by J. T. Edson
Doc couldn’t think of an adequate answer for this remark, so he took the gun, dusted it off with great care, drew the hammer to half cock and rolled the cylinder as if he thought Beck might have helped himself to the ammunition. Then he holstered the gun and looked at Bowmain.
“Way you carry on when folks come visiting a man’d say you’ve got some real close borrowing neighbors.”
They swung down from their horses at Bowmain’s invitation and were introduced to Whitey Basefield and his wife. Waco took a liking to the rancher from the start. Whitey was a friendly looking man, certainly not a proddy gun-fighting killer. His wife was pretty and Waco guessed she loved Whitey very much, there were lines under her eyes that told of worry about his present troubles. They made such a nice-looking couple that he was more determined than ever to help them out.
They shook hands, then Waco got down to business. With Holmes dead he wanted to get back to make his report to Mosehan and allow the Ranger Captain to call “Keno” on this mission.
“Like to see you, Whitey, happen these tough hands o’ your’n will let me,” he said. “I’ll promise not to shoot you in the leg until after sundown.”
“Sure, come on into the house and take a bite to eat. I reckon the boys will trust you that far.”
The Basefields ushered their guests and Bowmain into the house and Whitey led the way into a clean and tidy sitting room. Mrs. Basefield looked these two young Texas men over and, like her husband and Bowmain, wondered what brought them here. She remembered hearing their names mentioned by Bowmain several times when the hands were discussing gunfighters. She also remembered that those two names, Waco and Doc Leroy were placed among the top men like Dusty Fog, Mark Counter, Wes Hardin or Bill Longley. Since the killing of Jase Holmes, Sheila Basefield had lived in fear of men like those and now two were here at the ranch.
Waco got right down to cases. “You’ve heard what’s happening in town?”
Basefield nodded, “We’ve heard.”
“Comes the end of the roundup we’ll likely head for town and have us a clean-out day,” Bowmain went on.
“There isn’t that much time to spare,” Waco replied. “Tomorrow I want you and Whitey to come into town with me’n Doc.”
Sheila Basefield was at the table, filling glasses with milk. She gave a little cry, and dropped one, which shattered on the floor at her feet, but she did not look down. Catching her husband’s arm she looked at Waco and gasped, “What do you mean?”
“Like this, ma’am,” Doc said. “The town is swarming with guns all itching to get a crack at Jase Holmes’ killer. Waco’s just aiming to give them a fresh mark to go for.”
Of the three inquiring faces which turned to Waco, perhaps only Bowmain had any idea what lay behind those casual words, and even he could not believe any man would take such a chance.
Waco’s next words proved that Bowmain was wrong, for there was a man willing to take the chance.
“I want to draw against you and beat you to the shot.”
Whitey stared without speaking, hardly believing his ears. His wife clutched at his arm and held on to it. The words were spoken with no more emotion than had they been a casual remark against the weather. For a moment Mrs. Basefield thought of running to fetch the crew, but her husband restrained her.
“You’d best explain that, Waco,” he said softly.
“Just come out back for a minute first,” Waco replied. “I want to prove something to you.”
Basefield looked at Bowmain and his foreman nodded. Still confused, the rancher followed Waco and Doc from the room and out to the rear of the house. Bowmain gave Sheila what should have been a reassuring smile, but which was more like the grin of a skull, then followed the men out.
From his pocket Doc took a dollar and walked about ten foot from Waco, then held out his right arm with the coin between his thumb and forefinger. For an instant he stood like that.
Waco’s right hand dipped faster than the eye could follow.
The fingers curled round the butt of his gun while the thumb eared back the hammer even as the gun was lifting out of the holster. Held hip high, in the center of Waco’s body, the gun crashed and the coin was torn from Doc’s fingers.
Whitey Basefield gulped. He’d thought his foreman was fast with a gun, but this did not stop at just being fast. He licked his lips, then as his ranch hands came charging around the corner with guns out, he said, “Well?”
“Just wanted to prove to you that I can hit my mark,” Waco answered.
