Waco 5

by J. T. Edson

  “That’s all right, ma’am. Happen I’m wrong. I’ll apologise.”

  “Would you take some food before you go to the jail?” Ella asked, watching the Ysabel Kid and knowing that he was probably the most dangerous of this hard-faced trio, the most deadly man she’d ever seen.

  “Reckon we might as well,” agreed Dusty. “It’s been a fair piece since we last took us a meal.”

  Bix Smith looked up as the door opened. His eyes went first to Ella, then to the four men following her into the office. He came to his feet, advancing with his hand held out.

  “Cap’n Fog,” he whooped. “I knowed you’d be along as soon as you heard.”

  “Now we can likely make us some real war on that Guesthouse bunch,” Simon went on. “Ole Derry telled me he’d send word for you to come.”

  “Hush your mouth,” warned the Kid. “You’ll likely be scaring ole Doc off. He don’t want no—”

  Lynn, who’d followed the others in, snorted. “Least Doc don’t act so mean that he can’t afford a cartridge gun and has to tote a cap and ball hand cannon and a toad sticker.”

  “He’s too weak to heft a Dragoon, gal,” answered the Kid.

  “What about Waco?” snapped Dusty, in no mood for friendly talk.

  “We knows that Waco found the boy, brung him back to home. Then come down here and shed his gunbelt. Then he rode his hoss towards the livery barn and somebody took a shot at him. His hoss took him over the Colorado, we tried to trail it and lost the line. Couldn’t find it again.”

  “Who knows he’s missing?”

  “Just us who’re here, Derry, and the men who gunned him,” Bix replied and explained about the letter which Ella produced.

  “That ole paint’d’ve brought him in if he’d still been on its back,” Doc remarked. “But it wouldn’t leave him, happen he fell off.”

  Dusty sat at the desk, his face grim and somehow he suddenly appeared to be the biggest man in the room. “Tell me everything that happened,” he ordered. “Right from the beginning.”

  Bix began to tell his story of Waco’s arrival and everything that happened after it. Dusty and the others never said a word, their eyes on the old man’s face. Not until Bix lifted the Gatling gun magazine from the desk drawer and laid it on the top before them, did any of them show any interest. They all looked down at the round drum magazine, then at each other.

  “Von Schnabel came in a couple of days back told us he’d lost this, we didn’t say as how we’d found it though. Allowed it was offen an old Civil War Gatling he bought for his firearms collection,” Bix remarked.

  “This wasn’t off any Civil War model,” Dusty replied. “It’s one of the new Accles Positive Feed Magazines. Only the newest models use them.”

  “What’d he want with a new Gatling gun?” asked Bix. “Don’t ask me. Down nearer the Mexican line he might have sold it to some bandit, or revolutionary. He couldn’t sell it up here and wouldn’t need it to defend his place, there’s no hostile Indians hereabouts.”

  “Talking about Injuns,” Simon remarked. “That boy young Waco went to find, he’s been saying he saw him eight Injuns and an old buffler-hunter crossing the Colorado River. I talked to him, way he described ’em I’d say they was Apaches, but I never heard of Apaches this far north.”

  “Eight!” Dusty drawled, but he sat straighter in the chair. “We called in at Fort Reynolds, got a friend in command down there. He told us that damned near every Injun reservation’s been losing a few bucks for a spell, they’d be gone for maybe a month or more, then show again and not tell where they’d been. Not just ordinary bucks, but the worst kind of whitehaters, real badhats. Just before we left there, the Mescalero reserve by Reynolds lost eight of their worst badhats. Really lost them. The Kid tried to find their line but even he couldn’t.”

  “Then you reckon?” Ella began.

  “I don’t reckon nothing at all, ma’am,” Dusty answered.

  “They could have gone below the border to join one of the badhats.”

  “ ’Cepting what that ole squaw kept telling us about an old white buffalo-hunter,” put in the Kid.

  “Where at’s this boy now?” asked Dusty.

  “Likely at school, down by the livery barn,” replied Bix. “Want for us to go along with you, Cap’n Fog?”

  “Sure,” agreed Dusty, glancing to where Doc and Lynn were talking by the door, oblivious of the others. “If ole Doc can spare us the time, that is.”

