by J. T. Edson
Stopping his horse Waco looked around him. The men would halt the coach as it came around the corner. Von Schnabel’s appearance would most probably be from the direction of the town, coming around the more gentle curve. His arrival would be the signal for the men to depart and that was the time of danger. The Wells Fargo guard was not going to miss a chance. Give him half a chance he would get either his shotgun or Colt into action. Which all pointed to one thing; the men were going to need to get away—fast. They would not go back towards town, riding by Von Schnabel, that would look suspicious. They might head around the blind corner the coach turned, but beyond it was a long, straight piece of trail which would throw them under fire of the guard if he went after them.
Then Waco saw it; a small path led up the slope away from the trail. It was only a narrow opening and a man entering it would immediately be out of sight of the trail, hidden by the thick bush which grew on the slope. That was the escape route used by the men. It let them get out of sight quickly and wound up on to the open range. The guard would not be able to get a clear shot at the men as they rode along the narrow, winding path. Waco turned his horse, headed it for the path and started to ride up, eyes on the ground. Several horses had been ridden up the path on the previous day. There was a curve as soon as a man entered the narrow opening, and a bit further along, the trail widened out and Waco stopped the paint, and swung down to look around him with interest. He unstrapped his rope, tying one end to a tree, and making sure it was just the right height to catch a rider but miss the horse’s head as it passed underneath. Carefully Waco led the rope to the ground, across the trail and out of sight into bushes at the other side. He went back and carefully hid the rope with leaves and dirt, then returned to take his horse off and leave it standing well hidden. He took the Winchester Centennial rifle from the boot and moved through the bushes until he found a place where he could look down on the trail, to where the hold-up would take place.
Getting down, Waco lined his rifle, caressed the trigger as if firing, then came to his feet and sprinted back to where he’d left the free end of his rope. He was sure that when the time came he would be able to make it. So he returned and settled down in the shelter of the bushes and waited with all the patience of a scalp-hunting Indian.
The sound of horses approaching brought him to the ready position, tense and watchful. There were five men riding around the gentle curve on the town side of the place. They wore cowhand rig and might have been anybody, cowhands on their way back to their spread; drifters looking for work. There was nothing about them to show what they were. The very ordinariness of the men was a pointer; there was nothing to show them out from any of the many cowhands who rode the cattle ranges from Texas to California, or from the Rio Grande to the Canadian border. Waco got the feeling they were his men. It grew even more so when he saw them halt their horses, dismount and one of their number go to the sharp corner to peer around it.
Still Waco made no move. There was no hurry, the coach was not here and so far there was nothing for him to move over. If he started shooting now the men would scatter. If he caught them he could not prove they were doing anything against the law.
One of the men glanced at a watch he took from his vest pocket, then nodded to the others. They pulled their bandanas up, masking the lower half of their faces, while their hat brims shielded their eyes. The look-out came back, nodded and mounted his horse. The rest all mounted, drawing their revolvers. Waco could hear the coach approaching. He lined the rifle, sliding the sight picture down to the body of one of the men, and focusing it on the ground beneath his horse’s belly.
It was as neat a stage-coach hold-up as Waco could imagine. The coach came slowly around the corner and the guard found himself under the guns of the five men before he could hardly do more than draw breath. He tensed, hands gripping the wicked-looking ten-gauge shotgun, but there were passengers in the coach and he could not chance making a fight of it.
“Toss the scatter down!” shouted one of the masked men.
The shotgun clattered to the ground and the five men still sat their horses, not making any attempt to carry on with the robbery. The driver snorted angrily, not raising his hands, controlling his team.
“Git to it, damn ye!” he roared. “I ain’t never run late and I ain’t wanting to start today.”
“Tough gent, huh?” scoffed the masked man. “All right.”
Waco knew now that this was a grandstand play arranged for Von Schnabel. He could read that in the way the outlaws were acting. It was time he cut in, before Von Schnabel made his appearance. Somehow the German must be late.