Bowmain told the hands to go back and finish their twice-interrupted meal. He knew what Waco had in mind and knew why the Texan was doing it. Then he followed the Basefields and the two Rangers back into the house again.
“What do you want to do?” Whitey asked, knowing the display he’d just seen was not the mere action of a man showing off his prowess with a gun.
“Depends on you. Happen you’ll let me, I’ll shoot your gun clear out of your hand. Worse that’ll happen is the bullet’ll sprain your wrist, or the lead’ll dust your hand.”
“What good will that do?” Sheila asked. “And if it will do any, why must you do it in town. Can’t you do it here?”
“No, ma’am, I can’t.”
“Why not?” She still stared with fascinated attention at Doc Leroy, wondering how any man could calmly take such a risk.
Standing there holding a coin in his right hand . His right hand. She looked at the butt of his gun holstered at his right side. A man must have a lot of faith in his friend to take such a risk with his gun hand.
“Because there are none of the gunhands here to see it,” Waco replied. “I want to prove to them that Whitey isn’t a fast gun. They aren’t after Whitey, because they’re friends of Jase Holmes or for any personal reason. They just want, every one of them, to be able to say he stacked against the man who was faster than Jase Holmes.”
“Well?” Sheila could still not follow Waco’s reasoning. “If Whitey is beat to the shot there’s nothing to be gained in going after him.”
“Oh!” She looked at Bowmain, who nodded in agreement. Then she saw something more, something her husband and Bowmain both knew. “But then they’ll be after you.”
“Shucks, ma’am. I never thought of that.” Waco’s voice was mild and innocent. “’Sides I’ve got ole Doc here to protect me.”
Whitey shook his head. “I can’t ask any man to do that for me.”
“You didn’t ask me, I’m telling you. It’s the only way.” Waco’s voice had changed now and become hard and incisive. “Mister, that town’s fuller of guns than fleas on an Apache dawg. They’re going to stay on until one of them gets a crack at you. They’ve got money, but when it runs out they won’t be caring how they get more. And another thing, those would-be Wes Hardins have only fought among themselves so far but sooner or later some innocent gent is going to get killed.”
“We could take the boys in and clear the town,” Bowmain growled.
“Sure and get a lot of your boys killed off,” Waco answered. “They’re good boys, but they’re not professional guns like that bunch in town. Besides if, you win you’ll have a name for being a hard crew and you know what that means, Tad. You rode with one.”
Bowmain nodded. He’d ridden with Clay Allison long enough to know what it meant, having that reputation. It meant that every other ranch crew would set themselves out to see how true the reputation was. Law in towns the crew went near would be suspicious and sooner or later it would come to killing again.
“There’s more than that to it,” Doc put in seriously, looking at Sheila Basefield. “Whitey killed a man who needed killing. A man who was set to kill him. That man was known to be very fast with a gun. Sure, I know Holmes’ gun stuck as he was drawing, but those guns in town don’t know it. So unless this thing’s proved and proved real fast there’ll be some gunhand trying for him. Then Whitey’s going to have to kill again and again until one of them beats him.”
“They�
�re right, honey,” Whitey said, his voice hard. “I’m riding into town and doing what Waco wants.”
~*~
The afternoon was drawing to a close when Waco rode alone into Garret and halted the borrowed horse in front of the Marshal’s office. He swung down and watched Doc Leroy, Basefield and Bowmain coming from the livery barn where they had just put up the horses, including Waco’s big paint stallion. They walked towards the Silver Dollar Saloon and Waco was about to follow them when Ben Shields came to the door of his office, looking worried.
“You’ve got to call it off, boy,” he said. “Johnny Ringo’s in town and he says he wants first crack at Whitey.”
“Then he’ll just be disappointed,” Waco replied, setting his guns right as he walked off towards the Silver Dollar.
Striding along the street Waco turned Shield’s words over in his mind. He knew Johnny Ringo’s reputation of being a man of his word. Yet never before, as far as Waco knew, had Ringo hunted a man just for the sake of a reputation shoot-out.
