Waco 3

by J. T. Edson

  The other man lunged forward, hand fanning down towards his hip.

  ‘Try it!’ Waco’s flat snapped offer was backed by the appearance of his twin Colt guns, produced with a speed many boasted of but very few attained.

  The man stood fast. His friend hit the door hard and hung there; through his dazed mind came the thought that here was a man he should have steered well clear of. He put a hand up to rub his chin, then snarled:

  ‘You’re some handy with a gun for a cowhand.’

  ‘I’m not bad for a Ranger either; the name’s Waco.’

  ‘Waco of the Arizona Rangers,’ a freckle-faced, red-haired youngster who’d been seated away from the other children and looking bored at the story, yelled. ‘Boy, it’s really him.’

  Waco holstered the guns and the two men stood fast, neither wanting to take things up with a man like Waco of the Arizona Rangers. There were others who had tried it, some of them were dead, the others never tried twice.

  ‘You say your boss was down at the saloon?’ Waco asked.

  ‘You going to arrest him, Waco?’ the red-haired yelled eagerly.

  The taller gunman snarled out a curse. Waco turned his cold blue eyes on the man and warned, ‘You talk clean round kids, hombre.’

  ‘That kid annoys me,’ the man replied.

  ‘He’d be about your size I reckon,’ Waco turned his attention to the boy and smiled, ‘Should I arrest him, boy?’

  Hawken’s face worked nervously; he came forward and put his hands on the shoulders of the boy and said, ‘Go on home, Johnny. Take the rest of the children with you. I’ve got some work to do.’

  Reluctantly the boy called Johnny started to usher the others out. The taller gunman stepped forward and looked at Waco.

  ‘I’m Mr. Allenvale’s foreman.’

  ‘Boss gun’s more like,’ Johnny yelled and darted out of the door.

  ‘One day I’m going to get that kid and quirt manners into him.’

  Waco looked the man up and down with disgust and replied. ‘You try it while I’m around and you’ll end up picking my Justin out of your mouth. You get what you want, then we’ll go down and see your boss.’

  ‘Sure, Ranger. I’m Magee, this is Talbot.’

  Waco ignored the offered hands, turning to the counter. ‘Take me a box of forty-fives,’ he said. ‘Don’t reckon you stock the new Winchester shells yet?’

  ‘No call for them up here,’ Hawken answered. ‘Could I serve these two gents first, I keep my ammunition locked away.’

  ‘Why sure,’ Waco glanced down at the small man’s hands; he always looked at a man’s hands when first meeting him. What he saw made him look harder at this small, cherubic-looking man who told fairy stories to the children. ‘Serve ahead.’

  ‘Take a sack of Bull Durham,’ Magee growled. ‘Pay you for it next pay day.’

  With a sigh Hawken handed over a sack of tobacco and then served Talbot who also promised to give the money over on the next pay date. Then as the storekeeper went into the back room, Magee turned and opened his mouth.

  ‘Don’t wait for me,’ Waco said before the man could speak. ‘I’d as soon not be seen on the streets with the likes of you.’

  Magee opened his mouth again, angry words rising then falling unsaid. His boss wanted to see this Ranger and would not like the idea of his being roughed up. There was also the possibility that Waco himself would not care for the roughing up and would make his objections with the same speed and handiness he’d already shown. With this in mind Magee turned and walked from the room, followed by Talbot.

  Hawken returned with a box of cartridges in his hand; he handed it over and while making change for the note Waco gave him, looked at the young man.

  ‘I wouldn’t pay any attention to what Johnny says.’

  ‘Man’d say he doesn’t like Allenvale.’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  ‘What’s eating him then?’

  ‘A man doesn’t talk much against Mr. Allenvale, or what happened to Pete Bren, Johnny’s father. The boy has ideas but there is no proof at all.’

  ‘What about?’ Waco watched the man all the time. ‘Like I say, a man doesn’t talk much in this town,’ Hawken did not meet Waco’s eyes. ‘Magee and his kind are hired to see to that.’

  ‘Didn’t think they’d bother you!’ Waco looked at the storekeeper’s right hand as he spoke. ‘Waal, it’s not my affair anyhow. Thanks for the shells, adios.’

