by J. T. Edson
“Happen you don’t like it, mister, find some other stage,” snapped the driver, bad temper regained. “This’n stays where she be.”
The gambler opened his mouth to make a reply then closed it again as he saw Bertha Ford and her niece approaching. He looked them both over with a casual yet calculating glance and could have guessed to a dollar how much every stitch of their clothing cost. He fancied himself a student of such matters and knew the two women had money, enough to make it worth his while to cultivate them. The girl was a better than a fair looker. He had spent time with worse looking if they were wealthy and unattached.
“Let’s get ’em aboard,” the driver called as he took the remaining bags. “I’m pulling out in five minutes, ready or not.”
Cody Yarrow pulled open the door, glanced inside at the sleeping form of Waco, then held out his hand to help Caroline climb in. “Was I you I’d take the side seat facing that sleeping gent, ma’am,” he said, his voice a sleepy Texas drawl. “It’ll be easier riding for you.”
Caroline nodded her thanks. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure, for many weeks had gone by since last a young and presentable man addressed her in such a manner. She took the advice and sat facing Waco; her aunt followed her and took the seat by her side. Bertha threw a look at Waco’s sleeping form, trying to decide where she had seen him before. The rust-haired young woman entered and sat next to Waco, ignoring the disapproving glance Bertha threw in her direction. The gambler came next, sitting by the young woman, the black-dressed man taking the window seat by his side, and Cody Yarrow occupying the remaining place.
Just as the driver climbed aboard, the Wells Fargo agent came dashing from his office, a thick, bulky envelope in his hand. He leaned across the hitching rail and looked in the window toward Caroline.
“You Miss Banders, ma’am?” he asked.
“I am,” she answered, holding out her hand. “I thought this might catch up with me here.”
The agent handed over the letter and jerked back as with a yell and a whip crack the driver started his team moving. The coach lurched once before settling down to rock back and forth on its springs. Caroline caught her balance and thrust the envelope into the vanity bag she nursed on her knees.
“Who is that from, dear?” her aunt asked.
“It’s material for my book,” Caroline replied, turning to look at the town as it fell behind them.
Once again Bertha opened her mouth to ask more questions, then closed it. A public discussion of family affairs was not desirable, especially in front of the sort of people the other passengers appeared to be. So she sat back in the seat and thought of the good story she had been forced to leave behind. Her hosts at the breakfast engagement showed little interest in the story of the lawman herding prisoners like cattle. More, they appeared to change the subject every time she made an attempt to bring it up. It almost seemed as if they did not want her to investigate the matter.
The rust-haired young woman looked her fellow passengers over with the easy familiarity of one who entertained people for a living. “We’ve got a lot of miles to cover,” she said in a friendly tone. “Might as well know what we can call each other. I’m Julie Clover.”
“Cody Yarrow, on furlough from the Apache Scouts. I heard you sing one time in Tombstone, Miss Julie. Right purty it was.”
“‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said.” Julie laughed.
“I’m Frank Wilson,” the gambler put in, speaking directly to Caroline. Then his eyes went to Cody, seeing a possible rival for the girl’s attention. “I’ve heard tell of you, Yarrow. They reckon you’re a knife fighter. Never took to knife fighting nor fighters. I reckon it’s a dirty way to kill.”
“Any way of killing’s dirty, mister,” Cody replied gently.
“I agree with you,” said the black-dressed man. “Does not the good book say, ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
“That’s sometimes kind of hard to avoid, mister,” Cody answered, “when a man’s coming at you, dead set on killing you. I saw you on the San Ramos reservation, didn’t I?”
“I was there. I’m Samuel Hodges and I was engaged in bringing the Word to the heathens.”
Cody Yarrow did not smile, although he held strong views about people who tried to convert the Apache from a perfectly sound and practical religion because it did not conform with the beliefs of the white man. He looked at Bertha Ford and her niece, waiting for them to introduce themselves.