It was mostly the other way round, would-be killers and hard men sought out the heads of the Galeyville rustlers to try out their gun-speed against. Ringo, co-ruler of the Galeyville bunch and his partner, Curly Bill Brocious, were not the sort to waste valuable time that could be spent gambling or drinking in pursuing profitless shooting scrapes.
Not that Ringo or Brocious were scared of matching shots any man. Fast and deadly with his guns, Johnny Ringo was scared of nothing. He was one man who Wyatt Earp and the rest of Tombstone “Law and Order” crowd steered clear of and wanted no doings with; in fact, on one occasion Ringo made all those stalwart defenders of “Law and Order” hunt for their holes.
One thing Waco was sure of was that Ringo would not take kindly to this flouting of his orders.
The batwings opened at Waco’s push and he entered, halting just inside to look around him. There were about ten young gunmen hanging around the saloon, all watching the trio at the bar. Apart from them and the bardog the place was empty and silent.
Waco crossed the room and halted, facing Whitey Basefield. In a voice which carried to every man in the room he said: “You’re Whitey Basefield, the man who downed Jase Holmes. Way I hear it Holmes let the inside of his holster rough up. Mister, you were some lucky.”
One of the gunmen, half-drunk, lurched to his feet and came alongside Waco, hand hovering the butt of his gun.
“That’s what I heard, too, and I aim—”
Waco pivoted round on his toes, his right hand gun coming out and making a dully flashing arc under the lights of the bar. It smashed down on to the young man’s head, dropping him to the ground. In a continuation of the same move Waco brought the gun round to cover the other men. They sat very still, every one of the hard-faced young gunmen. Every one of them thought he was fast with a gun but this soft-talking Texas boy did not stop just at being fast.
“Basefield’s my meat,” Waco said softly, “I’ll kill the next man who tries to cut in.”
Whitey could hardly believe the change that had come over Waco. He’d known killers and fast gunmen before, men who lived by the speed of their draw and were masters of their trade. This was one who stood before him now. A fast draw fighting man reared on the cattle trails of Texas, brought to full prominence riding for Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit, matured in the Ranger service. Jase Holmes had been in that same class with a gun, it was only the mischance of his holster having roughened up that kept Whitey Basefield alive.
“What do you want?” Whitey could hardly recognize his own voice, so distorted by strain it sounded.
“I want you to draw!”
Looking past Waco, Basefield was reminded of a fight he’d once seen between two wolves. The other members of the pack sat just like those gunmen, watching with savage eyes to see which would win.
Whitey Basefield’s hand dropped towards his gun. Every man here could see that this was not the flickering, sight-defying move of a chain-lightning killer. His hand was closing on the gun and lifting it before Waco made his move. The Texan’s hands went down like the flickering tongue of a snake. The matched guns were out of their holsters and the right roared, throwing lead at Basefield.
Whitey felt as if his arms had been struck by a club, the gun was torn from his grasp even as it came from leather. His hand and arm were driven back into the bar with numbing force and he stood there, sweat pouring down his face.
Without even another look at Whitey, Waco came round and faced the crowd, his guns still in his hands.
“Does that answer your question?” he asked.
There the crowd had it laid flat before them. If any man wanted to take up the challenge, all he had to do was say the word and he would be accommodated. Slowly the young gunmen turned back to their games or their drinking. For the moment not one of them would take a chance. They’d seen Whitey draw and knew he was no fast killer and that the Texan’s words must be true. Later some of them might feel like taking him up, but not just now.
Doc Leroy and Bowmain helped Whitey Basefield into the back room, for he was suffering from the unpleasant shock of having a bullet come so close to him. Also, as Waco guessed, the bullet sprained his wrist, but that was nothing and would be over in a few days.
Two of the gunmen slipped from the saloon. Waco watched them go, knowing they would be headed round the saloons telling of how Jase Holmes’ killer failed. It was only a matter of time before Johnny Ringo heard the word and came to see the rash man who went against his word.
