Sagebrush Sleuth (A Waco Western #2)

by J. T. Edson

“It’ll likely kill your hosses if we keep going,” the Texan warned.

  “Rather the horses than the folk back in town.”

  “All right, we’ll keep going then.”

  They rode on side-by-side, the Ranger and the man he’d come to take back to justice, or what the Pinkertons called justice. Neither spoke as he rode, for they concentrated on getting the most out of the horses. Dwan found them by a small stream and they allowed their mounts to rest for a time. Waco watched Turing, seeing the long, grueling ride was having its effect on him. Turing had never ridden so far in many months, yet he did not complain. Waco was more used to spending hours at a time in the saddle. Once, on a trail drive, there was never a let-up for three days and nights, Waco having been in the saddle all that time, except when changing horses at the remuda.

  They were just swinging into the saddles ready to cross the stream when Waco heard a noise behind him and turned, then without showing any emotion at all, said. “Don’t turn, don’t draw. We’re being watched.”

  Five Mexicans rode from the scrub along the bank of the stream, four of them held Winchesters, the fifth, a squat ugly man, was unarmed, although he was belting a brace of ornate butted Colt 1860 Army revolvers. He halted his horse as the two men turned, a mocking sneer on his face.

  “That’s Torredos,” Waco spoke from the corner of his mouth to Turing.

  “Do we run, or fight?” Turing answered, eyeing the ornate dress of the squat man.

  “Too late for either. Back my play,” Waco replied. He raised a hand in greeting to the Mexicans. “Howdy, Torredos,” he said cheerfully, “it ain’t often we see you this far north.”

  Torredos studied these two trail-dirty men, noting their tired-looking horses and the hard look of them. Here would be no easy picking for his men.

  “You know me?” he asked, pleased that his fame reached so far north.

  “Saw you one time in Pasear Hennessey’s place.”

  Turing did not know who Pasear Hennessey was, although he could see a slight change come over Torredos’ face at the mention of it. Torredos knew that few gringos had heard of Pasear Hennessey’s outlaw hideout which lay on a small island in the Rio Grande and was owned by neither the United States nor Mexico. Fewer still were the honest gringos who knew of it. Waco had learned of it from his friend, the Ysabel Kid, who, though an honest man now, had once been most prominent in the border smuggling business.

  “So you know of Pasear Hennessey’s place?”

  “Sure, we’re headed there now for a tequila and river water.” Torredos smiled. His guess was correct. These two gringos were on the run from something. He looked pointedly at the horses and asked: “You have ridden far?”

  “Not far enough by a sight.” Waco could see that his reference to the favorite drink at Pasear Hennesey’s had convinced Torredos. “There’s a troop of cavalry and a couple of Apache trailers back there. They’re looking for us to be guests of honor at a cottonwood hoedown.”

  “That’s why we’re in a hurry,” Turing went on. “Never did want to be found hanging around under a tree.”

  “Hanging around!” Torredos chuckled. “That is a good one, you must come and tell it to Joaquin. But why are they showing such an interest in you?”

  “Funny thing that, they think that when we left the fort sutler’s place an Army hoss buyer’s money belt followed us out,” Turing answered and slapped his middle suggestively. “Of course it did not and the dealer can prove it.”

  “Waal no, not in so many words.” Waco liked the way Turing caught on. “See, somebody put a window in his skull.”

  “Not you, of course?” Torredos studied the bulge made by a well-filled money belt under Turing’s shirt. “But if you did have the money what would you do with it?”

  “Play poker.” Waco could see the slight chance for them, for he knew that he could not ford the river in escape without getting shot and their only hope lay in this desperate chance he was taking.

  “Poker.” There was new interest in Torredos’ eyes now. He could see a chance of getting rid of these two gringos with the aid of his partner Hernandez without having to share the loot. “So you play poker?”

  “Been known to.” Turing did not know what Waco was getting at, but he was willing to go along with it just the same.

  “Then please accept my offer of a game. Not here,” Torredos glanced back to try and see some of the non-existent posse. “At our camp.”

  “Why surely so,” Waco agreed. “Just as long as it is across the river.”