  The sun was dropping as Waco stepped out into the street and looked around. Like most of these small towns all the businesses were on the main street; the jail and marshal’s office lay just a little bit farther along from Hawken’s store and farther still, on the other side, was the saloon. Waco swung into the saddle of the paint and headed first to the livery barn where he made arrangements to leave the horse and his gear. He also fixed up to sleep in the spare room of the barn for he did not want to stay in a hotel.

  The saloon was not crowded when Waco entered, and he could tell at a glance which of the men was Allenvale. Not that Allenvale was a big man; he stood at most five foot nine, but he was wide shouldered, hard-looking under his expensive eastern-style suit. His face was reddened by the sun, hard and arrogant, the face of a man who knew power but not friendship. He would never make men follow him through admiration but always by driving them.

  At the bar he dominated the conversation and the group of lesser men who were around him, listening to their words as long as they were not opinions contrary to his own.

  The other men, apart from Magee and Talbot, made a varied selection; a few townsmen, three who might be mining men from the east, a whiskey drummer and an old desert-rat prospector, the sort who made his living prospecting, trying for the big strike, the mother lode.

  The others of the crowd were the usual kind of saloon loafers, but all were listening with polite attention when Allenvale spoke, laughing at his jokes and treating him with the deference Allenvale felt he deserved.

  Magee saw Waco and interrupted his boss, ‘The Ranger’s here, Mr. Allenvale.’

  Allenvale looked at the tall young Texan who came across the room and held out a hard, work-roughened hand. ‘Howdy son,’ he said. ‘Are you the Ranger? Where’s your partner? I told Mosehan to send you both along.’

  ‘Cap’n Mosehan figured one of us would do,’ Waco placed some emphasis on the first word, ‘when you wrote the Governor and asked for us to come.’

  The smile died for an instant and there was an uncomfortable silence among the other men. All eyes were on this tall, wide-shouldered young Texan man who spoke back in such a manner to Mr. Allenvale.

  For a moment the miner stood silent, not knowing quite what to make of this. Then he laughed and waved his hand to the bar.

  ‘Step up and have something. I always like to reward good work, so here,’ he took out a wallet and extracted five one hundred dollar bills without even making an impression on the pile left. ‘I reckon you and your partner will have you a time with this.’

  ‘Likely,’ Waco accepted the money and thrust it into his pocket. The reward was going to the widow of a Ranger killed in the line of duty, but he did not tell Allenvale that. ‘Well, thanks, adios.’

  ‘You’re not going, are you?’ Allenvale growled. ‘Here, Joe, a drink for the Ranger. Hell, you’ve only just arrived.’

  Waco remembered that Mosehan asked him to be polite to Allenvale who was getting to be a political power in the Territory. He turned back to the bar and replied, ‘I’ll take a beer then.’

  ‘Beer?’ Allenvale snorted. ‘Is that the best you can do? Make it whiskey for the Ranger.’

  ‘Beer, mister,’ there was no friendliness in Waco’s tones. ‘I learned real young that whiskey gets a man no place in a hurry.’

  Allenvale eyed the youngster, about to make some remark about his youth. There was something in Waco’s eyes which stopped the words unsaid. For once in his life Allenvale felt uneasy, knowing that here was a man with no respect for e
ither his money or his power.

  ‘How come only the one of you came?’ Allenvale asked. ‘Couldn’t Mosehan spare the two of you?’

  ‘He couldn’t spare one of us, but the Governor asked real friendly. So Doc and me cut the cards for who came.’

  ‘And you won?’

  ‘Lost.’

  Again there was that sudden silence, the other men moving slightly away from Waco as if wishing to show clearly they were not with him at all. Allenvale was angry and suddenly he wanted to show this unsmiling young man that he was the real power of this town, that he ruled here and no man could say a word to him.

  ‘How’d you like the town?’ he asked.

  ‘Didn’t see much of it yet.’