Five minutes ticked by. The bardog polished his glasses with one frightened eye on the door. Then his face went pale and carefully he lowered the glass he was polishing to the counter and a grin came to his face, a very weak grin, like a man joking with the executioner.
“Evening, Mr. Ringo,” he said.
Johnny Ringo let the swinging doors of the saloon close behind him and stood just as Waco stood when he first entered. Ringo’s eyes went slowly round the room, then came to rest on Waco, recognizing him as the only one present who would be worthy of his skill. Moving forward he halted six foot from Waco.
“Are you the man who shot Whitey Basefield?”
“Sure.”
“You heard the word I put out?”
“I heard.”
“And you still went ahead and drew against him. I wouldn’t think you were that kind.” Ringo’s cultured, deep south drawl matched Waco’s Texas accent, neither speaking in loud tones, yet their every word carrying to the watchers.
“Man does what he has to do,” Waco answered.
Ringo nodded, wondering why this tall young Texas man, obviously one of the real fast men, would waste time going in for reputation shootings.
“You called it right. I said I’d kill the man who shot Whitey Basefield and I never break my word.”
Neither moved. They stood there, tense, yet relaxed, alert, yet not obviously so. There was death in the air, death from the guns of those two men standing at the bar.
Not one of the watchers lifted their voices to more than a sigh, even the half-drunks were cold sober now. They watched and waited, wondering which of these two, if either, would be on his feet when the smoke cleared.
The door of the backroom opened and Whitey Baseffeld came out, stopped and took in the scene, then came forward until he stood between the two.
“What the hell?” he asked. “Waco, Johnny, stop it and get the place cleared.”
Ringo relaxed slightly, looking first at Basefield, then at Waco. He turned his back on Waco and looked round the room, the contempt in his eyes again as he studied the gunmen.
“Gentlemen, the last man through the door incurs my serious displeasure. Drift, and pronto.”
There was a sudden concerted rush for the door. Every man amongst the gunmen knew that never was Johhny Ringo more dangerous than when that mockingly polite way of talking, was in use. In later years, hard-wintering at the slack times the bardog would insist that his bar cleared in half a minute. In
actual fact it was four times as long before the batwing doors swung closed behind the last scared-looking gunman.
“What’s this all about?” Waco asked, looking at Whitey. Whitey started to laugh. It was a near hysterical laugh brought on by the tension and this near tragedy so narrowly averted.
“This is a laugh,” he said at the end.
“I admire a sense of humor,” Doc Leroy growled from the door, where he’d been watching everything.
“Well,” Whitey explained, “it’s like this. Waco here starts to help me and so does Johnny.”
Waco turned to Ringo. “Way I heard it you said you’d down any man who went for Whitey before you tried.”
“The trouble with honest citizens is they always misquote me,” Ringo answered. “My statement being that I would down the man who faced Whitey.”
The doors opened and Ben Shields came in with a ten-gauge under his arm. He went straight up to Ringo and said:
“I’m sorry about this, Johnny. It was me told Waco and got him off wrong.”
Ringo threw back his head and roared with laughter. “A lawman apologizing to me. That’s the best I’ve heard.”
Waco hitched up his belt and looked at the others, he could see a different light in Ben Shield’s eyes.
“It’s time this town had a good clear-out,” he said. “Coming Ben?”
Shields hefted the shotgun and nodded, then inspiration hit him. “Need me a good deputy for a spell, Johnny.”
“Me a deputy?” he asked, then his dark face split in a smile realizing this was Shields’ way of apologizing. “Certainly. Curly Bill has been crowing about how he helped Beck collect the Cochise County taxes. I’d like to be a deputy too.”
The customers of the Garret City saloon looked up as the four grim men entered. Waco stepped forward and his eyes seemed to be picking out every gunman individually.
“I’m the man who beat Jase Holmes’ killer. Whitey Basefield isn’t and never was fast with a gun. He beat Holmes because Holmes let the inside of his holster rough up. Any man here who wants to take me say the word. Stand right up and cut loose your wolf.”