  They were kept under the guns of the Mexicans as they crossed the river and the men never relaxed to give them a chance. However, they were not going out of their way as they rode along with Torredos.

  The Mexicans were camped in a valley, or rather a dry-wash, for there was only the one opening. A Mexican bandit sat on a rock, rifle across his knees watching the range country. Just below the sentry, at the foot of the valley, was a picket line with some thirty or so horses standing at it. A pair of big grulla stallions caught Waco’s eye, they stood saddled, girthed tight and ready for riding. He nodded to them and Turing gave a slight inclination of his head to show what was meant.

  “Leave your horses here, my men will attend to them,” Torredos said.

  Waco and Turing did not argue, they left the horses and walked towards a small cabin further down the wash. There a tall, elegantly dressed Mexican rose and looked them over. “Friends of yours, José?” he asked cautiously.

  “Good friends, Joaquin. They wish to play poker.”

  There was a covetous glint in Hernandez’s black eyes as he called for a table to be brought and set up. He did not trust Torredos, in fact, there was little trust between either of them. His first thought was these gringos were brought in to get rid of him. Caution dictated that he called his men to watch the game. Torredos, no less trusting, gathered in his men. Waco saw this and knew there was a better chance of his getting away with it if Turing read the signs right.

  The table and four chairs were set up. Waco and Turing sat facing each other, the Mexicans on opposite sides of the table, eyeing each other warningly. It was Hernandez who spoke when a greasy-looking deck of cards were put on the table in front of him.

  “I think our guests would be happier with new cards,” he said, not knowing how right he was.

  There was a rumble of anger from the Torredos men, for the matter of cards was a touchy one with them. However, Torredos shrugged and called for a new pack, which was brought to him. He tossed it in front of Waco, who picked it up and broke the seal. The cards were all right, he guessed, as he ran his fingers along the edges and then riffled them through his hands. He passed them to Turing, who took them and with a gamblers feather-fingered care examined them, giving an almost imperceptible nod, which told Waco he also made the deck fair.

  Yet Ace Turing still did not see Waco’s plan here, nor understand how this would help them get away. He saw Waco lay a hand casually and apparently by accident flat on the table. Something in the way the young Texan looked at Turing made him reach up and lay a flat hand on his chest, too, the answer to the crooked gambler’s signal for a partner. It was still a mystery to Turing, he knew Mexicans and could tell Waco also knew them. Why then was the young man going through with this. Even if they won all the money the two bandits possessed they would never be allowed to leave the camp with it.

  Idly Waco shuffled the cards, knowing the attention of the two gangs of Mexicans were equally divided amongst watching their bosses and each other. Turing was studying the cards in Waco’s hands, watching how he collected and retained four threes at the bottom of the deck. Then Waco put the cards on the table and casually Turing reached over to make the cut. He took the top half of the cards and placed them on the side nearest to Waco, who reached out, picked them up and replaced them as they were originally.

  Then Waco started to deal, holding the cards in the crooked dealer grip, his index finger squaring the edges of the cards, then whi
le the other three fingers gripped the long edge the index was still holding the fore edge. The cards flowed out until it came the turn of Hernandez, then Turing saw the top card advance, one of the four threes slide from the bottom and the top card go back again. It was very well done, that bottom deal, and Turing, no cheat himself, admitted he’d rarely seen it done better.

  The betting was steady, neither Waco nor Turing going it heavily, but Torredos pushed the pot to the limit. His face showed anger as his hand went under to the merciless threes. It was obvious Torredos for one could not mildly submit to losing.

  It was then Turing knew what Waco was up to. He was an honest gambler, yet to protect himself from cheats he had learned how to handle cards in every crooked way.

  Hernandez dealt the next hand, hitting another good one. Torredos looked even more annoyed and his men muttered to themselves. Waco sat back, knowing that if Ace Turing was thinking in the right way all would be well. He was. Waco promised himself not to play poker with a gent who could read signs as well as Ace Turing.

  Torredos picked up a good hand, glancing suspiciously at Hernandez, who sat with an expressionless face, declining cards on the principle that he could hardly hope to better the four five, six, seven and eight of hearts dealt pat to him.

