Waco's Badge

by J. T. Edson

  “Howdy, you-all,” greeted the blond, bringing the horses to a halt. He pronounced the words, “Heidi, yawl” in a fashion which announced he had been born and raised in Texas. He continued, “Looks like you’ve had more than a mite of trouble, gents.”

  “There’s some as might just up and say ‘yes’ to that,” Tract replied, reading the brand on the paint as “CA” and knowing the ranch in the Lone Star State which used such a sign to identify its livestock.

  If the blond rode for the CA ranch, the driver concluded, the chances were greatly in favor of him being better than average when it came to handling a gun!

  “The gang who robbed us rode off that way!” Twelfinch put in, gesturing in the rough direction of where the outlaws had already disappeared amongst the trees. “Get after them!”

  “How?” the blond inquired, turning a far from respectful gaze to the politician. “This ole Dusty horse of mine threw him a shoe back a ways and I’m surely not fixing on going chasing a bunch of owlhoots on this no-account crowbait we come across straying back there.”

  “Then you go after the—!” Twelfinch commanded, cheeks reddening with anger at the rebuff, swinging his eyes to the other newcomer.

  “Are both of them cashed in, friend?” the second cowhand inquired, his accent just as indicative of “roots” in Texas, addressing the driver and giving the politician not so much as a glance.

  “Only that gent,” Tract answered, indicating the body of Maurice Blenheim with a wave of his right hand. “But I haven’t gotten around yet to finding out how bad hurt Ben there is.”

  “Which being,” the slender Texan declared, starting to swing from his saddle. “I’d best take a look.”

  “You?” the politician asked disdainfully, the annoyance he felt at the way he had been ignored combining with his radical antipathy toward Southrons in general and provoking the question when his other instincts warned it might prove ill-advised.

  “Are any of you gents for-real and regular doctors?” the blond drawled, when his companion did not deign to reply, making it obvious he was not including Twelfinch in the query.

  “I’m not,” Franks replied, responding to the interrogative glance directed his way by the driver.

  “Neither am I, I’m afraid,” Jaqfaye seconded, although he did not receive a similar hint from Tract.

  “Which being,” the blond Texan stated. “I’d stand well clear, was I you-all, and let Doc go to it.”

  “Doc?” the driver queried hopefully, gazing first at the wedge-shaped brand on the flank of the big black stallion. Then he lifted his eyes to take in the pallid features of the man who had ridden it and went on, “Don’t like to sound nosy, friend, but would you be Doc Leroy?”

  “The name’s Marvin Eldridge Leroy,” the slender cowhand informed, unstrapping the black bag from his saddlehorn. “But I’ve been called ‘Doc’ on occasion.”

  “And worse, more than just on occasion and always deserved,” the blond asserted, looking at Tract. “My name’s ‘Waco,’ amigo. Is there anything I can be doing while Doc’s ’tending to that feller, him getting riled real easy ’n’ sudden should folk get underfoot when he’s doctoring.”

  “You could take his horse and go after the gang!” Twelfinch suggested, in a tone which implied he expected to be obeyed.

  “Well now, I could just do that,” the younger Texan conceded, his voice almost caressingly mild, as he was dismounting. “Only, seeing’s how ole Snowy there’s been toting Doc and me both for a fair spell afore we come across this miserable crowbait I’ve been forking, I sure as hell don’t aim to push him no more by doing it.”

  “But, god damn it, man, they robbed m—us!” the politician protested in righteous indignation.

  “Go after them yourself, happen you feel so strong about it, I’ll loan you a gun,” Waco answered and, with the manner of one who considered the subject under discussion was at an end, turned to the driver. “I’ll give you a hand to get that dead hombre loaded on the coach, was such your intention, amigo.”

  “Be obliged if you wo—!” Tract commenced.

  “How’s about thinking about the feller who’s alive afore you bother over the one who’s already cashed in?” Doc Leroy interrupted. “What happened to him?”

