by J. T. Edson
“Sure,” Waco drawled, eyeing Wharton with disdain. “Figger thirty dollars’d cover the damage you did, the fine you’d get from the Judge and all. Shell out and look happy.”
“Thirty dollars!” Wharton yelped. “That’ll not leave me with but coffee money, Drifter.”
“I’m sorry for you, real sorry,” Waco replied in a voice which showed anything but sorrow. “Pay up and drink water. You all staying on in town?”
“Waal!” Wharton began, pulling money out to pay and watching Waco dump his two guns and the knives on the desk top. “I ain’t sure what I’ll be doing.”
“All right. Take your guns,” Waco drawled, then gave a grim warning. “But remember this well. Sober, drunk or playing drunk, don’t never try and run no blazer on my town again. The next time I’ll jail you—if you try it three times, I’ll kill you.”
“Sure,” he growled, not liking the way two of the words were emphasized. “We all makes mistakes, Drifter.”
“Yep,” agreed Waco, seeing Simon coming along the street by the windows. “I don’t hold it again your mammy and pappy though, they didn’t know.”
Scowling, Wharton paid his fine, scooped up his weapons and left the office. By the time Waco returned to the deputies’ quarters at the rear of the building, he found that the swamper from the Twin Bridge Saloon had brought breakfast and his fellow workers sat at the table. None spoke until they had finished eating.
“Some comings and goings back of the Guesthouse last night,” Simon remarked.
Waco pushed aside his plate and started to roll a cigarette. He looked at Bix, ignoring Simon and asked, “Is that supposed to interest us?”
“Hell, you pair ain’t got the sense to know nothing,” Simon growled disgustedly. “It’s the night-hawk as does all the work.”
“He wants to tell us something,” said Waco mockingly to Bix. “Do we act all polite and listen to him or do we say nothing and hope he’ll go away?”
“Won’t get no peace until we listen,” answered Bix in a tone of resignation.
They both sat back with a well-done look of interest on their faces, but Simon took out his old pipe and began to clean it carefully, paying great attention to the condition of the bowl. He extracted a block of thick, black-looking tobacco and a knife, carefully carving a pipe full and grinding it with exaggerated care, tamped it home, lit the pipe and sat back.
“Anyways,” he said, “you wouldn’t be interested in what I got to say.”
“Likely won’t,” agreed Waco, “but we aren’t going to get any peace until we’ve heard it.”
Simon sniffed in disgust. Then decided he’d condescend to tell his great secret to the other two.
“War a wagon out back of the Guesthouse last night.”
“Again?” grunted Bix wisely.
“It happened afore?” asked Waco.
“Naw,” snorted Bix. “I jest said it ’cause I’m young and likes to hear me voice talking.”
“Been three that I knows of,” Simon went on, studying Waco in disgust. “I saw them. Might have been others. Don’t know what’s in them.”
“Could be gambling gear,” suggested Waco.
“Why deliver it at night, if that was all it was?” Simon grunted.
“Know one bunch who always deliver at night, or did. Cap’n Bert ’n’ Billy Speed caught up with them. It was a crooked gambling syndicate, only now they don’t work at anything except making hair bridles.”
By which the two old deputies knew that the members of the syndicate, after falling foul of Captain Bertram Mosehan, were now in jail and engaged in the task of making hair bridles for the benefit of the Territory of Arizona.
“Might be what Von Schnabel’s doing,” Bix remarked. “Although I never saw anything crooked about any of his games—and I knows a might about crooked gambling, boy.”
“Twarn’t gambling gear anyways,” Simon answered, coming to his feet and walking towards the door. “Leastways,” he went on, opening the door and picking something up, carrying it back and dumping it on the table. “I don’t know what game he’d be playing with this.”
If Simon hoped to surprise his friends, he succeeded. Waco’s cigarette fell unheeded from his fingers and Bix ignored the hot coffee he spilled down his shirt front. The drum-like metal object Simon dumped before them did not form part of a piece of gambling equipment—unless it be some game involving the use of a Gatling’s gun’s Accles positive-feed magazine.
