by J. T. Edson
“Tolerable few, I’d think.” Waco glanced up at the speaker and wondered where Downer learned the range meaning for the term Arbuckle. It was a derisive name for a useless dude, implying the boss paid for his invaluable assistance in Arbuckle coffee premium stamps. “I reckon you’d best take me and show me where you found the body.”
Without another word Downer headed for the horse line, while Waco told the other men to bury the scout. Then mounting the big paint stallion Waco rode to join Downer, who was a’fork a big bay gelding, resting easily in the Cheyenne Roll saddle.
“You been west long, mister?” he asked, as they rode out of the circle.
“Came out with these folks, never west of the Big Muddy afore that. Why’d you ask?”
“Waal, I never saw a dude who could ride so good before.”
Downer laughed. “We use horses nearly as much as you do, back east. I’ve spent all my life in the country. How come you’re taking so much interest in this?”
“I’m a Territorial Ranger.”
“I didn’t know Arizona had them.”
“We’ve only been formed a month or so.” There was a touch of pride in Waco’s voice. “Cap’n Mosehan formed us up. Who all had trouble with the scout, did the Apache ?”
“No. They got on all right together. That loudmouth Daggert did but he had trouble with most every man on the train at one time or another. He had a falling out with the scout about having to send Johnny back to look for his wallet.”
Waco watched the ground as they rode. Amongst the many things his friends in Ole Devil’s Floating Outfit had taught him was reading signs. He saw where a horse had been ridden this way in the early morning and another later, then both returned together. That would be the scout and Downer, going out singly and Downer bringing the body back again.
They entered the woods, following a wide wagon trail. There had been traffic along it since the last rains and the soil was soft, the sign easy to read. The trail turned a bend and Downer stopped his horse before they were round. “It was just around there.”
They swung down from their horses and left them standing with the reins hanging down loose and advanced. Waco glanced down at the tracks. Only one horse had gone round the corner, the scout’s. He saw the marks where the horse stopped, reared and where the scout had fallen to the ground. That would be when the arrow hit him, startling the horse that threw him.
Moccasin tracks led down clearly towards the man, the toes pointing out slightly. They halted and there was the imprint of a knee on the ground near the patch of blood at the end of the mark left by Schulze falling.
“Can you read sign?” Downer asked.
“Just about follow a dragged log through and, providing, it’s soft and I know which way it started,” Waco lied. “How about you?”
“I can, some. A Fox Indian used to take me hunting with him and he taught me.”
Saying this Downer pointed out everything Waco had already seen, everything but one detail. They followed the tracks to where a horse had been left standing and its rider dismounted.
“Looks bad for your Apache, Ranger. Unshod horse, rider got off on the Indian side. Moccasins. That’s all the Indian way, isn’t it?”
“Why sure,” Waco agreed.
“Reckon we could follow the tracks and see where they lead?”
“Reckon not. It would take better sign cutters than us to follow the man who made them tracks.”
“You still don’t think it was Johnny No-Legs who did the killing?”
“Nope, the man who did it was taller than Johnny. Look at the length of the stride,” Waco answered. “A man don’t have to read sign to know that. Besides ole Johnny’d never have walked that far. That’s how he got his name. He always rides every place he can. Sieber always used to say he didn’t have any legs at all the way he rode every place. So they got to calling him Johnny No-Legs.”
Downer was watching Waco all the time, then he asked, “If it wasn’t Johnny No-Legs, who was it?”
“We’d best head back for the train. See I was out here on a scout for a real bronco Apache. A bad one.”
“Who?”
“The Apache Kid hisself.”
“The Apache Kid?” Downer looked around at the still woods. “I reckon you’re right. We should get back to the wagons.”
The two men returned to their horses and headed back towards the train again. Downer kept looking round and he looked relieved when they reached open country again, although he kept his horse at a good speed until reaching the train.