  “The gal who was running the whole she-bang knocked him down, wearing a knuckle-duster likely, first off,” Tract supplied, seeing the wisdom behind the question. “Then one of her men pistol whipped him when he showed signs of coming ’round.”

  “Sound like real neighborly folks,” Waco commented. “Can us common fellers get to doing it now, sir?”

  “Feel free,” Doc assented, the question having been addressed to him.

  “Hey, though!” Tract ejaculated, looking at the blond with renewed interest. “Aren’t you the ‘Waco’ who rides with Cap’n Fog and the OD Connected’s floating outfit?”

  “There’s only the one’s I know of,” the younger Texan declared with a grin.

  “Which same’s four too god-damned many, most times,” Doc called over his shoulder, as he set off toward the motionless shotgun messenger with purposeful and confident strides. “You keep him hard to work, mind, friend. He gets fractious when he’s let stand idle.”

  “Sounds like he knows you real well, young feller,” the driver remarked amiably, satisfied his friend was in capable hands. “Would Cap’n Fog, Mark Counter ’n’ the Ysabel Kid be around?”

  “Not happen our luck holds good,” Waco replied, but there was a wistful note in his drawl as he thought of the three men—Captain Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog, C.S.A., in particular—who he regarded, along with his present companion, as being closer than brothers.1 “I took lead in a shooting fuss over to Backsight and had to stay on for a spell,2 but Doc and me’re headed back home to Rio Hondo County, Texas, as soon as we’ve finished the chore we’re ’tending to.”

  Which proved that, competent as he undoubtedly was in several other fields of endeavor, the blond youngster rated pretty low as a prophet.3

  While the other men were talking, satisfied there was nothing to fear from the newcomers, Franks had gone to and opened the baggage boot at the rear of the stagecoach. There was a trunk and three large wicker baskets inscribed, “JAQFAYE OF PARIS” inside, but he had no difficulty in locating the items he was seeking. Removing the roll of tarpaulin and rope, he carried them to the body where he was joined by Waco and Tract. Remembering the offer of assistance made by the Frenchman, he expected it would be forgotten now other help was available. However, seeing the politician was making for him, giving a gesture of obvious prohibition and rejection, Jaqfaye walked across to ask what he could do to help.

  Going quickly to where Eckland was lying, all the levity Doc had employed when speaking to Waco left him and he became oblivious of everything else around him. His instincts warned that he had a difficult task ahead of him, but he did not allow the thought to distress or disturb him.

  Although he had not yet been able to attain his ambition of becoming a qualified doctor, as his late father was who had encouraged him to do so, the slender young man who—apart from his pallid face—looked like a typical cowhand of Texas was already very knowledgeable in medical matters. Ever since the murder of his parents in a budding range war had caused him to put aside his departure to medical school in St. Louis,4 he had taken every opportunity to study and improve his practical skills. What was more, while earning his living first as a hand with the Wedge trail crew delivering herds of cattle on contract for small ranchers,5 then as a member of General Jackson Baines “Ole Devil” Hardin’s legendary floating outfit,6 he had found numerous opportunities to engage upon the profession to which he aspired. In fact, due to the number with which he had been called upon to deal, he could even now claim to know more about the treatment of gunshot wounds than many a practitioner who had earned the honorific, “Doctor of Medicine.” In addition to these and other injuries which came the way of cowhands, he had on occasion found the need t
o deliver babies and, in the not too distant future, would be compelled to cope with the problem of bringing recalcitrant twins into the world.7

  All in all, therefore, Marvin Eldridge “Doc” Leroy had no reason to doubt his ability to handle whatever might lay ahead!