Waco’s rifle cracked, the bullet kicking dirt up under the feet of one of the horses. He sent another shot slamming behind a second man, saw the riders start to turn and the guard diving from the coach after his shotgun. Then Waco was up and running, throwing a shell into the breech of his rifle to replace the exploded case while he ran.
It was going to be close. Waco knew that as he raced to where he left his rope. There was barely time to rest his rifle against a bush, catch up the rope, jerk it tight and loop it around the trunk of a scrub oak. He didn’t even have time to dally it, but braced his high heels and hung on.
The five men were coming fast. Too fast for them to be able to avoid the rope. The first man was swept from his saddle, rolling wildly to avoid being trampled on by the next horse. The second rider came down, the third saw the rope and tried to stop his horse but it was too late. The horse passed under the tight-stretched rope and the man gripped it, swinging from the saddle. His effort did him no good at all, for Waco released the end and the man fell on to his two friends. The other two managed to stop their horses but could neither get by their friends nor turn into the bush.
The language which came floating up was terrible to hear. Waco decided it was time to take control of the situation and restore peace and quiet. He picked up the rifle and left cover in a bound.
“Joke over!” he barked. “Throw them high! Rangers here!”
It was a slip and he knew it as soon as he gave out the familiar challenge he’d so often used when riding for Captain Bertram C. Mosehan. The five men did not appear to notice how he worded his order. They saw the tall, fast-moving young Texan with the rifle and the deputy sheriff’s badge, knowing they were caught. One of the five still needed convincing and learned, via a piece of lead weighing four hundred and five grains and a bullet-busted shoulder, that a lined, cocked and ready Winchester .45/.75 rifle beat a holstered Colt revolver. More so when the Colt’s user was lying on the ground and winded by his fall.
The rifle’s lever was a blur of motion as Waco threw out the empty case and replaced it with a full load. He repeated his order and the men obeyed this time for they could see that they were matched with a master-hand. Waco stood ready, he heard excited shouts and running steps on the narrow path. The guard, driver and a couple of passengers came into sight, skidding to a halt as they saw the five men and the young Texan who’d captured them.
“Yowee!” whooped the driver. “You ketched ’em, Drifter. Serves ’em right too. I ain’t been late since me pet mule died in ’73.”
“Pull their teeth for ’em,” Waco ordered, ignoring the praise. “Swing down you pair and do it careful.”
The two men dismounted and the guard disarmed them, working in a way which showed he knew full well what he was doing. One of the passengers returned to the coach and brought a length of rope which was cut and used to secure the wrists of four of the outlaws. The fifth’s wound was treated and rendered him incapable of causing any trouble at all. The masks were removed but none of the five men were known to Waco, yet the way they’d handled the hold-up showed they were not beginners at the work. One thing Waco noticed was that they were all light-haired men who appeared to be northerners, Norwegians, Danes, Germans or British. It did not strike him as being unusual at the moment. There was too much work to do for him to stand thinking about the gang. He whistled and his big pai
nt came through the bush towards him; mounting, he rode after and brought back the three horses of the gang.
“May as well escort you to town, Drifter,” remarked the driver as they returned to the trail. “They sp’iled me record, so there ain’t no need for me to hurry anymore.”
Von Schnabel rode slowly along the trail from Two Forks headed for the dry-wash. He consulted his watch and tried to time his arrival so that he would come on the scene at the right moment.
He sat his big roan stallion with stiff-backed grace, riding like a cavalryman and not with the relaxed, slouching ease of a cowhand. He’d left off his cutaway coat and wore a white shirt, European-style riding breeches, tucked into riding boots, which shone so as to reflect the surrounding scene. Across his saddle rested a magnificently checked and engraved Winchester rifle; but there was no sign of a hand-gun, either at his side or under his armpit.
