by J. T. Edson
“Which one?” Julie asked as the passengers exchanged looks.
“It could be any one of you,” Waco replied. “All six of you were on the reservation about the time the medicine went.”
“I never went outside the fort,” Julie remarked. “I’m a city gal who doesn’t like being bounced about on the back of a horse. There’s an easy way to find out who has it. Search us all.”
“Which same I aim to do right now,” Waco drawled. “Shotgun, Mick, go bring all the baggage in here and let the folks sort out their own. Ma—”
Wilson moved from the bar, his face flushed with whiskey, dark, ugly, and with the slit-eyed mean look of a bad drunk. He braced himself, his hand lifting toward the front of his coat and the butt of the Merwin & Hulbert gun.
“Nobody’s going to search me or my bags!” he snarled.
The driver and the guard stood still, so did Ma Randle. Pa Randle had just entered from the back, carrying a bottle of whiskey, but he stopped in his tracks. All had seen a bad drunk before and knew the danger of crossing such a man. Waco also knew the danger, knew it and took it without backing an inch.
His voice was soft, cold, and impersonal as he faced the gambler.
“Mister, drunk, sober, dead, or alive, I’m searching you.”
The gambler’s eyes locked with Waco’s. Cold hate boiled up inside Wilson, stoked by the Randies’ whiskey. The rest of the room was a blank, only the tall Texan having any substance. That man had humiliated him, struck him down, made him look like dirt in front of Caroline Banders. Slowly Wilson’s fingers worked, forming the shape in which they would close around the butt of his revolver. Then suddenly the whiskey went cold in his stomach as he could almost see the way Waco’s hands brought out his guns in that whirling blur of action in the afternoon. He could remember the way Waco moved, the speed with which he deflected the young outlaw’s gun, flung himself to one side, drawing while falling and throwing his lead accurately even as he landed. Half a second, that was all the time elapsed, but in it the Ranger’s gun came clear of leather and killed a man.
Suddenly Wilson’s lips were very dry and he ran a tongue tip over them. The rest of the room came into focus again. He stood fast for all that, hand still ready to haul out his gun.
Pa Randle moved, seeing the danger and acting on it. “Hey!” he called, and tossed the whiskey bottle toward Wilson.
Seeing the bottle coming at him Wilson made an involuntary gesture. His hands came together, catching the bottle then releasing it again. His right hand moved back in the direction of his gun. Waco came in, the Colt slid into his left hand and rose and fell in a fast chopping motion that laid the barrel against Wilson’s already swollen jaw. The gambler’s knees folded under him and he crashed to the floor.
“Thanks, Pa,” said Waco, bending to pull the Merwin & Hulbert from under Wilson’s arm and tuck it into his belt.
“I never could stand a man who can’t hold his likker,” Pa replied with a cackle like a hen laying two eggs at once. He looked at the bottle Wilson dropped and cackled again. “That’s truer than I meant. I brought the bottle for him and he sure didn’t hold it for long.”
Waco did not laugh. “Get the bags in here, will you,” he said. “Ma, take the ladies to their room and search them.”
“I thought you’d search us.” Bertha Ford sneered, her hatred showing plain.
“Why for, ma’am? I’ve seen a woman with no clothes on, it’s no novelty. I don’t reckon you’d have any more to show, or different from any other woman, so I’ll let Ma search you. Like the rules say.”
“How dare you!” the woman hissed. “You come here accusing me—”
“Simmer down,” Ma growled, moving forward and thrusting her large face almost into Bertha Ford’s. “Waco didn’t accuse anybody. He’s doing something that needs doing and I’m helping him.”
“Do you know who you’re speaking to?”
“Who you are and what you are,” Ma replied coolly, “I don’t like either. All your sort are the same, you can insult and abuse who the hell you like. You can break every rule, but everybody else has to play them as they suit you. Either of you other ladies object if I search you?”
Julie grinned. “Not as long as you don’t tickle. The sheriff’s wife over to Mecate tickles something awful when she searches you.”