  “Don’t you have any romance in your soul, Dusty?” asked Mark, eyeing the blushing pair.

  “He just don’t have a soul,” growled Doc.

  “Looks like you’ve got some trouble coming up,” said the Kid, moving to the window and looking out.

  The others joined the Kid and looked at the big crowd which was approaching the jail. There appeared to be a good cross-section of the community present; well-dressed townsmen, gamblers, working people, cowhands, various other kinds of people less easy to define. They were led by a square-shouldered tall man, wearing gambler’s clothes but who bore himself like a soldier. Dusty saw something more. Wharton and two men were coming from the side door of the Guesthouse, they looked towards the crowd, then headed for the Twin Bridge Saloon.

  “Lon,” Dusty said, his voice low and urgent. “Get down to the Twin Bridge, fast. Wharton and two more are headed there. Likely they aren’t after soft drinks and gentle words.”

  “Likely they’ll get one or the other,” replied the Kid and left the jail by the rear door.

  “Can the Kid handle it alone?” Ella asked worriedly.

  “Happen he’ll get help, ma’am,” Dusty replied. “I’ve heard some about those girls of yours.”

  “Who’s the gent leading the parade?” Mark asked. “Powerful important he looks.”

  “That’s Von Schnabel, the man we’ve been telling you about,” Ella replied. “I didn’t know he was in town today.”

  “Looks like he is, and got him a tolerable bunch of friends along to see he gets his way.”

  “Not all friends, Dusty,” replied Ella. “Some of them are my friends.”

  Bix Smith and Simon Girty stepped from the office and on to the sidewalk, looking politely down at the crowd.

  “These good people have come to see justice done,” Von Schnabel announced.

  Some of the “good people” looked distinctly worried as they saw the three Texas men who followed Bix and Simon out of the office. Behind Von Schnabel, the two madames stood looking up with worried eyes.

  “Was justice done half of these good people would likely be in jail,” said Dusty dryly. “Howdy, Bonnie, haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

  “Told you not to back Earp and the Law ’n’ Order Party in Tombstone, Bonnie,” Doc Leroy went on. “Knowed they’d run you out if things got rough.”

  Von Schnabel snorted, not wanting the business on hand to be forgotten in idle chatter. He did not know who the three men were, but his eyes went to Dusty and gave him a long, hard look.

  “This man” — he indicated a soberly dressed little man behind him — “is a Mormon. He saw some of his cattle butchered and followed the men who did it. Saw them hide the hides of the cattle in the woodpile behind the ranch they work on.”

  “Which ranch?” asked Bix Smith grimly.

  “The BM.”

  Dusty heard Ella’s startled gasp and wondered if the woman had some connection with the ranch. He looked at the Mormon and asked, “You sure of it?”

  “He followed them,” replied Von Schnabel. “I want to know what the law is going to do about it.”

  “What’d you want doing?” asked Bix.

  “We have a sheriff who is never in town, has not been since the day of the election. I want to know where he is.”

  “You saw the letter.”

  “I saw a letter, deputy,” agreed Von Schnabel. “I also know that Drifter Smith hasn’t showed up at any ranch in the county. So all these good people have joined with me to demand that
Drifter Smith either returns by Saturday or I be given the sheriff’s post in his default.”

  “Now hold hard there,” Trenard, the storekeeper, growled, moving forward. “There’s some of us don’t go on that at all. We allow Drifter knows what he’s doing all right.”

  “Say, howdy, Grenville,” Mark Counter’s eyes picked out a fattish gambler who’d been trying to hide in the crowd. “Are you one of these here good people? Why, I tell you, ole Just Smith and Brit won’t never believe it when I write them.”

  The man, who was no longer known as Grenville, licked his lips nervously. He started to force his way through the crowd, headed for the hotel to collect his belongings. If the two men mentioned learned where he was they’d be likely to come and call on him. He didn’t aim to be in Two Forks when they came.

  “What’d you want us to do, Mr. Von Schnabel?” asked Bix politely.

  “Go to the BM, investigate and arrest, if you find the hides.”

  The German was pleased with this plan. Bix Smith and Simon were friends with the BM crew and if they refused could be suspended from office, allowing two of his own men in. If they agreed, Bix and Simon would find proof and there would be trouble. Even if the skins were not found at the BM ranch for any reason, there were still the BM hides at the Mormon place. That would blow up into a range war instead of bringing about the arrest of the BM’s owner. Any way it went, Bix Smith was in the middle and would have to admit he did not know where Drifter Smith was.