According to his watch he’d plenty of time in hand. He held his horse to an even pace and thought of his plans. They were great plans and until the arrival of that damned Drifter Smith, were going along well. This business today was his last chance of pulling off the chore of County Sheriff. The young Texan’s skilled handling of the law had lifted him well into public esteem, but there was just the slender chance that this hold-up would sway the vote back in Von Schnabel’s favor.
Drifter Smith, if that was his name, would have made an ideal second-in-command, far better than Kyte, who was only in it for money. A man like Drifter Smith would serve loyally and with intelligence. There was no chance of getting the Texan to join, Von Schnabel knew that; a man like Drifter Smith did not change sides.
Von Schnabel snorted, he heard shots ahead and wondered if something had gone wrong, but did not urge his horse on at any better pace. The shots were distant and appeared to be from a rifle. His men were armed with revolvers and the Wells Fargo guard always used shotguns. It would probably be somebody hunting, or shooting with a new rifle. To make sure, the German glanced at his watch, it still wanted fifteen minutes for nine o’clock and the driver was known to hold his schedule.
So Von Schnabel rode on. His plans were big, too big for lesser men, but not for Count Ludwig Von Schnabel, late of His Prussian Majesty’s Hussars. Those stupid fools who drove him from his fatherland, all over a duel where a Prince of the Blood died before Von Schnabel’s saber, would welcome him back with open arms when his great plan was brought to a successful conclusion. Kyte did not know what his plans were, nor did any other of his men; not even the five who were robbing, or pretending to rob, the coach, and they were the most loyal and trusted.
Von Schnabel brought his horse to a halt and stared ahead, blinking as if he could hardly believe his eyes. He stared at the stagecoach, harder at the five men who rode as prisoners before it, but hardest of all at the tall, handsome young Texan who rode by the side of the trail, his rifle resting on his hip as he watched the prisoners.
For all the rage which seethed inside him, Von Schnabel rode forward. To do otherwise would have been more than suspicious, for any man would show interest in such a sight. His eyes were on the five men as he approached, trying to give them a warning and an assurance that he would do what he could for them. The party came to a halt and he looked at Waco, asking:
“What’s all this?”
“These five jaspers tried to relieve us of our wealth,” cackled the driver, before Waco could speak. “But ole Drifter, he done stopped ’em.”
“Ketched ’em all. Wounded one,” the guard went on excitedly. “I tell you, young Drifter here’ll make the best damned sheriff this county!”
The words tailed off as the guard realized that he was talking to the other candidate for the post of county sheriff.
Von Schnabel ignored the words, turning his eyes to Waco. “It would appear that you are always on hand at the right moment. How did you come to be riding out this way?”
“Just fortunate, I reckon,” drawled Waco, watching the prisoners. There was a slight change about them. They seemed to be sitting straighter in their saddles as Von Schnabel looked at them. Waco couldn’t think where he’d seen men take such an attitude before. He knew he had, but could not just tie down where or when. “This ole Dusty hoss of mine takes on airs something cruel if he don’t get the bedsprings rid out of him regular.”
“And you just happened to be around here?”
“Why sure. Was cutting across country and saw this bunch looking all suspicious,” replied Waco, watching Von Schnabel’s face now. “So I just stuck in and took a hand. Got lucky and caught them all.”
Von Schnabel’s face showed nothing of his thoughts. He did not believe the young Texan’s presence was so easily explained away. Of late there had been too many things going wrong. Ella Baker knew too much of what was being planned in the Guesthouse Saloon, and Von Schnabel wondered who might be passing word to her. It might be nothing more than coincidence, but he meant to be on his guard in future.
“We’d best get this lot to town, Drifter,” the guard remarked. “I reckon you’ve got things to do when you get there.”
“Why sure,” agreed Waco. “You coming in with us, Mr. Von Schnabel?”
“I may as well,” snapped the German, wanting to keep his eye on his men and let them know he would try to get them out of this trouble. He took out his watch and glanced at it. “I thought you never ran either early or late, Axel.”
“Don’t. ’Cepting that these ornery polecats delayed me.”