Caroline spoke, for she could see her aunt did not mean to. Cody Yarrow might be a pleasant-sounding young man but he was also a member of Sieber’s Apache Scouts, a regiment, according to her aunt, that had committed every act of atrocity and outrage human flesh could contrive against its fellows. So Caroline did not mind her aunt not offering her name. Cody Yarrow sounded proud of the fact that he rode in the Apache Scouts and would want no part of Bertha Ford-or her niece. Caroline suddenly realized how lonely the past weeks had been and wanted to talk with the others, especially the friendly young man called Cody Yarrow.
The others waited for Bertha but Caroline said, “I’m Caroline Banders and this is my aunt.”
She left it at that and felt surprised that the others did not press for further information. She did not know the code of the west. An offer of introduction could be made but need not be answered, and if it was not, there could be no further seeking of information. Bertha clearly did not wish for any part of the other passengers’ company and they accepted her decision.
“Which only leaves the sleeping beauty here,” Julie remarked, turning to Waco, noting the hat drawn over his face as she nudged him gently in the ribs. “At least I think he’s a sleeping beauty, can’t tell with that Stetson over his face. Hey, mister, we’re getting to know each other.”
Waco stirred, shoved back his hat slightly, looking around with sleep-blurred eyes, grunted, “Howdy!” drew back the hat brim, and settled down again.
Julie turned to the other passengers with a smile. “Well, that’s the first time I ever had one go to sleep on me.”
“I’ll wake him if you like,” Wilson put in, ever willing to impress a young woman he planned to know better and exploit to his own profit.
“Leave him be, you don’t have to impress anybody with how tough you are,” Julie replied.
Wilson scowled at the young woman and sat angrily back in his seat. Julie relaxed and her smile died for a moment. She had been at San Ramos fort while Wilson gambled with the soldiers, and had his measure. Julie knew Wilson’s type, had seen it in a dozen and more towns. He left her strictly alone, for he knew she would never fall for his kind. Julie was an entertainer, a fair singer but nothing more. It took a soldier’s busted head, via a bottle wielded by Julie’s hand, to persuade the men at the fort that song and dance was all the entertainment she gave. She had sense enough to steer clear of Wilson’s kind. It came as something of a surprise to find that he had left the fort in a hurry but Julie did not attribute the departure to her leaving. She had her suspicions about the reasons for Wilson’s departure but she kept them to herself.
The coach had now left Albion City behind and lurched at a fair speed over the wheel-rutted trail to the east. Driver and guard both knew this route and expected an easy run.
The passengers settled down in what comfort they could manage. Julie leaned back and closed her eyes, thinking of the next town. She was a sensible young woman and knew that although her act was well received in the small towns, she did not have the makings of a star. Soon, very soon, she would need to get out of the entertaining game and settle down, or drag out the rest of her years around the circuit, getting older and sinking lower.
A smile came to Julie’s lips as she opened her eyes and saw the ground cut from under Wilson’s feet by Caroline asking a question about the passing range. The gambler knew little or nothing about the open country, his time being spent inside saloons, watching the fall of pasteboards on the green baize cloth of a card table. Cody Yarrow on the other hand was in his elem
ent. This was a land he knew and he pointed out things of interest to Caroline, bringing a flush of pleasure to her cheeks.
Bertha sat back with tight-drawn lips and unfriendly eyes. There was no one to whom she might speak, not even the gaunt preacher. She sat in silence, as did the preacher. Sweat ran freely down his face as he clutched the thick Bible and stared into space.
Through it all Waco stayed fast asleep, for Julie sat still so as not to disturb him. She had seen his eyes when he shoved his hat back and knew what made them so dull. In saloons Julie often saw drunks and knew the difference between a man sleeping off a load of coffin varnish and one dog-tired from long, sustained effort. The young cowhand had not been drinking. He bore the look of a man who badly needed sleep, so she let him get it.
Waco must have been asleep for all of five hours when he awoke. He stayed in the same position, in a lazy half-sleeping, half-waking way that allowed him to hear and be aware of everything going on around without the burden of joining in the conversation.