  “Sure we’ll bring the BM in,” drawled Bix. “Need us some more men to handle it though. The BM runs a tough crew.”

  “You may use as many of my men as you need,” offered Von Schnabel.

  “Couldn’t deprive you of them. Thanking you, most to death for the offer,” replied Bix. “See, these three cousins of me ’n’ young Drifter’s just arrived. I’ll take them with me. Dusty, Mark and Doc Smith.”

  “Smith!” Bonnie snapped out. “You reckon I don’t know Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and Doc Leroy when I see them?”

  “Whaal, Smith’s their mother’s name,” answered Bix. “They’ll take on for me.”

  “Why those three?” asked Von Schnabel. “They’re strangers. We don’t know anything about them.”

  “Nor us about you,” Mark replied evenly. “Except that some of the company you keep’d make a hawg stay upwind of you.”

  “Who are they?” snorted the German. “Have they ever been lawmen before?”

  The other people of the crowd did not need to ask such a question or need to hear the soft drawled answer Dusty Fog gave.

  “We’ve all been lawmen. Heard tell we were tolerably good lawmen at that.”

  “Good enough for me,” Trenard said. “I was in Quiet Town when you ran the law there.”

  “And me,” grunted the old-timer who ran the livery barn. “How about you, Banker Cockell?”

  “I’m in,” agreed the banker. “With Mrs. Baker that makes a majority of the County Commissioners in favor. Captain Fog, you, Mark, Doc and the Kid are taken on as special deputies in the absence of Sheriff Smith.”

  “Sheriff Smith?” Bonnie said, her face lit up with sudden inspiration. “I know who Drifter Smith is now. He’s that tough Arizona Ranger, Waco, we’ve been hearing about.”

  “The one the Pinkerton Agency is looking for?” Von Schnabel put in, seeing a chance to get rid of the sheriff. “A wanted man?”

  “And what he’s wanted for,” whooped Trenard. “Just let any damned Pinkerton sneak come here after him.”

  There was a mumble of approval, for most of the crowd agreed that Captain Mosehan, Waco and Doc Leroy should be given the highest praise for their actions in the capture of the murderer Chacon. More than ever the young sheriff’s stock in the town rose.

  “All right,” Dusty snapped, cutting down the crowd’s talk. “We’ll bring in the BM crew, then we’re going to make the rounds of this town. We’re going to check every wheel, deck and dice. This town’s going to get a clean out.”

  “You can’t get away with that,” a sullen-looking man yelled. “This ain’t Brownton and Mulrooney in Kansas.”

  “Mister!” Dusty’s voice dropped to a gentle drawl. “It’s not. You ran out of Brownton when we came. Let’s see if you’re any braver now.”

  The man licked his lips. He carried a Remington Double Derringer in a trick sleeve hold-out, guaranteed to give him below the half-second in speed. He did not mean to give it a try-out against a man who could draw and shoot a Colt with either hand in under the half-second.

  “I’m not facing to a gunslick like you.”

  Dusty came from the porch, his hands bunching the man’s coat lapels and shaking him hard, then shoving him back.

  “You wouldn’t stack against any man who wasn’t half drunk on the snake-poison you call whisky. Either clean up your place or get out.”

  There was a low rumble of approval from the better class citizens of the crowd, for the man’s place was the most crooked in town since Dillis left. The saloon-keeper staggered back, he turned and stumbled away, his face ashy white. He was on the afternoon stage out of town, leaving behind him his saloon but satisfied to be going with his life.

  “I just saw that Beth Morrow coming into town,” a man said, coming from across the street. “Makin for the livery barn with two of her hands.”

  Von Schnabel nodded to the man, one of his crew. The man knew Beth by sight, but had never seen the young Texan they called Drifter Smith, so did not know him.

  “Get me a badge, Bix,” Dusty ordered. “I’ll go and bring them in.”

  Bix went to fetch the deputy badges for the three Texans. Dusty pinned his on and felt Ella’s hand on his sleeve. The woman looked almost sick with worry.