  ‘I built it right here, so’s it’d be good and handy for me and mine. Do you know something, Ranger, this town is built on an Indian reservation.’ Allenvale looked at the other men for corroboration of the statement; they all gave their complete agreement. ‘Sure, I built it on the reservation because this was the best site for a town in miles. Anyways, the Indian Affairs Bureau said I couldn’t so I went right on ahead and did it. Yes sir, this is my town, Ranger.’

  Before Waco could reply a tall, fattish, well-dressed man entered. He came to the bar and was introduced as Judge Holland, the local court official. He was just as clearly Allenvale’s man as the others. The judge was cool and distant, obviously regarding Waco as no one in particular: just a whim of Allenvale’s and therefore someone to be barely civil to. Waco regarded the judge as a pompous trouble causer who would only follow the law as long as the law followed Mr. Allenvale.

  Other men came in, and the talk became general. Waco notice that although all appeared to be for Allenvale, there was a lack of warmth in their laughter. The town marshal, made a brief appearance, a tall, slim man just past middle age.

  ‘Ranger,’ Allenvale said, ‘come and meet our marshal, Dan Thorne.’

  ‘Howdy Dan.’ Waco held out a hand. ‘I heard Hondo Fog talk about you.’

  Thorne’s face flushed slightly at this. He was once known as a real fast gun lawman, honest, brave and the tamer of bad towns. Now he was here in a small Arizona settlement, holding down a job that years before he would have assigned to his newest deputy.

  ‘Sarah Shortbow came to see me yesterday,’ he said.

  The miner’s face darkened in a scowl. He turned his back on Thorne and called for a round of drinks. For a moment Thorne stood looking at Allenvale’s back, then he turned and walked out of the room. Waco watched him go, realizing that Allenvale owned more than just the town of Allenvale.

  ‘Say, Ranger,’ Allenvale boomed from the bar. ‘I can always use a good man or two. How’d you and your partner like to come and work for me? I’ll pay top rate.’

  ‘We’re hired and we like the boss,’ Waco replied.

  ‘Huh! Like I say I can always use good men. You the fastest with a gun?’

  Waco shook his head. He was getting to like Allenvale less all the time. ‘I know three who can shade me.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘My partner, Doc Leroy, is the fastest man I ever saw with a single gun. Ole Mark Counter, he can shade me with either hand.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Dusty Fog. The man doesn’t live who can touch him with two guns.’

  There was a rumble of assent at this, for the three men named were all well-known as being skilled exponents of the art of grab and shoot. The whiskey drummer spoke up, ‘I was in Dodge when Dusty Fog brought that Rocking H herd in. He surely made Earp and Masterson hunt their holes that time.’

  ‘Not in Dodge he didn’t,’ the bardog objected. ‘Weren’t neither Earp nor Masterson in Dodge when the Rocking H came in. They’d both left on business.’

  There was a guffaw at this. Earp and Masterson had been called away on urgent business at other times when dangerous men came looking for them. The bardog was a Kansan and proud of the lawmen who ran his cattle towns for him.

  ‘Wyatt’s no slouch,’ the bardog affirmed.

  ‘Masterson’s better,’ another man put in.

  Waco leaned back and listened to the conversation which walled up around him at this statement. It was one he’d heard many times before, in many a town from Texas north to Kansas and west to Arizona. Wherever men gathered in a bar the subject was likely to turn to gunfighters, arguments as to who was the best, the fastest and the most accurate. Every man held his own particular hero and was willing to boast that the said hero was faster than any other, better than any other. Even if there was no chance of it ever being proved one way or the other.

  At last the old prospector spoke up, his cracked old voice coming in a lull. ‘You’re all forgetting the best of them all. A man who could have shaded all these so-called fast men today. He was the law in Newton and Sedalia just after the war, his name was Drango Dune.’

  The others all looked at the old-timer and Allenvale laughed, then said, ‘You’re going back there some, Sam. That was in the cap and ball days. Don’t reckon any of us ever met him.’

  ‘I did, knowed him real well. I’ll never forget him, most unlikely cuss I ever did see. Him being so tough, didn’t look like he was but I saw him whup a railroad man twice his size. Fast, mister, he was the fastest I ever saw with that ivory handled Dragoon gun.’

  ‘Dragoon pistol,’ Magee snorted. ‘I never saw a man use one that amounted to anything. They’re too heavy.’