The trail passed through rolling, hilly country now, big rocks, dips, and ridges causing the coach to wind around. The driver brought his team around a corner, well clear of a large bush so he could see the trail ahead. He gave a startled curse, hauled on the reins, and booted home the brake all in one fast-done move. The guard came awake and alert-a full ten seconds too late.
The holdup had been neatly planned and laid out. Two masked men stood in the center of the trail, Winchesters lining on the driver and guard. A third man was to one side of the trail, holding a Colt, and in a position where he could cover the passengers.
The coach came to a halt in the open around the corner. There was some room on either side of the trail, then the bushes closed in once more. The guard sat still, hands lifting from his shotgun. Under the barrels of two rifles and with a coach full of passengers, he could take no chances.
Leaping forward, the pistol-armed outlaw jerked open the coach door.
“Sit fast, all of you!” he ordered in a voice brittle with excitement.
“Do it,” Cody Yarrow, nearest to the door, warned gently. He could see the gambler’s face flush with anger and knew any attempt to move might start the young outlaw throwing lead without regard for where it went or who caught it.
The two men with the rifles closed in slightly. Like their companion they wore cowhand dress although they looked older. Both gave the impression they could call their shots at that range, so the guard stayed still.
“All right,” said the taller outlaw. “Toss down your guns.”
The guard licked his lips nervously but complied. He knew the danger of tossing a shotgun from the coach to the ground. On landing, the jar might cause a barrel to discharge, which in turn would scare the team and could start them running. Or the explosion might trigger off the nerves of the outlaws, who did not look like this would take much doing, and start them throwing lead. So he tossed the shotgun into the bushes at the side of the open land, letting out a breath of relief when it landed and slid to the ground without firing. His revolver followed the shotgun, then the driver’s worn old Army Colt.
“Get them out, Joey,” the taller outlaw ordered.
“All right,” said the youngster. “Pile out, all of you, and keep your hands held high.”
Cody Yarrow came out first, hands clasped on his hat. He moved away from the coach toward where the shotgun lay. The young outlaw stepped back as Cody rose, presenting no chance to jump him. Neither he nor the other two gave the impression of being top-grade stock in their line but they were good enough to be deadly dangerous and just scared enough to panic if everything did not go smoothly.
One glance at the shotgun and revolvers told Cody Yarrow that the guard and driver could be counted out. That left the gambler and himself, for Cody did not count the preacher in and the sleeping man’s reactions might be too slow when he woke to be of any help.
“Get them out faster, Joey,” the taller man ordered.
Growling an order for more speed, the young outlaw moved nearer to the door. The women climbed down and went toward the men, who now stood in line. Joey let them by and looked inside the coach.
“There’s another in here, Pat,” he called. “Sleeping!”
“Well, get him out. Watch how you wake him.”
Cody Yarrow and the other passengers halted in a rough line, the men with their hands clasped on their hat tops and the women huddled together, standing with their backs to the bushes. Cody threw a glance at the shotgun that rested on the branches of a bush close at hand. All he needed was a brief diversion and he could reach the gun in one leaping dive. Then he could make things real interesting for the outlaws.
Leaning into the coach, Joey gave a wild yell. He saw the tall young Texan start as if the noise woke him. Joey hoped for some reaction that might justify his shooting the man down. That would really be something, to be able to cut his first butt notch and claim he had stopped the cowhand’s attempt to bust up their try at robbing the stage.
Waco gave him no such chance. He was fully awake before the yell and studied the young outlaw from under his hat brim, reading Joey for what he was. It took more than a drawn-up bandanna to prevent him from recognizing a trigger-wild kid just itching for an excuse to throw lead. So Waco moved slowly and carefully, giving a better than fair impersonation of a man just awakened from deep sleep. Stirring in his seat, Waco thrust back his hat, rubbing his eyes, with both hands in plain sight all the time. He peered sleepily at the open door, blinking and muttering: “Huh-what-where—”
“On your feet and keep your hands high, cow nurse,” growled Joe, hefting the Colt to emphasize his words. “Out of the door.”
Waco rose slowly, keeping his hands clear of his guns as he made for the door in a fumble-footed and half-asleep way. He wanted to make the young outlaw impatient enough to act without thinking. Once that happened, he would make a mistake and give Waco a chance. Joey drew back a couple of paces, muttering restlessly.