“What the hell would Von Schnabel want with a Gatling gun?” Waco asked.
“Mebbee aims to be the best-armed sheriff in the West,” suggested Bix.
“Could aim to outhunt Buffler Bill, straight killing run,” went on Simon.
“And you pair could be a whiskey set of goats without the sense of a seam squirrel,” growled Waco. “I didn’t know there were any Gatling guns for sale.”
“Looks like there is,” Bix drawled dryly. “The Army’s got some.”
“Sure, but a man couldn’t walk into a hardware store and order a couple over the counter. Sides which, they run to around a thousand dollar a-piece,” Waco said. “Wonder why Von Schnabel bought one. Is that wagon still there?”
“Nope. They started to check it over, then pulled out over the cattle bridge to the other end of town.”
Waco looked thoughtful. He was worried by the arrival of the wagon, and not able to make up his mind what the reason was behind it. There was one thing he could do; get his horse and head to the cattle bridges, so called because they were at the other end of the town from the river junction and allowed trail herds to be moved over the rivers without having to make a swim, or go through the town. Out beyond the town he might possibly be able to find the tracks and follow the wagon to its destination. The mystery of the Gatling gun must be solved, he was sure of that.
“What’s Von Schnabel do, does he own anything besides the saloon?” he asked.
“Got him a spread up in the back country, small place,” Bix replied. “Got a bunch of hard-cases works at it. Most of them are Germans like him. I was only out that way once. He mostly pays off his taxes, pays higher than I’d thought he’d need with a place like that. Saved the sheriff going out to make tax assessment. I ain’t been up that way for over a year.”
“Ain’t it time you pair went to work?” Simon asked bitingly. “Let the old night-hawk get his sleep. It’s him that does all the work.”
Waco pushed back his chair and went to strap on his gunbelt, then he took his hat and left the room. Bix went to the office to tidy up and fill in the office log. For once there was something to put in, for Drifter Smith had had a busy time the previous day.
The guesthouse was as big, clean-looking and well-arranged as the Twin Bridge Saloon, which it faced. Its bar was empty and deserted of all but a few members of the staff who were at the tables, getting prepared for the arrival of the day’s trade.
Von Schnabel sat at his usual table by the side of the room, arranged so that he could get a clear view of both the doors and the windows which faced the Twin Bridge Saloon. Matt Kyte was seated facing his boss, a worried look on his face as he tried to explain away his failure of the previous day. A pretty, red-haired dance-hall girl was seated at the next table to them, reading a gaudy-covered blood-and-thunder book. The two men ignored her for they were speaking in German, and, to the best of their knowledge, the girl, Kitty Regan, could speak only English with a strong accent of the Ould Sod.
“I could do nothing,” Kyte stated, trying to think of a way to show his actions in a good light. “The Texan is fast with his guns. Then there was the girl, she was ready to help him and the three women behind the bar.”
It was at that moment Von Schnabel saw Waco pass in front of the windows. The frown on his face deepened and he answered. “That man is an inconvenience. He twice stopped a plan I made.”
“It would be best if he died.”
“It would have been best had he; died yesterday,” barked Von Schnabel. “Why
is he still alive? There were five of you.”
“He is faster than any man I ever saw. And he took us by surprise.”
“Is there not one man among our people who will kill him?” asked Von Schnabel. “The new man, Wharton, he is said to be fast with his gun.”
“He won’t risk it, not without more men to help him,” Kyte replied. “I asked him to try an ambush but he wants more men before he dare try.”
“The fool!” snapped the saloon keeper. “And have it said that my men killed the only man who might oppose me in the election. These ignorant peasants are not such big fools. There are even some of them who do not believe I discharged you and the others yesterday. And this Drifter Smith, he suspects that you and Wharton were connected.” Kyte thought his boss under-estimated the intelligence of the people of the West, but did not say so. Von Schnabel regarded them as being stupid, ignorant, incapable of thinking for themselves. That was why Kyte did not like the idea of the previous day’s plan. Not because he might have to shoot and kill a girl, but because he doubted if anyone would believe he really had been fired by Von Schnabel. “That damned Texan’s smart,” he said.
