Waco's Badge

by J. T. Edson

  “Take it easy there, gents, I’m coming as fast as I can,” requested the third man to appear at the door of the vehicle, his New England voice placatory. “When you’re my size, you can’t move nowheres near so spry as these slender fellers.”

  There was some justification for the assertion!

  Having introduced himself as “Maurice Blenheim” on boarding the stagecoach, and continuing to chatter amiably throughout the journey, the speaker was middle-sized and portly. Black haired, blue eyed and perspiring freely, he had a cheerful face of the type to inspire confidence in his honesty. He wore a white “planter’s” hat, shoved to the back of his head, a matching two piece linen suit and shirt, with a multi-colored silk cravat, and Hersome gaiter boots. As was the case with his predecessors from the vehicle, he showed no sign of being armed. Nor did he convey the impression of being any more of a fighting man than the other two as, moving with a ponderous slowness, he descended and walked to where they were standing.

  “Hey in there, it’s your turn now!” called the spokesman, after a few seconds had passed without the last occupant leaving the stagecoach. “Haul your god-damned butt outside here, pronto!”

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?” Twelfinch demanded, although his tone now was more querelous than pompous, peering out of the window.

  “Sure I do, Senator,” the spokesman admitted, showing no signs of being impressed or concerned by the knowledge. “And what I said still goes, only more so.”

  Muttering under his breath, Twelfinch rose and emerged with alacrity. Of slightly less than medium height and skinny, he was far from an impressive or commanding figure. Bareheaded, his white hair looked like a not too clean mop above a miserable face so thinly fleshed it resembled a skull. While costly, his Eastern style clothing hung loosely and untidily on his weedy body. That he should not show any indication of carrying weapons of any kind came as no surprise to anybody who knew him. He was an ardent and vociferous advocate of legislation to prevent ownership of firearms unless very stringent proof of need could be established.

  “Hey, Belle!” the spokesman called, as the politician was going to stand alongside the rest of the passengers. “We’ve got—!”

  “God damn it!” the blonde barked, turning to show she had fastened her blouse and concealed the lower half of her face beneath a folded bandana. Donning the hat she took from the man she had told to assist her, she went on just as heatedly as she strode forward leaving him to disarm the still motionless shotgun messenger. “Why don’t you tell them who I am?”

  “Sorry, B—!” the outlaw commenced.

  “You damned nearly said it again!” the woman snorted, then ran her gaze along the line of men from the stagecoach. “All right, gents, let’s start having you-all handing over your valuables. Being right respectful of important folks, Senator, we’ll start with you-all.”

  “Me?” Twelfinch yelped and, taking a pace forward, looked by the next two passengers. “Jaqfaye, do something!”

  “Oui, M’sieur le Senator,” the Frenchman answered, his attitude indicating he was far from enamored of being singled out in such a fashion. “Tell me what you would have me do and I may try, but I do not hold out too much hope of whatever it is being successful.”

  “Damn it!” Twelfinch protested, being waved back to his place as he tried to go toward the man he was addressing. “Tell them who you are!”

  “They appear to know all too well who I am, m’sieur,” Jaqfaye asserted mildly, but his voice took on a harder and more warning timber as he continued, “There’s nothing I can tell them will make them change their minds. I would do as they tell you.”

  “B—But—But—!” the politician spluttered.

  “Come on now, Senator, you being so all-fired eager to help the poor of the world and all,” the spokesman interrupted, gesturing with the barrel of his Winchester. “You up and shell out afore we have Tommy Crane here do the asking.”

  “Ugh!” grunted the long haired outlaw, stepping forward and thrusting the muzzle of his Peacemaker in the direction of Twelfinch’s stomach. “Hand-um over wampum, paleface law-maker, or maybe so me take-um your scalp.”

  “I—I—!” the politician gurgled, leaning forward to direct another look at Jaqfaye. Finding he was met with a stony indifference and clear disinclination to intercede on his behalf, he swung his eyes to the front and went on sulkily, “Very well, but you’ll be sorry—!”