“Reckon I’d best send Johnny out on a scout,” Waco remarked as they rode back. “And when we get back I want to keep them folks talking or they’ll likely spook. I’ll tell them about the Kid and then what we’ve found. It’ll be for the best.”
“Sure,” Downer nodded in agreement. “The dudes would spook if they saw a bad Indian. I’ll help you.”
They entered the camp in time to see Daggert attempting to regain his lost prestige and become the man of the moment again. He was towering in front of Heeley, who faced him with a look of quiet determination on his face and a rifle held ready for use.
“And I say we should wait for the Ranger,” he was saying quietly.
“Wait nothing!” Daggert roared back. “I searched the Indian’s gear and I found that scalp in his bow-case. I’m going to do what I started this morning.”
Waco spurred his horse forward and dropped from the saddle between the two men. “Hold it!” he snapped. “What’s you fixing in to do now?”
“Finish what I started,” Daggert spat the words out. “I’m going to kill that damned Indian.”
Waco never moved, his voice was low and gentle. “Go right ahead, mister, all you have to do is pass me.”
Daggert started forward and stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at the tall young Texan and for the first time realized that out here a man did not start a fight with his fists unless he meant to risk ending it with guns. Waco stood with his legs apart, balanced lightly on his feet, his hands were slightly from his side, the fingers slightly bent as they hovered the butts of the guns.
In that moment Daggert knew what fear was. He’d never seen a professional gunfighter before, but something warned him that any attempt to pass Waco would mean facing one now. Slowly he tried to bring his eyes to meet the Texan’s steady blue gaze and failed. He’d met his match here and knew it.
“All right.” He tried to bluster his way clear. “But we searched the Apache’s war gear and found a scalp.”
“Sure it belongs to Schulze?” Waco asked, aware of the crowd gathering round and listening to every word he said.
“Who else could it belong to?”
“Don’t ask me. Way your kind sees it every Apache spends all his waking time murdering white folk,” Waco turned his attention to the other people in the crowd. “We found us some tracks out there. Looks like your scout might have been killed by a taller man than Johnny No-Legs there. A man about the size of the Apache Kid!”
“The Apache Kid!”
The three words ran through the listening crowd like a breath of cold air. Every man and woman in the crowd had heard that name more often than they liked. The Apache Kid was to these people what Victorio and Geronimo had been to earlier settlers. There was a subtle difference between the three, though Victorio was hiding out in Mexico and Geronimo locked away in Florida, the Apache Kid was free, on the loose in Arizona.
“Do you think the Apache Kid is about?” Heeley asked, looking round at the open range and the thick woods ahead of them.
“Friend, your guess is as good as mine. Nobody knows just where the Apache Kid will show up next. A train like this would be his meat. I’ll send Johnny out to look for sign.”
“You’ll do what?” Daggert roared. “He’d head right to the Apache Kid as soon as he gets away from here.”
“Sure, the Kid don’t know Johnny No-Legs is Sieber’s top-hand scout. Like hell he doesn’t.” Waco’s scorn lashed a
t the man. “You talk, think and act like a man with no head. Mister, it’d go bad for you if the Kid caught you, but it’d go a damn sight worse for Johnny. Somebody has to scout and if you can’t trust Johnny you’d better go yourself.”
That suggestion did not meet with Daggert’s approval, and he turned and stamped away towards his wagon. The other men looked to Waco for leadership with the fear of Indian attack on them.
“What do you want us to do?” Heeley asked.
“Nothing yet. Gather the folks around this fire here while I tell Johnny what I want to do.”
Crossing to the Apache, Waco gave orders in Spanish, for he was far better in that than Apache. He wanted Johnny to understand his orders and from the grin the Apache gave him, he knew that Johnny both understood and was willing to obey.
Riding his horse to the wagon where Schulze’s body had been lying, Johnny No-Legs reached in, lifted out an old Henry rifle, checked it was loaded, then rode out of the circle and across the range at a fast gallop.
Waco returned to the fire and looked at the faces which surrounded it. There was fear in every face.