Von Schnabel nodded. “Smart and intelligent,” he agreed and sounded surprised. The young Texan was far from being a stupid, dull-witted peasant of the kind Von Schnabel was used to dealing with in Germany. “But who is he? I’ve never heard of a man called Drifter Smith and such a one would become known.”
“He might be a wanted outlaw,” answered Kyte. “I don’t know if he is and I don’t know how we could find out.”
“Would the people vote for him?”
“They might. He’s a Westerner and the sort of man they can understand. They do not understand you.”
“This is true,” grunted Von Schnabel. “He must be killed.”
“In here?” Kyte asked doubtfully.
“At Dillis’ place,” Von Schnabel replied and explained his plan.
Neither man noticed the girl leave the next table and go through the rear door of the room, being more engrossed in their plans for removing Waco.
Temporarily putting aside thoughts of the Gatling gun, Waco made his rounds of the town. Wherever he went, whispers followed in his wake:
“That’s Drifter Smith. The Texas man who broke up Kyte’s bunch when they went to try and wreck the Twin Bridge Saloon, then backed down …”
And so the recounting of Drifter Smith’s exploits went on. At noon Waco entered the Twin Bridge, glanced at the gun-checking sign and threw a wink in Lynn’s direction, bringing a poked-out tongue in reply. Ella came to Waco’s table as a waitress took his order for lunch.
“Did I ever tell you I worked in a tent show back east when I was a girl?” she asked. “Ran what they call a mitt camp. Used to tell fortunes, palms, stars, tea-leaves—or cards.”
“Never believed much about that stuff, ma’am,” Waco replied, wondering what was coming, for Ella was doing more than just making idle chatter.
“You’d be surprised how it works sometimes,” Ella answered, splitting the deck and giving it a feather-fingered gambler’s riffle that was a joy to behold. More so to a man who knew crooked gambling moves as well as Waco did. The riffle looked quite natural, the cards falling together, but when the time came to block them up into a single pile Ella brought off as neat a “pull-through” as Waco was ever privileged to see. Her hands moved fast, slipping the two blocks through each other and replacing them so that the cards were in the same order as when she started the riffle.
“I see danger in your life,” she said, dealing the cards face up. “I see years of adventure behind you and more to come.” She laid out the cards, using the terms of the fortune teller to cover what she knew of Waco’s past life. Then she turned up the ace and king of spades. “I see death. Death and a small dark man,” she went on, her voice changing slightly. “The cards give a warning to you, Drifter Smith. Beware of a small dark man. Beware when he scratches the back of his left hand.”
With that, Ella scooped the cards together and riffled them once more, looking directly at Waco all the time. She knew he was taking more than just a friendly interest in her words, reading the warning she was giving him.
“What’re you getting at, ma’am?” he asked.
“Just what the cards say,” Ella answered, sounding as if the subject was closed. “How’d you like the town?”
Ella made no further mention of her warning and nothing happened all afternoon. Two shots brought Waco on the run as he made his evening rounds. The affected saloon was Dillis’ Blackjack, by repute the toughest, most crooked in town. Looking through a window, Waco saw the customers crowded back against the walls, with the exception of a small, scared-looking townsman who sat at a table in the center of the room. The man stared at the line of glasses on the table, one of which had been shattered by a bullet from the gun of the young hard-case who’d backed Kyte at the Twin Bridge.
“When I’ve bust them, I’ll shoot one off the top of your head,” the youngster told his victim and lined his gun once more.
Stepping quietly through the doors, Waco intended to move in behind the young man and buffalo him; but had the chance spoiled by a slick-haired jasper wearing a loud check town suit and who yelled:
“He’s drunk, deputy. Get him out of here!”
