.” Before the Elder could speak, a buggy driven by a big, burly Mormon came tearing around the corner. The other Mormons drew back, showing considerable respect to this man as he brought his buggy to a halt between them and the saloon. There was a grim look in his eyes as he studied the men and his voice was hard, commanding, as he asked: “Eli, what does all this mean?”
The rifles slid into saddleboots at the arrival of the man in the buggy. Waco saw his chance to move in, so called, “Hold ’em down, Cousin Bix.”
“Surely so, Cousin Drifter,” Bix yelled back, grinning, for he knew who the man in the buggy was. “Come ahead.” Slipping the safety catch on his rifle. Waco walked along the balcony until clear of the horses then dropped to the ground. He crossed the square and halted by the buggy, but looked at the thin elder.
“What’s all this about?” he asked.
“That’s their bishop, Cousin Drifter,” remarked Bix, indicating the man in the buggy, as he joined the others on the porch.
“That doesn’t answer the question,” replied Waco, “What’s it about, Elder?”
“One of our people was cheated by this Gentile bitch!”
Lynn began an angry objection but Waco stopped her before she could speak. He looked at the old man, his eyes cold and warning, his voice
hard as he drawled: “That’s a hard name, Elder, and a serious charge. Where-at’s this man who says he was cheated?”
The Elder looked uncomfortable. “It was my son. He’s not here.”
“Why not?” asked Waco. “Appears to me that a man growed enough to take hard likker and play poker’s old enough to come and talk for hisself.”
“He was my son. I sent him into town to buy supplies,” replied the Elder, but his voice was not so hard now.
“Instead he was enticed into this den of sin.”
Lynn’s gun came from her holster. “You say that again,” she hissed, “and I’m going to let air into you.”
“Leather it!” Waco snapped and, much to Ella’s surprise, Lynn obeyed. “Alius been told it takes a man who’s sinned to know it, gal.”
“Eli,” the Bishop spoke up. “Your son is a man grown. He should be trusted to come into town and buy supplies without losing the money.”
“Tell us about your son, Elder,” suggested Ella. “He came to town and lost money in my saloon, you say.”
“Five hundred dollars,” snarled the Elder. “Taken by a painted hussy!”
“Mister!” Waco snapped, his voice hard now. “You tell what you’ve got to tell and stop name calling. I’m not going to ask again.”
“I want to hear about the money your son lost, Eli,” said the Bishop.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” growled Bix Smith, moving forward. “Your son’s a tall, black-haired young jasper with a cast in his left eye, ain’t’ he?” The Mormon nodded. “Sure, he came in yesterday, got him his likker along the street and come out with a man who was taking him to Dillis’ place to gamble. I knowed that he’d lose his eyeballs down there and took him along to the Twin Bridge. Miss Ella always gives a square deal. Your son couldn’t play poker with a damn; he even tried to cheat Ella and she cleaned him out in three deals.”
There was an angry rumble from the Mormons at this, for it appeared that one of their kind had been swindled out of money. The Bishop frowned, his eyes going to Ella, then to Waco, as he opened his mouth to speak.
“Now hold on a doggone minute,” Bix ordered. “Let a man finish afore you starts jumping to conclusions. Ella put the money, less ten per cent for her trouble in an envelope and brought it to the jail. We got it locked in the safe right now, just waiting for you to come and collect it.”
“Sounds tolerable fair for a crooked gambling house, don’t it?” asked Waco.
“More than fair,” replied the Bishop, then looked at the Elder. “I will want a full accounting of why these men were brought here in such a manner.”
“Old man,” put in Waco, looking hard at the Elder. “You see how near you come to getting bad trouble? You got one of your men’s rifles bust for him. It could have got worse than that. You could have stirred up bad trouble between your folks and us here in town. Trouble that could have spread through Utah and every other place where there’s Mormons.”
“Words of wisdom from a Gentile,” said the Bishop gently. “I agree with every word of it. You will pay for a new rifle for the man. I will collect your money from the jail, and bring it to you. Now leave and take the others with you.”
Knowing better than to argue with a Bishop, the old man turned and rode away, followed by his men. The watching crowd once more began to talk about the blond Texan they knew as Drifter Smith.
“Now, Bishop,” Ella said. “I’ll come to the jail with you and see the money handed over.”
“If you climb in, ma’am,” he replied, “I’ll drive you.” Simon looked up with interest as Waco’s party, swollen by the presence of Ella and the Bishop, entered the office. “What happened?” he asked. “I heard a shot.”
“I’ve heard one myself, so don’t get all puffed up and boastful about it,” Waco replied and ignored Simon’s grunt as he took the envelope Bix collected from the safe. “Count the money, sir, and sign the receipt, please.”
The Bishop took the envelope and signed the receipt, then turned to Waco and smiled. “You are a brave man. You risked the wrath of your people as well as mine in stopping trouble.”
“That’s what I get paid for,” Waco replied. “The law’s the same for everybody.”