“I’ve no objections,” Caroline went on. “Nor should you have, Aunt Bertha. You’ve nothing to hide, have you?”
With that Caroline rose and walked to the baggage, selected her own, and followed the driver who carried it into the room at the rear for her. Julie collected her luggage and the guard carried Bertha’s bags in. Ma followed the women but paused at the door.
“What am I looking for, Ranger?”
“I’ll be Texas-damned if I know, Ma,” Waco admitted. “Anything that looks Apache. A ring, a bracelet maybe. Could be a medicine pouch or even an old knife or a cap-and-ball gun. You’re as likely to know it as I am if you see it.”
Ma entered the room, closing the door. Pa brought a bucket of water and poured it over the groaning gambler, bringing him into a sitting position, spluttering curses. His hand went to the empty shoulder clip and he came to his feet but moved to the bar and caused no more trouble. The preacher left his table and pointed out his belongings, then stood back to await his turn to be searched.
Cody Yarrow was the first, stripping off all his clothes and handing them to Waco, who searched them, then the contents of the scout’s war bag. It was the most unusual search Waco had ever made. Often he had checked a suspect’s person and belongings, but he had always known what he was looking for. This time he searched for something and had no idea what it was. He relied on his eyes, on his knowledge of Apaches, and a fair bit of luck. The prize for success stood high. As high as the cost of lives and money to put down a full-scale Apache uprising.
In the ladies’ room Caroline, blushing a little at having to strip naked before two comparative strangers, sat on the edge of a bed and waited until Ma finished examining her clothes. Then she dressed while Julie, with the casual acceptance of one who regularly changed clothes in a room full of strange women, took off her clothes and passed them to Ma.
Then Julie’s face reddened and she said: “There’s nothing in my vanity bag, Ma.”
Ma glanced at Julie, surprised at the objection. She opened the bag and took out a ball of wool into which stuck two knitting needles. She spread the needles and looked at the neatly done child’s bonnet that hung almost completed from them.
“I didn’t know you went in for this sort of thing, Julie gal.” Ma grinned, knowing the reason for the girl’s confusion. A hard-bitten young woman like Julie did not like the idea of anyone knowing knitting was her hobby.
The searching took some time and Caroline sat on her bed since she could not leave the room. She remembered the letter and took it from her vanity bag. Tearing open the flap, she pulled out the folded sheets of paper, spread them out, and began to read.
“Report of Operative 281 into the killing of Charles William Ford in Lawson, Texas,” she read.
Caroline’s eyes went down the printed lines. The report was by the Pinkerton Detective Agency, one she asked for. Up until a few days before, Caroline had almost believed her aunt to be right in her crusade against the Democrats. She was preparing a manuscript in her aunt’s defense and wrote to ask Pinkerton’s to uncover the full facts about her uncle’s killing. This report told of the findings. Pinkerton’s men were very thorough. Caroline saw how thorough as she read. Her face lost some of its color and her hands shook as she folded the paper and put it into the envelope once more.
“Now you know what it’s like, Caroline,” Julie said, dropping down on the bed beside her, dressed and waiting for Bertha to be searched.
“What do you mean?” Caroline replied, clearing her head by an effort.
“Getting searched.”
“Have you done it before?” Caroline asked, although at the moment she did n
ot feel like talking. Her brain felt numb; the news came so brutally frank and she could not do other than believe it to be true. Pinkerton’s might have its faults but its agents were efficient and accurate in their findings.
“Done it before.” Julie laughed. “Every time some influential drunk loses his wallet every gal in the place gets searched. The great seizer-the town marshal to you-comes and hauls the girls down to the jail, and his wife, or one of the good ladies of the town, searches them. Never find anything but it shows they’ve tried.”
“But don’t you object?”
“No. I don’t like it, but that’s one of the things like hotel food, managers who skip without paying the cast, and hearing folks cheering you that go to make up being on the stage. If we object, the place gets closed and the folks who work in it are looking for a new town.”