  “Dusty, go easy. Don’t hurt the girl. She’s not done anything wrong.”

  “No, ma’am,” replied Dusty. “I’ll ask her to come in.” The crowd started to follow the deputies along the street. Lynn came to her mother’s side, looking at her face. “What is it, maw?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Come with me.”

  With that, Ella started after the others and Lynn followed her mother, shaking her head and feeling worried, for she’d never seen Ella so perturbed.

  The crowd saw Dusty turn the corner to make for the rear of the livery barn. Dusty and Mark walked side by side, with Doc just behind them. They came around the corner and Dusty yelled, “Waco!” His hands crossed, bringing the matched guns out in a flickering blur of movement.

  The Ysabel Kid left the jail by the rear door, cut through the space between it and the next building, and headed for the Twin Bridge Saloon. Even as he went along the street he saw men leaving the saloon and made better time. He came on to the sidewalk and looked through the window. The girls were all backed into one corner, except for Molly, who lay on the floor, and another girl who was held on the table by the two gunmen while Wharton gripped her hair in his left hand, his right holding the bowie knife.

  “Where is she?” snarled Wharton.

  The Kid’s old Dragoon came out and he kicked open the doors, coming in fast with a Comanche wild yell of “Wharton!”

  The two men let the girl free and started to turn, hands fanning towards their guns, while Wharton stood as if rooted to the spot. The Kid’s old Dragoon bellowed out like a cannon and one of the gunmen was flung backwards by the round, soft, lead ball. The second man’s gun was almost clear when he caught a bottle, hurled at him by Big Madge. The woman’s aim was good, the man spun around and crashed to the floor.

  Wharton’s left hand made a move and the Kid’s old Dragoon lined on him.

  “Pull it, Bengeeman,” came the words from the savage Dog Soldier’s mask which the Kid’s face now resembled. “Just pull it.”

  Wharton did not aim to do anything foolish. He knew the Ysabel Kid, knew how little regard for human life that dark boy possessed when he was good and riled. The hand came well clear of his gun.

  “He’s the one who shot Drifter Smith,” M
adge called from the bar, coming around it and advancing. “Told us so, and Kate talked when she come round for a spell.”

  The Kid’s Colt revolved on his finger and went back to leather. “Guns or knives, Wharton?” he asked. “You’ve got to choose one or the other.”

  Wharton looked at the Kid, knowing how little chance he stood against the Kid with either gun or knife. There was no way of avoiding a fight, no chance of throwing himself on the Kid’s mercy, for Loncey Dalton Ysabel felt no mercy for the man who had gunned down his friend.

  “Knives it be, Kid,” he croaked, there was always a chance he might be able to draw a gun when the fight started.

  “Throw your guns in the corner then,” said the Kid gently. “Do it any way you feel like. I don’t trust you.” Wharton gulped. He lifted the guns clear but once more he found himself lacking what it took to try and use them. He threw the guns into the corner of the room, then looked at the Colt by the Kid’s side.

  “You’re still wearing your guns, Kid,” he objected. “Why sure,” agreed the Kid. “I trust me.” For all that he drew the gun and offered it to the girl. “Here, ma’am. First man that comes through that door who isn’t me—use it.” While Big Madge was still trying to work that one out the Kid was drawing his bowie knife. With a wild yell that was half fear Wharton hurled forward; he ignored the sawed edged bowie knife at his belt, bringing up the wicked Arkansas toothpick from his boot. He attacked with speed, hoping the treacherous move would take the Ysabel Kid completely by surprise.

  The Kid’s reaction came Comanche fast, came with the knife skill of the greatest cold steel experts of them all. The bowie knife caught and deflected the narrow Arkansas toothpick, sending it to one side. The toothpick was a knife which could only be used for stabbing, a murderer’s weapon. The bowie knife drove out, Wharton saw it flickering towards him, desperately tried to parry the slash then felt it bite in just over his waistbelt. A numbing pain welled through him and he pitched to the floor.

  Stepping back, the Kid looked down at the writhing body, wiped his knife blade on his hand, then sheathed it.

  “Sorry to muss up your floor,” he said mildly to Madge, who was looking pale and ready to fetch up over the floor. “Get your swampers to tote these three out and don’t let any of your ladies touch Wharton. He won’t look pretty.”