“Now folks, I want you to sit here like nothing was wrong. If the Apache Kid is about he’ll be watching you and he’ll see that you’re not scared. Once he thinks you are he’ll come in whooping and yelling and his boys’ll be walking all over you before you know what’s happened. Right now he doesn’t know if you’re scared or not, so he’ll get his boys sending up smoke and using signal flashes to spook you. Just all of you stay set and listen to me. This is what we found today, up there in the woods.”
The crowd watched him, though many of them glanced nervously over their shoulders all the time.
“First,” Waco went on, “no Apache killed your scout.”
There was silence for a moment, then Downer asked quietly, “How’d you know that, Ranger?”
“Easily, I knew as soon as I saw the body that no Apache did it. Somebody here with the train did the killing. A man who wanted Schulze dead, a man with brains, a man Schulze meant bad trouble for.”
“You mean someone the scout had trouble with, Ranger?” Downer corrected.
Daggert, who had joined the others, leapt to his feet, anger blazing in his eyes. “Are you hinting at me?” he roared.
“I never figured you in on it at all,” Waco’s voice cut in before Downer had time to reply. “Like I said, the man who did it had brains and used them. That let you right off. The man who did it was smart enough to know that with a little pointing some damned fool would get rope fever. I figger he allowed to let you hang Johnny then warn you that the law would hang you if it was found out. That way there’d be no talking about it. Like I said he was—”
One of the men gave a yell and came to his feet pointing off across the range to where a puff of smoke rose in the distance. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Apache smoke,” Waco answered. “Set fast all of you, there’s no need to get all excited. They’ll let up more of it before they try and come in at you.”
“You still haven’t proved it wasn’t the Apache who killed Schulze,” Downer pointed out.
“I’ll likely get round to doing it,” Waco answered. “See, like I said, the man who did it was smart. He knew the west, had been out here before, to the north more. He knew some about Indians, but they were northern Indians and they’re a mite different from Apaches. Johnny told me he hadn’t killed Schulze and I believed him. If he’d done the killing you’d never seen hide or hair of him again. Apaches aren’t real smart, like this loud-mouthed gent here, but they’re not dumb enough to ride into a camp like this after killing and scalping the scout and toting his scalp off in their bow-case. So the way I saw it, if he hadn’t killed the scout one of you must have. The man who did it was smart, he took an unshod horse from the remuda, went out and picked his place. He knew which way the scout was going and laid up. Then he made his mistakes. First he stood his horse where the sign was plain to read, no Injun would do that. He had to, so that if you decided to hold off for proof he could show it plain enough, so plain that even greeners like you could read it. Got off the hoss right side all right but toes out as he walked and an Injun toes in. He took the scalp and did something no Apache would ever do. He left the gun in the holster. Any Apache would give his eye teeth to own a Colt gun and ammunition for it.”
“Who did it?” Heeley asked.
The other members of the crowd were listening so intently that only Downer saw the flashing lights on the rim just back of camp.
“A man who knew the west, a man who’s been to Cheyenne, A man—”
From near at hand sounded a blood-chilling whoop, the thunder of hooves and shots. A man hurtled from the group, gun coming out of leather as he yelled, “Sioux, get to the—”
“A man like you, Mr. Downer!” Waco went on.
Downer turned, the heavy Colt Omnipotent lining on Waco, hammer earing back under his thumb.
“Smart, Ranger, real smart. I gave myself away, did I?” Downer grinned without mirth. “I thought you was fooled.”
“Your kind always does,” Waco replied softly. “You never find out until too late that other folks have brains.”
“You still aren’t all that smart, Ranger, That’ll be Johnny No-Legs making all the noise, won’t it. Well, you wasn’t smart enough to draw before you called me. I’m sorry I can’t leave you alive, you read sign too well for that. What was the big mistake I made, the one that told you an Apache hadn’t killed the scout?”
“Apaches don’t take scalps,” Waco replied. “Put your gun down, you won’t get away from here.”