  Waco thought of his very able friend, the Ysabel Kid who not only carried and swore by a Colt Dragoon but also proved time and again that Colonel Sam’s old four pound thumb-buster was a weapon to be feared in capable hands. However, the young Ranger did not say anything; he was looking at the door and saw Henry Hawken outside. The storekeeper had been about to enter when the old prospector started talking. He stopped outside, looking in at the group for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked away again.

  ‘What happened to Drango Dune in the end?’ a man asked.

  ‘He was fighting a bunch of owlhoots one night. Heard a noise on the roof above him, turned and shot down one of his deputies who’d gone up there against his orders. He broke that gang but threw in his star; wouldn’t wear it again after he dropped his own man. I don’t know where he went after that but I sure won’t never forget him and I reckon I’d still know him.’

  The talk went on and after a time Waco left the bar; none of the men noticed he’d gone. He went along to the marshal’s office and opened the door. Thorne sat at the desk, head in hands. He looked up as the door opened. ‘Howdy Ranger.’

  ‘Howdy, I’d like to stay on here for the night if I can.’

  ‘Sure, make yourself at home. You et?’

  ‘Not for a spell.’ Waco looked round the small office. ‘Come on across to the Bren place, they won’t be closed yet.’

  ‘Bren, I’ve heard that name before.’

  ‘Not around town you won’t have. The widow runs it now. Her husband met with an accident out at his mine.’ Thorne looked straight at Waco. ‘An accident.’

  ‘Why sure, except that now Allenvale owns the mine.’ Thorne looked at Waco, his face working, then at last he said, ‘I investigated the accident. It was an accident from all I could find. Who talked?

  ‘The boy mentioned he didn’t like Allenvale. It’s none of my worry, I’ll be riding back to Tucson come morning.’

  ~*~

  Waco led the big paint stallion from the livery barn out on to the street and looked around for a moment. He did not like this town of Allenvale; there was an unhealthy look about it, like a town living in fear. The people here hated and feared Allenvale yet accepted him as their lord and master.

  Two men rode into town; Waco watched them without interest, not knowing or caring who they were. He might have made a guess at one of them, the tall, handsome and expensively dressed young man afork the magnificent palomino gelding. From his dress, the costly, silver decorated saddle and the arrogant look about him Waco guessed this wa
s Dinty Allenvale, son of the miner. The boy was not at the saloon the previous night, but Waco had heard some mention of him.

  Dinty Allenvale it was, and in a vile mood. Even at this early hour he was more than half drunk. The gunman who rode at his side was not sober either, for they had been hitting the bottle on the way into town.

  Stopping his horse Allenvale pointed ahead to where a pretty, black haired, dark-skinned girl was walking towards the saloon. She passed Hawken and Johnny Bren, greeted them, and carried on along the sidewalk. Allenvale reached down, unstrapped the rope from his saddlehorn and headed for the girl, riding fast. His rope built up into a noose and shot out to drop over the girl’s head and tighten round her neck. The horse lunged by and the girl was jerked viciously from her feet. She hit the ground hard, her limbs jerking once, then lay still.

  Waco came forward fast; Allenvale was off his horse and bending over the girl, looking down at her. From the way her head was bent over Waco knew she was dead, her neck broken. Allenvale looked up truculently. Waco was moving in fast, seeing faces at windows watching him, and that Hawken had shoved Johnny Bren into the store before coming forward.

  ‘She’s dead,’ Waco said softly.

  ‘So what?’ Allenvale sniffed. ‘Who the hell—’

  ‘I’m a Ranger. Hand over your gun. I’m arresting you for murder.’

  ‘Hear him, Kenny boy, just hear the man,’ Allenvale sniggered. ‘He said that real nice—!’

  Waco’s fist shot out, smashing into Allenvale’s sneering face and knocking the young man down. At the same moment the gunman started to draw, his gun coming out of leather as Waco turned. There was the crash of a shot from the gun which came into Waco’s right hand; the gunman jerked up in his saddle, his gun falling from his hand. The horse bucked and the man slid down to hit the ground hard and lay still.