  “Not half as god-damned sorry as you-all will be iffen you-all don’t start to empty your pockets into Tommy Crane’s hat!” the woman warned, in her heavily accented Southron tone. “Shell out fast, you ‘mother-something’ Yankee carpet-bagger. I’m getting quick out of patience!”

  “Very well!” Twelfinch assented sullenly and with bad grace. As his right hand was reaching upward, it moved first toward the left breast of his jacket and hurriedly changed direction to disappear beneath the right side instead. Drawing out and offering a thin wallet, he muttered, “Here you are. Take it!”

  “Now let’s have it from the other side!” the blonde commanded, as the politician was dropping his property into the high crowned black hat proffered by the long haired outlaw.

  “The other si—?” Twelfinch commenced.

  “You’re trying my patience again, god damn it!” the woman warned savagely. “Fetch out whatever it is you’ve got stashed away in there!”

  “I—I—I—!” the politician babbled, once again glancing at the Frenchman. As he received not so much as a word in return, he gave a gesture of resignation and extracted a thick pocketbook bound in expensive red Morroco leather. “It’s only this!”

  “And very pretty it looks to me,” the blonde claimed, reaching out to pluck the object from the reluctant grasp of its owner. Opening it, she glanced at the wad of high denomination bank notes it held and inquired sardonically, “What might these be, Senator, campaign funds?”

  “N—!” Twelfinch began instinctively, then he nodded with vehemence. “Yes, that is what they are and when you hear who donated the—!”

  “Senator!” Jaqfaye barked, his voice having lost its suggestion of lacking masculinity. “I would advise you not to try the patience of these people too far!”

  “But I—!” Twelfinch gasped, glaring at the speaker as if unwilling to believe what he had heard.

  “It is none of my affair, of course,” the Frenchman put in. “But I consider you would be most ill-advised to say anything further, m’sieur!”

  “I’ve never been one for listening to politicians jabbering either, Frenchie,” the blonde supported, tossing the pocket-book into the hat. “My old daddy down home to Dixie always has a hankering for fancy do-hickeys like this, so I’ll take it as a present for him.”

  “You can keep the money!” the politician offered. “But let me have the pocketbook back!”

  “I told you what I aim to do with it,” the woman replied.

  “I’ll buy it from you!” Twelfinch suggested, his bony hands reaching out.

  “What with?” the blonde challenged. “Have you got some more money hidden away?”

  “No!” the politician stated vehemently. “You’ve taken all I have on me, but I’ll buy it back from you as soon as we reach Tucson.”

  “Why if that isn’t the height of kindness,” the woman said derisively. “Trouble being, even was we so inclined to go trusting you-all, we’re not paying no visits to Tucson after we’ve done here.”

  “Damn it, Jaqfaye—!” Twelfinch almost shrieked.

  “There’s nothing I can do, or say, to help you!” the Frenchman declared, his bearing prohibitive. “Nor can I imagine why you would believe I might be able to do anything to influence these people.”

  “You for sure as hell couldn’t,” the woman affirmed and, ignoring Twelfinch as his mouth opened, she looked away from him to continue, “All right. Now it’s your turn to give, fat man!”

  “Whatever you say, young lady,” Blenheim replied, his tone as amiable as it had
been while chattering about inconsequential matters aboard the stagecoach. “Only I’m not a politician, so don’t go expecting a wad of ‘campaign funds’ from me and you’re welcome to what little I’ve got.”

  “Why isn’t that just too kind of you-all?” the blonde purred, eyeing with obvious disdain the far from bulky wallet which the fat man had taken from the left inside breast pocket of his jacket. Taking and tossing it into the hat held by Tommy Crane, she went on, “And now we’ll have the rest!”

  “What rest would that be, ma’am?” Blenheim asked and he appeared to be genuinely puzzled as he posed the question.

  “The rest that’s in the money belt you’ve got on to make you look even fatter,” the woman elaborated. “Come on now, you don’t need to be bashful ’cause lil ole me’s looking. You-all can just get to peeling it off and I promise not to peek.”