Waco could have cursed. His entry had been unnoticed by the young gunman and without that shout he might have got up close enough to end the trouble with a well-placed Colt barrel over the head. Now the youngster was turning, his hand hefting the gun to line on Waco, a sneer coming to his face.
“Yeah, deputy,” he said, his speech slurred and whisky-dulled. “You get me out of here—if you can.”
Slowly Waco moved towards the young man, eyes never leaving his face, every sense alert for the first sign which would warn him to get clear. The young gunman backed off, his gun still lined but the hammer was not drawn back. Waco followed him up, driving him back step by step until they were both past the table. Then Waco halted, sitting on the table, hands behind him, resting on the edge.
“Who put you up to all this foolishness, boy?” he asked. “Was it Kyte?”
“Up to what?” asked the young gunman.
“Fooling like this. You don’t want to shoot this gent here. You’re supposed to be gunning me down, aren’t you?”
“Get him out of here, deputy!” Dillis, the owner, shouted.
Once more Waco could have cursed at the man. The sudden shout made the young gunman start and fumble at the hammer of the colt. It was then Waco saw what was happening; Dillis was in on this play.
“Get your men to help me, or leave me do it my way,” he answered.
“I want him out of it,” Dillis answered, sticking his hands into the pockets of his loud checked suit. “Come on, get to it.”
“Why sure,” said Waco, then looked behind the young gunman. “Don’t cut him down, Bix!”
Starting to turn, the youngster realized his mistake; but the whisky, drunk to prime him for facing Waco, slowed his reactions. Waco rolled backwards from the table and heaved it over at the hard-case. Yelping, the youngster fended it off. Following up the table, Waco drew his right Colt and laid its barrel effectively across the other’s jaw. A low murmur of approval rose from the crowd as the hard-case dropped. Ignoring public approval, Waco snapped:
“All right, this place is closed. Clear it.”
“What do you mean, closed?” Dillis snarled, moving forward.
“You heard me. I’m counting to five and I want this place empty by the time I get to three.”
A short, dark man in gambler’s dress ranged himself alongside Dillis. “You want a helluva lot for a john law.”
“Who’re you?” Waco answered.
“This’s my partner, Keg Bullock,” Dillis introduced, a sneer on his lips. “You’d have to take up closing me out with him.”
Waco studied the small man, the small, dark man.
“That’s so?” he asked. “We’d b
est have you closed down then.”
Slowly Keg Bullock lowered his right hand to scratch the back of his left. It was an apparently harmless gesture which might have gone unnoticed but Waco remembered what Ella Baker had said, remembered the message of the cards.
Keg Bullock’s hand went into his sleeve cuff and the Remington Double Derringer slid into his palm. It was a fast, well-done move, and at that range, even so low powered a weapon as the stubby Derringer was not likely to miss.
Waco’s hands made a flickering blur of movement. The bar lights glinted dully on the blued barrels of his matched Colts. Flame tore from the barrels of the guns as they came clear and lined, held hip high. Bullock took lead. The force of the bullets picked him up and hurled his body backwards into the bar.
Smoke curled from the barrels of Waco’s guns. The gambler slid to the floor, his weapon dropping from his hand. There was not a sound through the saloon. It was all over and done with in less than a second. Keg Bullock, a fast man who had taken the decision in three such affairs, lay dead on the floor, beaten by the tall young Texas man.
The guns whirled back into Waco’s holsters. Then he stepped forward, the back of his hand lashed up into Dillis’ face, rocking the man into the bar. Waco followed the man up, giving him no chance to make either defense or attack. His right ripped into Dillis’ stomach, then whipped up with a punch that snapped the man’s head back and hung him half-dazed on the bar.
Bunching his hands on the front of Dillis’ coat Waco shook him, then gave a heave which crashed him into the bar once more. The Texan did not raise his voice but every man in the room heard him, so silent were they.
“Hombre, your place’s closed and it’ll stay closed. No man’s going to set me up for a kill and get away with it. You’ll be out of town by noon tomorrow. If you’re not, I’ll be looking for you—and I’ll spit in your face, every time I see you!”
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.