In the bar room Waco carried on with his search. He discovered the reason for Wilson’s objection to being searched, other than personal hatred. One small case, when opened, proved to contain several articles with which Waco had some knowledge.
First was a mechanical card holdout, a device used by crooked gamblers to keep a few chosen cards concealed up a sleeve, yet which would, on pressure being applied to a catch, deliver the cards to the hand, propelled by an arrangement of small springs. The three decks of cards in the box had interesting improvements, as Waco found on opening the boxes and examining them. The first deck’s backs had small portions of the design shaded out, telling one who knew the code the value of the card and its suit. The shading had been very well done and it took keen eyes to see the difference. Forty-eight of the next deck’s cards had been filed down a minute fraction of an inch. The remaining four cards, aces Waco guessed, had only the corners filed down, leaving a slight bulge in the center. A man needed delicate fingers to feel the bulge, but it was there. Take the cards firmly, place them edge down on a table and tap the top, then draw it through the fingers, and the four bulged cards stuck, coming out to be used for whatever purpose the owner of the deck wished. The last deck proved to have slick aces, the ace cards’ backs being treated with wax and polished so they would slide when given a gentle push, making the cutting of an ace certain for a man who knew the deck’s secret. The dice in the case looked all right and Waco did not test them, but he would have bet money that they were loaded, had one face filed down slightly, or were otherwise treated to improve on Wilson’s chances in a game.
“Are you a Syndicate man?” Waco asked the sullen gambler as he closed the case and laid it aside.
“No,” came the growling reply.
“Now, that’s a real pity. I’d like to get a Syndicate man with this sort of gear on him. That coach keeps going out of Arizona Territory. Stay with it, we’ve more than enough crooked gamblers and can spare one or two.”
“Have I any choice?”
“Sure. I’ll take you back to the fort and show the soldiers how these decks of cards and sets of dice work. They’ll likely laugh themselves dizzy when they see. Now I’ll take you, Reverend.”
The gaunt man rose and removed his clothes, laying them on the table. The reason for his sweating so much now became obvious. Under his shirt he wore a thick old red woolen undershirt, a garment not recommended for travelers in the hot climate of Arizona Territory. Dropping the undershirt on the table, Hodges stood back. Waco examined the clothing with no more success than in the previous two cases, then gave his attention to the man’s scanty belongings. At the end Waco shrugged. If Mangus Colorado’s medicine was on anyone now, it must be one of the women.
The preacher dressed and packed his belongings while Waco went to the door of the women’s room and knocked.
“Nothing, Ma,” he said when the big woman stepped out.
“Me neither,” she admitted.
Bertha Ford followed Ma from the room, her face flushed with rage. “I won’t forget this outrage!” she almost screamed as she halted before Waco. “I’ll make the whole country ring with the high-handed way you’ve carried on. I’ve been forced to suffer the indignity of being searched like a common criminal on groundless suspicion, and without your even knowing what you searched for. I’ll take up this matter and break you and your leader—”
“You won’t, Aunt Bertha!”
Caroline stepped from the other room, in her hand a thick envelope. She moved by Ma and halted before her aunt.
“What do you mean?” Bertha hissed.
“You’re going to stop this senseless attacking of honest men doing their work the only way they can. You’re going home, Aunt Bertha, and you’re never going near anything political again.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses, girl?”
“No, just come to them,” Caroline replied quietly, but her words seemed to ring through the room. “Why have you carried on this feud with the Democrats, Aunt Bertha? For your beliefs, or because you hated them for killing Uncle Charles? Which was it, Aunt Bertha?”
“I don’t know what you mean!”
“Uncle Charles, the noble, generous, kindly reformer. Uncle Charles, captain of the Texas State Police, protecting the innocent. Murdered by a drunken mob of Democrats,” Caroline went on, her voice throbbing with vibrant passion. “Uncle Charles was killed by a sheriff while resisting arrest on charges of extortion, embezzlement of funds, conspiracy to defraud, and accessory before and after the act of murder.”