  “Well now, ma’am,” Blenheim said, showing no greater indication of understanding, as he removed his hat with his left hand and mopped the back of the right across his brow. Then, reaching inside the crown as if to wipe the perspiration from the sweatband, he continued. “I don’t know where you’ve got the—!”

  “Kill him!” the woman yelled.

  Instantly, the spokesman and Tommy Crane squeezed the triggers of their respective weapons. Both had been covering Blenheim from such a short range that a miss was almost impossible unless it was deliberately sought. Neither had tried to do so. Struck in the left side of the body by the two bullets, one .45 and the other .44 in caliber, the fat man was slammed backward against the stagecoach. Flying from his left hand, the planter’s hat landed on the ground at the feet of the woman. Inside its crown, held by a spring clip, was a Remington Double Derringer.

  “That lil ole stingy gun didn’t do you any good at all, fat man,” the blonde claimed, showing no sign of revulsion or remorse and paying no attention to what the other men from the stagecoach were doing. “Nor would that hide-out revolver behind your back you were planning to pull after you’d downed these two boys.”

  Chapter 3

  THAT WAS BELLE STARR, GENTS

  AT THE SOUND OF THE SHOTS, THE HORSES HITCHED to the stagecoach let out snorts of alarm. Instantly, acting upon his instinct as a driver, Walter Tract spun around and darted alongside them. By doing so, laudable though his behavior undoubtedly was, he was placing himself in jeopardy.

  Instead of having joined the woman and his companions near the vehicle, the second outlaw armed with a Winchester Model of 1873 carbine was standing a short distance away from them. When he saw Tract begin to move, he let out a profane exclamation and started to turn the weapon in the same direction.

  “Easy there!” the youngest passenger advised, speaking in a firm yet gentle New England voice as he stepped forward quickly. Halting between the muzzle of the carbine and the target at which it was being pointed, he spread his hands, palms forward, outward from his sides as an indication of pacific intentions. His tone remained cool, calm and steady as he continued, “The driver’s only going to stop the team bolting.”

  For a moment, Jedroe Franks thought he had saved Tract at the cost of his own life!

  Above the masking bandana, the eyes of the outlaw flared with a mixture of alarm and panic!

  Looking down, Franks watched the knuckle of the right forefinger becoming white as it tightened on the trigger!

  Regardless of his studious appearance, the slender young passenger knew enough about firearms to appreciate the full extent of the danger!

  If the pressure continued to be exerted, the point would be reached when the sear was disengaged!

  Then the hammer would be liberated to snap forward and detonate the charge in the waiting cartridge!

  Even as the far from pleasant thought was formulating, Franks noticed something which came as a mixture of relief and surprise. Instead of being at the fully cocked position, the hammer was forward. Clearly, unlike his companion who was armed in a similar fashion, the outlaw had failed to take the precaution of operating the loading lever to feed a bullet from the tubular magazine to the chamber of the barrel. Until this was done, the weapon would not fire.

  However, having made a study of human nature, the relief which Franks started to experience was quickly tempered by a far less reassuring thought!

  When the outlaw discovered the mistake he had made, he seemed sufficiently nervous to rectify it!

  Should this happen, although Franks was taking care not to offer any cause, the weapon might be fired as soon as the reloading was completed!

  Regardless of the summations he was drawing, the young passenger did not attempt to bring out the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker revolver from its “half breed” spring retention shoulder holster beneath the left side of his jacket. While he had not been questioned about, or deprived of the weapon, what had happened to Maurice Blenheim warned him that its presence might be known to the gang. Even if this was not the case, despite carrying it for self defense, he knew he lacked the skill of a trained gun fighter. He could shoot with reasonable accuracy, but did not possess the kind of speed in handling it which alone might save him from being shot by the outlaw covering him. Furthermore, even should he have had the requisite ability, he was aware it would only prolong his life momentarily. As soon as he gave such an unmistakable indication that he was armed, the other male members of the gang would open fire upon him. No matter how quickly he moved, he would not be able to render them all hors de combat swiftly enough to prevent himself being shot.