  The game went on, Hernandez being the heavy winner, his luck being well in as well as aided by the card manipulations of the Texans. Torredos, on the other hand, could not do a thing right. As often happens when a man hits a real bad run, Torredos was very unlucky. He could not seem to call anything right. If he played and the other men went along his hand failed, if he bluffed he was called. The only time he had a winning hand the others did not bet.

  Turing now noticed a subtle change coming over the game and the spectators. There was tension in the air. Torredos grew more surly with every hand, Hernandez grew more cheerful, making bad jokes about his friend’s poor playing ability. His men greeted each joke with gusts of laughter, but the Torredos followers scowled and fingered their weapons. The atmosphere around the table was electric now, one small spark would create an explosion.

  Then as he reached for the cards Turing made his own sign, the sign a crooked gambler would make to warn his partner the time was on hand to take on suckers. Hernandez laughed as he counted his winnings from the last pot, several hundred of Torredos’ dollars. Then Turing scowled and said:

  “Hold hard, look here!”

  Reaching out an apparently empty hand, Turing put it under Hernandez’ high-crowned sombrero which lay on the table. When the hand came out it held three cards.

  With a snarl of baffled rage Hernandez threw back his chair, but with a cry like a tortured cougar Torredos hurled right over the table, his knife ripping up right into the other man’s chest.

  “Light out, Ace!” Waco roared as the two gangs started to fight.

  Torredos came to his feet, a wild light in his eyes. He saw Turing grab up a big handful of the money from the table and turn to run for it. That was the last thing he ever saw. Waco’s twin guns were out. Even in this moment he was lawman enough to make an end to a savage and vicious career by throwing a bullet into Torredos. Then Waco turned and sprinted after Turing, who was running at a respectable speed, even though he was stuffing money into his pockets.

  The two fighting gangs ignored the two running gringos as they fought with each other, knives flashing and guns barking. However, the sentry at the head of the wash came bounding down the slope, his rifle came up and started to crash, sending dirt eruptions under their feet. Then he stopped and took more careful aim. At the same moment Turing and Waco also stopped, then both leapt. They went in opposite directions and the man hesitated, then threw a shot which caught Turing in the shoulder. Even as the gambler spun round he heard the thunder of Waco’s matched guns. The Mexican seemed to be picked up and thrown backwards as the lead drew him on. Before the sentry’s body hit the ground Waco had holstered his guns and was by Turing’s side.

  “Come on, Ace,” he gritted. “Get a’fork one of those grulla hosses.”

  Turing staggered for the horse lines. The horses were restive, but he managed to get the soup-plate horn of one of the grullas in his good hand. Sheer instinct got his foot into the big stirrup and he tried to haul himself into the saddle. Waco, knife in hand, was slashing the reins of the other horses as fast as he could, but he leapt forward and shoved Turing into the saddle, snapping, “Get out of here!”

  The grulla sprang forward at a touch of Turing’s heels and the gambler clung on as waves of pain went through him. Waco grabbed the other grulla and bounded into the saddle, then with a wild yell sent the other horses racing off. The other horses, at the yell and made restive by the fighting, broke and ran.

  It was then that the two fighting groups broke off their battle and realized they’d been tricked. They fired shots after the two fast riding men, but their marksmanship was not great and neither Waco nor Turing were hit as they rode out of the wash.

  After half a mile of fast riding Waco halted and turned to Turing who was hanging on to the saddle, trying to keep astride.

  “I’ll rough fix that for you,” the young Texan said, “And rope you on the horse, too.”

  “If I can’t stay with you, leave me,” Turing answered weakly.

  ~*~

  Doc Leroy walked along the line of beds in his temporary hospital, looking at the people who lay there. He was unshaven and looked as if he’d been missing sleep over the past six days since Waco left. In that time Doc had hardly seen his bed for more than a couple of hours at a time and he’d never taken his clothes off.

  At the end of the room he turned and went to the door, opening it to hear what was getting to be a normal occurrence now:

  “You fat old hag, just wait and I’ll scratch your eyes out!”

  “You and who’s army?” Mary Ryan hissed back, shoving the hair from her eyes as she and Libby O’Toole stood scrubbing a pile of bedding.