  Setting down his medical bag so it would be readily available to his hands, the slender Texan knelt to commence his examination of the unmoving shotgun messenger. Even if he had not received the information from Tract, he could have guessed at least something of what had taken place to cause the condition to which Eckland was reduced. From previous experiences, when celebrating cowhands had been pistol whipped by the “fighting pimp” peace officers infesting some of the Kansas trail end towns, the sight of the swollen and discolored ridge showing through the hair—the guard having lost his hat when the woman knocked him down—where the barrel of the Peacemaker had struck the side of the head was sufficient to establish how it was created.

  The first task, Doc realized, was to ascertain just how seriously his patient was injured. He knew the condition referred to as “unconsciousness,” or “insensibility,” was due to interruption of the action of the brain through some form of interference with the functioning of the body’s nervous system. Apart from ordinary sleep, there were two degrees of unconsciousness; partial, or “stupor” and the vastly more serious complete insensibility known as “coma.”

  Although there was an excessive flow of saliva tinged with blood oozing out of the mouth of the shotgun messenger, suggesting the driver was correct regarding the way in which the woman had protected her fist against damage prior to striking him, Doc wanted to establish the exact nature of his unconscious state before conducting any physical tests on the jaw. First, the Texan tried speaking to Eckland. Providing the stupor was not too great, the sufferer could sometimes be aroused by the sound of a voice. There was no sign of it happening on this occasion. Reaching with both hands, the Texan next took hold of the lashes of the right eye and pulled them gently in opposite directions.

  “Damn it!” Doc breathed, when there was no resistance to his actions and the eyelids separated instead of contracting; as would have happened in the case of even a heavy stupor. What was more, despite suddenly being subjected to the bright light of the sun—which should have caused the muscular ring known as the “iris” to shrink and the size of the pupil to diminish—they remained immobile. “It’s a deep coma for sure, likely with a fracture to the skull.”

  Releasing the eyelids, Doc glanced to satisfy himself that the teeth of the guard were natural. If they had been false, they would have needed to be taken out before he did anything else. Then, as the breathing remained quiet, he removed and folded his jacket to make an extemporized pillow. Raising the head and shoulders slightly, with it as a support, he turned the former so the injured side was uppermost. As he did so, he was ready to modify the position if the breathing became in any way difficult or obstructed.

  Moving his seemingly boneless hands with great care, the Texan ran the tip of the right forefinger along the contused ridge. With a sensation of relief, he found no irregularity and concluded there was a chance his fear of a fracture might be misplaced. Gambling upon this proving the case, he gave his attention to the jaw. In addition to being badly swollen and bruised where the punch had landed, his gently questing fingers felt the crepitus caused by the broken section of the bone grating against one another. The extreme depth of the coma was further indicated by the complete lack of response from Eckland to the treatment. However, an examination of the mouth proved the tongue was not cut. Nor was the extent of the damage so severe, as might have happened if the injury was caused by a bullet, that it was liable to slip back and impede breathing.

  For all the positive results acquired by his scrutiny, Doc did not for a moment consider he was faced with a sinecure!

  The Texan was engaged in the kind of a situation where, lacking the aids to diagnosis which would be available to a later generation, a doctor in the late 1870s—particularly on the great range country west of the Mississippi River—had to rely upon his knowledge, judgment and instincts!

  While he had not qualified, Doc had to reach a decision regarding treatment upon which the life of another human being could depend!

  If he was correct about the extent of the damage caused by the barrel of the pistol, Doc could bandage the broken jaw. To do so, should the skull be fractured, would apply a pressure and compression to the former injury, no matter how carefully he applied the bandages, which could prove fatal. On the other hand, if left unsecured, the journey to the nearest town would offer opportunities for further damage to the jaw which could prove just as fatal as an incorrect summation regarding the condition of the skull.

  A lesser man might have called upon Tract, as Eckland’s friend, Waco, or the passengers of the stagecoach, for an opinion!

  That was not the way in which the late Eldridge Jason Leroy, M.D., had taught his son to behave!

  The decision was for Doc and Doc alone to take!