  Another consideration served to cause Franks to stand immobile. Although the killing of Blenheim had not done so, any further gun play might provoke the outlaws into shooting at everybody who had been aboard the stagecoach. While he had no sympathy with the philosophies advocated by Senator Paul Michael Twelfinch II, he had no desire to be responsible for the deaths of the politician, Pierre Henri Jaqfaye, the driver and the unconscious shotgun messenger.

  The matter was taken out of Franks’ hands!

  “Max!” the woman snapped, having looked around when Tract and the young passenger moved, before any decision need be taken by the latter.

  “Yes?” asked the outlaw, glancing over his shoulder and, while doing so, swinging the barrel of the Winchester out of its alignment on the chest of the young man.

  “Send him to help the driver hold the horses,” the blonde commanded. “It wouldn’t be good old Southern hospitality for us’n’s to have these gentlemen left a-foot because the stagecoach ran away on them, now would it?”

  “I reckon you’re right at that, Sa—Belle,” the outlaw conceded, allowing his right forefinger to relax an instant before it had reached the critical point. Returning his attention to Franks, he went on in a harder and more demanding tone, “You heard Miss Sta—the lady. Go and do what she said!”

  “That was what I intending to do,” Franks claimed, trying with some success to prevent the brittle tension he was experiencing from tinging his voice. “But I didn’t want to get shot before I started.”

  “Smart feller, for a city-bred dude,” the blonde declared. “Mind you keep an eye on them while they’re doing it, Max.”

  “Sure!” the outlaw replied shortly, his demeanor suggesting he resented being reminded to take such a basic precaution.

  “Give me the hat, Tommy Crane,” the woman ordered, swinging her gaze back to the pair standing over the body. “Then get the fat man’s money belt!”

  “M—!” the long haired outlaw croaked, losing the deep and guttural tone. “Me?”

  “Yes, you!” snapped the blonde, snatching the hat she had requested from its owner. “And don’t take all god-damned day doing it, you ‘mother-something’ half-breed!”

  Attracted by what was being said, Franks threw a glance over his shoulder as he was walking to where Tract was holding the heads of the lead team. He discovered that Crane was looking at the other outlaw who shared responsibility for the death of the fat man. However, on the woman delivering her second comment, t
he long haired bandit glared in her direction for a moment. Then, with obvious reluctance, he returned the Colt to its holster and bent over the corpse.

  Arriving by the driver, Franks found there was no need for his services. Aided by the dead weight of the coach standing with its brakes applied, Tract had had no difficulty in keeping the horses under control. Satisfied on that point, the young man watched what was happening elsewhere. He found that Twelfinch was taking advantage of the gang’s attention being diverted.

  On striking the side of the stagecoach under the impulsion of the two heavy caliber bullets, Blenheim had rebounded and fallen a few feet away. Seeing the woman and male outlaws were not paying attention to him, the politician had shuffled sideways until he was standing alongside Jaqfaye.

  “Why—?” Twelfinch began, only just retaining sufficient presence of mind to hold down his voice to slightly louder than a whisper.

  “Not now, damn you!” the Frenchman hissed back. “This isn’t the time, or the place, to try to get back your money that way!”

  “But if they knew who you’re wor—!” the politician commenced.

  “They could be so worried they killed us both!” Jaqfaye warned, selecting an argument which he considered would be likely to produce the result he required. Seeing the alarm which came to the skull-like features of the other passenger, he went on, “Don’t worry, M’sieur le Senator, I promise that you won’t be the loser. If the worst comes to the worst, I personally will reimburse you for all they have taken.”

  “Want to thank you for what you did just now, young feller, that son-of-a-bitch was figuring to put a blue window in me,” Tract remarked. “Doing what you did took nerve, but some’d say you didn’t show real good sense in doing it.”

  “I’d acted before I had time to think about the consequences,” Franks admitted, wishing he could hear what was being said between the politician and the Frenchman.