  They were like a couple of alley cats, quarrelling all the time, but Doc knew and they knew, it was only to help keep themselves on their feet. Of all the women in town none had worked so hard as Libby and Mary. They got only slightly more sleep than Doc himself and these arguments, threats and promises of what they would do to each other when they found time, were a means to fight off the tiredness which ran through them.

  “Tired, Doc?” Libby asked with some concern as the young man came out.

  “Seen times I felt better. How about you two?”

  “Sure, we’ll manage, won’t we, Ryan?” Libby’s brogue was suddenly as broad as Mary’s own.

  “That we will,” Mary Ryan answered.

  “I reckon we’ve held it,” Doc remarked. “We haven’t seen a new case in three days.”

  “You’ve done wonders, Doc,” Libby said, straightening painfully. “When I think of what might have happened if you hadn’t come—”

  The words were stopped by angry voices in the street at front of the building. Doc and the two women went through the hospital and out on to the street to find trouble starting.

  Paddy Ryan stood holding the reins of the Harcourt buggy with one hand, while Harcourt lined his shotgun on the big Irishman. The storekeeper’s face was a mask of wild panic as he yelled.

  “Let loose of that rein.”

  Doc reached inside the door and took the Colt from his gunbelt hanging on a hook just inside. He thrust the revolver into his waistband and snapped: “Drop it or turn it this way.”

  Harcourt half turned, seeing the Texan standing there flanked by Libby and Mary. He saw that Doc Leroy wasn’t holding a gun and snarled: “We’re getting out of here right now. We’ve not seen any help from the Fort and we’re not stopping to die.”

  “Put it down, the Army should be here tonight or tomorrow,” Doc replied.

  “If those two went to the Fort—”

  Doc’s gun was in his hand, the hammer eared back and his arm thrown out to line the .45 muzzle right straight on the man. Harcourt
was looking at death and he knew it. Doc was tired and he had been under a great strain for almost a week. It was only by exerting all his will power he didn’t let the hammer of the Colt fall.

  For an instant Harcourt hesitated, then Paddy Ryan acted, his face pale under the tan, yet knowing he must act or see Harcourt die. One big hand took hold of the shotgun, pulling it from the storekeeper’s grip. The other hand bunched into a fist drove up with all Ryan’s strength behind it, smashing full in Harcourt’s fat, pallid face. Mrs. Harcourt screamed as her husband went over backwards into the rear of the buggy and Mary Ryan, her face showing the contempt she felt for the Harcourt family in general, snapped: “Shut your mouth!”

  “You stupid, half-witted fool!” Mrs. Harcourt shrank back before the venom in Libby’s voice. “Don’t you see that Paddy saved your husband? Doc’s been driven hard for nearly a week and he nearly killed your fool man.”

  “Which same I’m going to do right now!”

  Curly Bill Brocious came round the corner, his right-hand gun coming out in a flicker of movement. Harcourt stared frightenedly at the dark young rustler and let out a bleat of fear.

  “Stop him, Ryan,” he howled. “You’re the law here.”

  “The lousy rat, he slugged young Nick back there at the remuda and took his hoss,” Brocious growled. “There’s one thing I can’t stand and that’s a hoss thief.”

  He was quite sincere. His acquiring the herd of horses destined for the cavalry did not come, in his mind, under the heading of horse stealing.

  The crazy madness went out of Doc Leroy now and he shoved the gun back into his waistband.

  “Easy, Curly,” he said. “We stopped them.”

  “Easy hell, Doc,” Brocious answered grimly. “We’ve been guarding the remuda all this time and near on every other man in town and woman has been working hard. Not this pair, they’ve been hid out in their tent. Then they go down to the corral and club that young Nick and leave him laying there. Paddy, give him that shotgun.”

  “Sorry, Curly,” Ryan replied, watching the other man.”You could kill him even if he did have the shotgun. Leave him to us. Comes the end of this typhoid we’ll run him out of town.” Slowly the anger left Curly Bill’s face and his usual grin returned. He slid the gun back into leather, then moved closer. Harcourt cowered back yelling for Brocious not to hit him and Curly Bill laughed.