“No?”
Johnny No-Legs came round the side of the wagon where he’d made his way in a series of rushes, travelling further on foot than he had for years. The old Henry rifle came up and crashed once. Downer arched his back as the lead hit him and went down.
Jumping forward Waco kicked the gun away and bent over Downer. The train doctor crowded up but needed only one glance to know there was nothing he could do. They made Downer comfortable and Waco sent all but the doctor and Heeley away.
“I’m not smart,” Downer said bitterly as he looked up at Waco. “I’d even forgotten Johnny No-Legs was out there. If you hadn’t come along they’d have hung the Apache and I’d have kept them quiet about it.”
“Why did you kill Schulze?” Waco asked.
“He knew me up north. I was running guns to the Sioux, only got out of the country by the skin of my teeth. Went east and staked there, but I couldn’t settle. I wanted to see the plains again and came west with these folks. Schulze recognized me and tried to blackmail me. I waited until we were well away from anywhere to kill him. You read it all right. You was on to me from the start.”
“Sure, you might have bought the gunbelt and saddle from somebody who’d been west. But Frank Meanea doesn’t make ready-to-wear boots. He makes them to measure and it wasn’t likely you’d have found a man with feet the exact size of your’n to buy the boots from. You knew too much about Indians and about western talk.”
The doctor looked at Waco and shook his head. The young Texan rose and Heeley got to his feet, holding out a hand.
“Thanks, Waco, you saved us from making a bad mistake. Come and eat with me and my wife.”
~*~
At dawn the following day Waco sat his paint and watched the wagons pull out. Downer died the previous evening and now lay in a grave next to the man he murdered. The travelers had voted Heeley their wagon master and he sat with Johnny No-Legs talking to Waco.
“I’ll see your report of this is delivered to the sheriff in Coconino County,” Waco said. “Johnny’ll get you to Two Forks and you’ll be right from there.”
“Thanks, you reckon things will be all right?”
“Sure; just don’t let anybody talk you into doing anything foolish again. See you down trail someday.”
Under the branch of the tree Waco stopped his horse and twisted in the saddle looking back. Alrea
dy Heeley and Johnny No-Legs were riding fast towards the head of the train.
A bird came gliding down and settled on the bullet-scarred branch which the day before almost held the swinging body of a man.
Case Three – Mean Looking Man
Jack Targay rode into the town of Mecate early one morning after a night sage-henning on the prairie. He came along Main Street a’fork a tired bay cow horse, lounging in the saddle and looking neither right nor left.
He was a tall, lean, though powerful-looking man, dressed in old range clothes and belting a walnut-butted old Colt 1860 Army revolver in his holster. He wasn’t a good-looking man, his face was thin, hard and set in bitter lines. The high cheekbones taken with the darkness implied that there was Indian blood in him. His grandfather had been a Comanche Dog soldier, although his grandmother was given no choice in the matter.
Even as he rode he saw people glancing at him and knew what they were saying as they watched his unshaven, gaunt appearance passing. He didn’t need to hear it, he knew the good people of Mecate were saying what had been said in many another town.
“Who’s that mean-looking man there? We’d best have the sheriff move him on before he causes trouble.”
The tired-looking bay horse turned its head towards the hitching rail and Targay looked up at the sign on the false front. It read OLSEN’S EATING HOUSE. He could read it and felt hunger on him, a hunger that could best be satisfied by eating somebody else’s fixings for a change.
Glancing along the street he decided this town differed little from any of the many others he’d ridden into during his aimless drifting around the west. Only the names on the business premises differed, the people were all the same. None of them had any use for a mean-looking man, no matter how he felt or what he wanted to do.
The bay rubbed its sleek nose against his cheek, blowing softly through its nostrils. The horse had been watered and fed and he was able to eat his food without worry on that score. His face was strangely gentle as he reached up and ran his hand along the horse’s neck. The animal was the only thing in the west which showed any affection for him.