Still moving slowly, Waco came to the door and stood rubbing his eyes as if sleep still held him incapable of fast movement. He jumped down and stumbled. The young outlaw stepped forward, thrusting his Colt into Waco’s back with the intention of livening him up.
He got his wish!
Waco leaned back slightly on the muzzle of the Colt, then pivoted fast. He felt the barrel of the gun moving and his left hand lashed down, behind him, slamming into steel and deflecting the Colt away. Joey’s startled yell was drowned by the roar of the Colt, and Waco felt the muzzle blast but knew he was not hit, for he started to dive aside even as he struck the gun. The taller outlaw brought up his rifle and fired, flame lancing toward the coach. In midair Waco heard a yell of pain and surprise from the young outlaw. He did not have time to worry about this, for his right hand brought out the right-side Colt even as he fell to the ground. The Colt crashed, bucking in his hand, a bullet leaving its five-and-a-half-inch-long barrel. The taller outlaw spun around, his rifle falling from his hands even as he tried to lever another bullet into the chamber.
On the ground Waco carried on rolling, left hand also bringing out a Colt, for he knew he lived on borrowed time. He thumb-cocked the second Colt, twisting to line it on where, by his reckoning, Joey should be holding a gun ready to throw lead at him. By all fair averages the young outlaw should be on balance now and cutting in, Waco thought, and could not decide why he was not.
Landing flat on his back, Waco saw why he was still alive. Joey, down on his knees, held his ribs and whimpered in pain, his revolver lying on the ground by his side. It took Waco only a second to know what had happened. The rifleman’s fast-taken shot had gone where aimed, only Waco had left that spot an instant before. The bullet missed and caught Joey a nasty nick across the side. Ironically Waco owed his life to the man he killed, for without this bullet Joey would have been able to cut down the young Ranger.
At the moment Waco made his move Cody Yarrow took the chance it offered. The two outlaws gave Waco th
eir full attention, and even as one went down Cody hurled himself to a side. He caught up the shotgun and slewed around, swinging the gun up, the double barrels slapping into his left palm. The remaining outlaw hesitated, not knowing for sure which menace to deal with first. The pause cost him his life. He started to bring around the rifle to down Cody but never had a chance. The shotgun boomed while held waist high and the nine-buckshot charge lashed across the man’s body, throwing him into the bushes, his rifle triggering off a shot that went into the air.
The scene felt strangely silent after the roar of shots. Waco started to come to his feet, sparing a glance at the women. Caroline stood with her face buried in Julie’s hair while the rust-haired woman held and comforted her like a child. Bertha Ford stood rigid, her eyes dilated with horror as she stared around from one to another of the participants in the deadly corpse-and-cartridge affair. The Reverend Hodges stood slightly away from the rest, still holding the Bible in both hands. Frank Wilson stood still too; he had not made a move to draw his gun as yet.
With an animal snort Wilson lunged forward, the short-barreled Merwin & Hulbert gun sliding into his hand. The gambler moved toward Joey, his thumb drawing back the hammer of the revolver.
“You lousy scum!” he hissed, aiming at the young outlaw’s head. “I’ll kill you for—”
Waco had been about to move in and disarm Joey but Wilson was ahead of him. The young Texan snapped out: “Hold it!”
“Keep out of this, cow nurse,” Wilson snarled back. “No lousy owlhoot’s going to throw down on me and live to boast about it.”
“Leather it, hombre,” Waco ordered, seeing the blood lust on Wilson’s face and in his eyes. “Or turn it this way.”
Wilson turned slightly, facing Waco at the words. The young Texan stood on his feet, full ready to meet whatever play Wilson made. The way he stood told Wilson that. Feet slightly apart, knees bent, and body crouched to offer a smaller target. The center of the young Texan, lined full on Wilson’s body, was the bore of his right-hand Colt. In that instant Wilson knew he did not deal with a cowhand trying to impress anybody. Here stood a lawman.