“But I make the time barely five minutes to nine,” objected Von Schnabel.
The driver hauled out a battered old watch and studied it, then gave a delighted chuckle. “Something must be wrong with that fancy watch of your’n. I makes it a quarter after.”
Von Schnabel frowned. He’d checked his watch with the big clock on the saloon before he left. They’d both showed the same time and he’d never thought to check on any other. He rode along behind the coach, scowling and almost black with rage. The rage did not decrease when he arrived in town and saw Drifter Smith getting acclaim for bringing in the men who’d tried to rob the stage. He could see now his plan was badly spoiled; he would have come in to be acclaimed merely for scaring the gang away. Drifter Smith stopped the hold-up and brought the gang in.
Silently he rode on to the Guesthouse and left his horse at the rail. Kyte was waiting for him, looking worried and with news which confirmed Von Schnabel’s suspicions that there was a spy in his place.
“Boss, I found out after you’d left that somebody’d put back all the clocks down here twenty minutes.”
“I guessed that,” Von Schnabel replied. “Send a man with my horse to the stable.”
He went to the bar-room beyond the batwing doors. Several of his workers lived above the saloon, as he did when not at his ranch. There were the four bartenders, three of the bouncers, a few of the gamblers and all the girls. It must be one of them, but which one? He remembered his coat had been hanging over the back of a chair, the watch in the fob pocket, while he took a bath after the saloon closed for the night.
“What’re we going to do, boss?” Kyte asked.
“There is only one thing to do with a spy. Find out who is spying, who he, or she, spies for—and kill both.”
Down at the jail, Bix Smith and Simon could not have been more proud of Waco had he been their own flesh and blood. They put the prisoners into the cells, then Bix gave Waco some news which startled and worried him.
“Miz Ella wants you to come along to the Twin Bridge and make a speech to the folks who’re there,” the old deputy drawled, grinning at Waco. “I telled her you’d be real pleased to.”
Waco growled a blanket curse which took in Bix, the entire Smith family and some left over for the wide-grinning Simon. There was no getting out of making the speech, unless a miracle happened and Waco felt that he was long out of miracles. He told the other two to let Ella know he’d be along after he’d washed and changed into a clean shirt. They left and Waco took his time,
dragging out the washing as long as he could. Then he changed into a new shirt, but before he pinned the deputy’s badge on he heard someone in the outer office and opened the door to see who it was.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said, to the worried-looking townswoman who stood in the office. “Can I help you?”
“It’s my little boy, Mr. Smith,” she replied. “He went fishing on the other side of the Colorado River this morning and he isn’t back yet.”
“I’ll go and look for him right now, ma’am,” replied Waco eagerly, seeing a chance to avoid making the speech. “Would you see that Bix gets to know about it. He’s down to the Twin Bridge Saloon. Tell him I’ll get back as soon as I can and make the speech.”
“Of course,” she replied. “I’m meeting my husband there, we were going to hear what you had to say. Timmy went over the Colorado Bridge behind the saloon, he always goes that way, but I don’t know if he went up or downstream.”
“Was he afoot, ma’am?”
“No, on his pony.”
“Then don’t you worry none, ma’am,” replied Waco confidently. “I’ll find him for you.”
The woman watched Waco leave with some pride in her eyes. There was a good man; he was willing to go looking for her son when he should be making a vote-gathering speech. She aimed to see that everyone heard about it.
Waco was only too pleased to get out of making the speech and his departure from the town took on the aspect of a criminal sneaking away from his crime. He kept a wary eye on the Twin Bridge Saloon as he rode behind it, heading across the Colorado River Bridge and looking for some sign of the youngster’s passing. He had no trouble in finding the tracks of the pony, they were the only set on the side of the river. He was even more sure when, after riding some way down stream, he found a fishing pole resting against the tree. The youngster did not appear to have been lucky in his fishing and must have taken a ride. Waco followed the tracks, finding where the youngster hid behind a bush.