  “Damn it, Sir John, why couldn’t you have been a storekeeper instead of a doctor?” the slender Texan mused wryly, employing the sobriquet by which his father had been known to differentiate between himself, “Lil Doc.” Opening the black bag, he lifted out a roll of wide white bandage and went on, “Life would surely be more easy for me if you had!”

  Chapter 5

  THAT MAN TRIED TO KILL ME

  “I’VE COME UP ON YOU AT LAST, YOU MURDERING son-of-a-bitch!”

  Hearing the words as he was dismounting from his big and, at present, hard ridden bay gelding at four-thirty in the afternoon, Major Bertram Mosehan looked around. What he saw gave warning that, even if such provocative words were ever intended to be part of rough cowhand horseplay, their current intent was in deadly earnest. For all that, he was at a loss to decide why they were being directed his way.

  Considering to whom it was being uttered, there were many people in Arizona Territory and elsewhere throughout the United States of America who would have thought the words extremely ill-advised!

  Tall, wide shouldered, in his early forties, Mosehan bore himself with the straight backed posture of a professional soldier. Moderately handsome, sun bronzed, his mouth was firm and shielded by a close clipped brown moustache. A touch of gray at his temples gave a maturity to a strong countenance which indicated he was not a man with whom it would be safe to trifle. He had on a tan Stetson with a “Montana crown” peak, a waist length brown leather jacket, dark green shirt, blue bandana and yellowish brown Nankeen trousers tucked carefully into the tops of black Hessian leg riding boots. About his waist was a broad black belt with a United States Cavalry buckle. A Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker was butt forward in its high riding, flap topped military holster on the right side. Such a rig offered excellent protection from the elements for the weapon, but did not grant unhindered accessibility should it be required urgently.

  After a creditable and honorable career in the Army of the United States, rising to the rank of major in the Cavalry,1 Mosehan had resigned his commission to become manager of the already extensive Hashknife ranch in Arizona. As was the case during his military service, he had acquired a reputation for being honest and scrupulously fair in his dealings with others, but very strict when in contention with those who transgressed upon him or any property for which he was responsible.

  Although the major was ostensibly visiting Marana to participate in a forthcoming sale of livestock, he had another reason. He had been requested by his employers to go to the town and meet with a Mr. Edward Jervis, but they had given no further information. Accepting that the matter must be of importance, he had made the journey as quickly as possible. What was more, on his arrival, he had made his way directly to the Pima County Hotel—where he had been told the man he was coming to see could be found—instead of first going to leave his horse at the livery barn. With the sale commencing the following morning, the small town was busy and clearly had numerous visitors. Howe
ver, while passing along the main street and crossing the Spanish style plaza upon which the hotel stood—as did most of the main buildings—he had seen nobody he recognized from elsewhere.

  Although failing to identify him, looking at the speaker, Mosehan had no doubt what he was. Tallish, lean, with shoulder long black hair and a vicious, unshaven face, his clothing was that of a cowhand. However, if the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker he wore tied down and low heeled boots were any indication, any work he had been hired to do on a ranch was unlikely to have included handling the cattle. He was, unless the major guessed wrong, a hired gun fighter if not one of the top class.

  “Have you?” Mosehan said quietly, his accent that of a Kansan; albeit one who had spent much of his life outside the State. Noticing that those people closest were backing away from what showed signs of developing into a most dangerous area, he stepped away from his horse to avoid putting it in jeopardy if—as seemed very likely—gunplay should take place. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  “You killed my brother,” the man claimed, speaking louder than was necessary for just the major to hear.

  “I did?” Mosehan queried, keeping his hands by his sides to prevent making anything which could be construed as a hostile gesture.

  “Not personal, with your own hands,” the man answered, right fist hovering over the butt of his revolver and eyes flickering to the closed flap of the holster worn by the major. “You didn’t have the guts for that, so you got him hung for something you knowed damned well he didn’t do.”