“Perhaps. But there are many lawmen who would not agree with you. The Elder is a foolish man and should never have brought the men to town in such a manner. It is people like him who help breed hatred between our church and your people. I would rather it had not happened.”
“No harm was done, ’cept to that feller’s rifle,” replied Waco. “But the next time your people come to town with a complaint, tell them to bring it to the sheriff’s office and we’ll tend to it. I’m not having wild riding and trouble caused in my town.”
“I will remember, so will my people,” the Bishop promised, looking at Waco with respect. The young Gentile sounded so sure of himself, so certain of his ability to handle any trouble, yet he did not wear any badge of office. “I will go back to my people now. I think Two Forks will be a better place when this is over and with a man like you running the law.”
After the Mormon Bishop left, Waco turned to Ella and grinned. “I’ve not got me a badge yet.”
“Bix can tend to that,” she replied. “You handled that well. I wonder if the Mormons are losing stock?”
“Are the others?”
“Sure, most of the local ranchers have told me they’ve been losing some. Not much but a little,” answered Ella.
“You’ll be expected to do something about that when you take office.”
“If I do,” corrected Waco. “I reckon the folks are blaming the Mormons?”
“For everything, from losing stock to the bad weather.” Waco looked at the woman, realizing that she was probably the best-informed person in the County. There were things he wanted to know about this business, small details that he wanted clearing up and this appeared to be a good time to get them cleared.
“If Von Schnabel’s so well backed, how come he doesn’t just take over as the sheriff, the old one being dead?”
“Because only four people know he is dead,” replied Ella, sitting at the desk. “Bix, Simon, me—and the man who killed him.”
“We’re a big county. It would take a man quite a long time to make a full tour of it,” Ella explained, smiling at Waco’s caution. “Besides, there’ve been at least three letters from him, explaining his absence.”
“I may be dumb,” Waco said slowly. “But how did you come to get letters from the sheriff after he was killed?”
“There’s a man in town—and I won’t tell you who—He made his living signing other people’s checks. He’s a friend of mine and made up letters from the sheriff which passed even Von Schnabel’s rigid inspection. So the killing was no use. The killer could hardly come out and say, “Those letters are forgeries, because I killed the sheriff.” So Von Schnabel had to hold back, could not do anything until the re-election took place.”
Waco smiled. Ella Baker was a shrewd woman who appeared to have covered all the bets in the game. With her able backing there was a chance that he might be able to pull the sheriff’s chore out of the bag. This looked like a nice section for a man to settle in and it would be lively enough even for Waco’s reckless tastes.
“You know what was planned for this morning?” she asked after a moment.
“Sure,” answered Waco and his voice was suddenly hard. “Those five were in there to force a fight with your girl or scare her clean out of town. And I reckon they’d have had to fight her, she wouldn’t scare. Then that loud-sounding hombre was to come in and start to shoot your place up. You’d have your hands full one way or the other and couldn’t handle him. Then Von Schnabel’d show, disarm him and run him out of town. The folks’d say that Von Schnabel was some man, he doesn’t like you but still goes and helps you out.”
“You’ve called the play just right,” Ella said seriously. “Now you can see that you’re up against a desperate and dangerous man.”
“Yes’m,” agreed Waco. “And I aim to beat him. I wouldn’t want to lose to a man who’d set a girl up to be killed.”
Four – Coming Into the Public Eye
On the morning after his arrival in Two Forks, Waco lay in a bed in the deputies’ quarters of the jail and looked to where the coffee pot steamed upon the stove, lit by Simon who had been on night watch.
“Hey, third deputy,” growled a voice from the corner of the room. “You awake yet?”
“Nope,” replied Waco, turning his head to eye Bix grimly.
“Well, when you are, how about getting up and making the coffee?” growled Bix, peering over the blankets with a belligerent glare.
“Don’t you forget I won’t be third deputy for long,” warned Waco. “Then I’ll see there’s some changes made.”
Bix grinned. “Waal, until you are sheriff, I’m still first deputy, so you jest up and make the coffee. Should do it when you gets to be sheriff. Show some respect for your elders.”
“Respect?” Waco grunted, rolling from the bed and reaching for his Levis. “Respect for a worn out ole goat like you?”
The young man pulled on his pants, socks and boots. He stretched, the hard, powerful muscles of his young frame rippling under his skin. He looked at the coffee-pot, saw it was not quite ready, so asked, “Where’d a man get a wash and shave?”
“Pump out thar,” replied Bix disgustedly. “Don’t hold with all this here washing. Alius allow it’d weaken a man.”
Ignoring Bix’s warning, Waco went out back where, after caring for his paint, he washed and shaved. On his return, he had just started to make the coffee when he heard a voice from the office.
“Hey! You in there!”
Recognizing the voice, Waco thrust one of his Colts into his waistband. Then he entered the office and brought a hurried change in Ben Wharton’s attitude. Wharton might have chanced taking an arrogant line with the old deputies, but knew the same would be doomed to certain failure if tried against the blond Texan.
“Come along to pay for the damage and collect me guns.”