Bertha Ford’s face twisted in a mask of hatred, her eyes glaring in a wild hate-filled mania. “Be quiet!” she screamed. “Caroline, I—”
“I won’t be quiet,” Caroline answered, holding out the envelope. “This is the report from the Pinkerton Agency. I asked them to establish the facts of Uncle Charles’s death and they told me all about dear, kind, noble Uncle Charles. That’s the man who you were prepared to break honest people for, not because of their political beliefs, but because one killed your husband.”
Bertha Ford lunged forward, hands clawing wildly and such an expression of hate on her face that Caroline staggered back.
“Give me that report! Give it to me!”
Ma Randle’s big hands shot out to catch Bertha’s wrists, holding them with no more effort than one would a child’s. She forced the screaming, struggling woman back and thrust her into a chair. For a moment Bertha Ford screamed, raved, and tried in vain to shake the hands from her. Then she went limp, slumped in the chair, and started to sob, the sobs shaking her frame. Caroline moved forward, face white and set as she looked down at her aunt.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Bertha,” she said gently, “I’m truly sorry for you. But I’ll keep this report and I promise that the next time you attack a Democrat or anyone I’ll send it to a newspaper.”
It was the end of Bertha Ford’s career of hatred, lies, and troublemaking. She knew it as did every man and woman in the room.
Waco spoke first. “Nothing of what’s been said in this room’ll be repeated outside it. The man who mentions it answers to me.”
There came a rumble of agreement from the others. Caroline gave Waco a grateful glance. She was not vindictive and knew her aunt had been punished enough. Bertha Ford’s power had been broken from the moment the report came into Caroline’s hands. If the report ever did reach the Democratic press, her aunt would know in full the bitter taste of her own medicine. Somehow Caroline did not think any of the others would mention the matter after Waco’s warning.
Waco’s eyes went to the sobbing woman, then to the gaunt reverend who sat at a table so close to her. The man did not appear to be over interested in anything he had heard or seen. He must be the sort of churchman who held that his services only worked with payment, Waco thought. Then the young Texan turned his mind back to the problem that brought him to Randle’s way station. A half-forgotten fact nagged at his brain, fought to make the surface and allow light to fall upon it. His eyes went to the leather-bound Bible and he remembered he had not examined it. Waco was a man with strong, if not orthodox religious principles and he had left the Bible b
ecause he did not feel he should touch the sacred book without something stronger than mere suspicion. Perhaps Mosehan’s information had been false and the people on the stage did not have the medicine. The guilty party might even have made a parcel of the medicine and left it to be delivered east by the United States mail. If that proved to be the case, the people would be in a bad spot come daylight.
“Did you ever see Mangus Colorado, Ma?” he asked.
“Old Red Sleeves,” Ma replied, moving back from Bertha. “Sure I saw him. A big, fine-looking man, tall and heavy built. I saw him when—”
The words rolled on but Waco no longer heard them. What a blind fool he’d been not to see it at once. Red Sleeves, the English translation of Mangus Colorado.
The preacher came to his feet in a fast move. His right hand knocked open the Bible’s cover and dipped into a cavity made by sticking the pages together and cutting the center away. A Remington Double Derringer came into his hand as he lunged forward.
Bertha Ford gave a startled cry as the man’s left hand caught her wrist. He gave a pull and she came to her feet, dragged before him by a strength that was out of keeping with his gaunt frame. She stood between Hodges and the others, a living shield, the Remington thrust into her side and the hammer back, ready to fire the upper barrel.
“Stand still, all of you!” he snapped.
Waco’s hand froze inches from his guns. Like all the others he had been taken by surprise. The rest stood fast. Ma was first to get it, although she was not sure how Hodges tied into the matter. Then she saw the red strip showing from the cuff of the gaunt man’s coat, recognized it for what it was.
Mangus Colorado’s name came from a red undershirt bought, or looted, from the first American traders to enter the Apache lands. He had worn it in battle and come through without a scratch. So it became his medicine, treasured for the luck it brought. When he became an old-man chief and no longer needed to take the risks a name-making brave must, he hung the medicine shirt in the trophy lodge.
