No Finger on the Trigger (A Waxahachie Smith Western Book One)

by Edson, J. T.

  Already annoyed by the failure of the scheme he had concocted and the less than respectful manner in which he had been treated by Claybone, as well as being just as much of a racial bigot, Fuentes was in no mood to yield to such a demand for payment particularly when it came from a gringo. However, although he could handle the revolver with considerable proficiency, he was disinclined to take chances against a professional gun fighter. Therefore, he had put his hands in a position which he hoped would produce a sense of false security. Satisfied this was achieved, he made his play and the manner of his response justified one of the conclusions drawn by ‘Cousin Cyrus’.

  The rancher made no attempt to bring his right hand from behind his back and across to the Colt. Instead, it was already holding a weapon when it came into view. Despite his supposition with regards to the way in which Mexicans fought, the movement took Claybone by surprise. Although he started to reach for the Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver as soon as he realized some form of hostile action was being commenced, he had not even touched its butt when he learned he was at least partially correct in his assumptions.

  Coming into view, Fuentes’ right hand was holding the knife which he had slid from its place of concealment on his left wrist beneath the sleeve of his bolero jacket. Giving a twist to his torso, he flung the weapon with the speed and skill which-told of long practice. Hissing through the air, its six inch long spear point blade penetrated the centre of Claybone’s throat. Aided by the impetus of the throw, the razor sharp edges of the twin cutting surfaces sliced onwards to sever his jugular vein and windpipe.

  Although ‘Cousin Cyrus’ managed to clutch and bring out his revolver as he was stumbling backwards, the wound he had received was sufficiently potent to render its use impossible. It slid from his fingers and they rose involuntarily to join his other hand in reaching for the hilt of the weapon protruding from his flesh. Instinctive though the movement was, wrenching free the blade merely served to aggravate his predicament. The removal allowed his life blood to gush out in its wake and, a sudden weakness overcoming him, he spun to sprawl face down on the floor. Watched by the other three men, none of whom—not even Grantz, regardless of the ‘Hippocratic oath’ which tradition required was sworn by all members of the medical profession prior to qualifying as a doctor—offered to render any assistance, Claybone’s body jerked spasmodically for a few seconds before becoming limp and motionless.

  ‘Huh!’ Fuentes grunted, after having crossed to roll his victim over and, extricating the knife, he cleaned the blade on the lining of the unfastened jacket. ‘It seems, Doctor, that you are no better at picking a reliable man than you are at curing Javier’s ... problem.’

  ‘Shall I get Dumb Ox in here?’ Grantz asked, trying not to show he was impressed by the deadly prowess which he had never suspected, and referring to the rancher’s massive mute servant-cum-bodyguard who was on guard in the entrance hall and had admitted ‘Cousin Cyrus’. He was seeking to change the subject from his shortcomings in curing Javier Fuentes of an addiction to cocaine. Despite having supplied heroin to alleviate the problem, he had never subscribed to the prevailing medical belief that it served as a harmless and non-addictive potion to substitute for the noxious narcotic used by the younger of the brothers. Nor, as he augmented his income to no inconsiderable extent by his patient’s need for more cocaine, was he eager to effect a cure. ‘We’ll have to get rid of the body.’

  ‘So we will,’ Fuentes agreed, returning the knife to its sheath. Waving his now empty hand towards the corpse, he continued with no more emotion than if he was discussing something of no importance, ‘And he might be more use to us now than he proved while he was alive.’

  ‘How?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘I’ll have his body stripped, mutilated and taken into the barrio,’ the rancher explained. ‘Then, when it’s found, it’ll be assumed he was robbed and murdered there. That ought to get the B Bar D gringos stirred up and, with the right kind of prompting, they could even go in after revenge.’

  ‘Would that serve our purpose,’ Rabena inquired.

  ‘Any trouble between our people and the gringos serves our purpose,’ Fuentes claimed and his gaze swung to Grantz. ‘What’s bothering you?’

  ‘I was thinking about that gunny who stopped Claybone’s tricks,’ the doctor answered, seeking to ensure that the subject of Javier’s problem was not raised again. ‘It’s not the first time he’s billed into your affairs, Teodoro. So who is he and what’s his game?’

  ‘He calls himself “John Smith”, but that’s likely a summer name,’ Rabena supplied, preventing Fuentes from pointing out that the visit by his brother to the Rancho Mariposa had not been made at his instigation. Possessing the means to obtain information from the local ranches as well as many places around the town, he continued, ‘Seems his horse got spooked by lightning and threw him into a draw on the way here and he was hauled out by Ransome Cordoba and that ‘breed segundo of theirs. They fixed his hurts and let him stay at the hacienda, which’d be their way, but I haven’t heard anything to suggest he’s working for Cordoba.’

  ‘It could be that Cordoba hired him to try to find out about the cow thieves,’ Grantz suggested.

  ‘It could,’ the banker conceded, his tone implying he considered this unlikely. ‘But he hasn’t been asking any questions about it at the Cantina del Chili Con Came, or anything else much, for that matter.

  ‘He moved in quickly enough when Claybone tried to use the Cordoba girl to start trouble,’ Grantz pointed out, remembering what had been said about the events at the dance.

  ‘I can’t gainsay that,’ Rabena conceded, almost grudgingly as—sharing Fuentes’ antipathy for those who did not belong to their race, albeit generally concealing it better— he resented having a gringo so deeply involved in their affairs. ‘But he only danced with her once and the men from the Rancho Mariposa who were there didn’t treat him like a friend.’

  ‘I’ve heard that cowhands don’t take to professional gun-slingers,’ the doctor claimed. ‘Even when its one who’s been hired by their boss.’

  ‘That’s always the way I’ve found it to be,’ Fuentes affirmed and gestured at the body. ‘In fact, our friend here only got by because he wasn’t wearing a fast-draw rig and that fool of a gringo at the B Bar D was dumb enough to fall for him reckoning to be his kin. But it’s this “Smith” hombre who interests me right now.’

  ‘Like I said, I haven’t been able to find out whether he’s been taken on by Cordoba or not,’ the banker confessed, in response to a pointed glance from the rancher. ‘But I heard Monocle Johnny and Drexell both tried to hire him.’

  ‘Why him?’ Grantz asked. ‘They’ve not taken on any of the other gunslingers we’ve got waiting around town.’

  ‘They must think he’s something special,’ Fuentes estimated. ‘And, thinking of how he handled Javier and those fools at Rancho Mariposa, I’m inclined to believe the same. Yes, there’s more to this man Smith—if that’s his name ... !’

  ‘His name is Smith!’ announced a voice with a Texas’ accent, speaking with conviction.

  Swinging around, the three men looked at the speaker who was standing in the open doorway. He was tall, handsome, albeit with a somewhat sullen cast of features and in his mid-twenties. Dressed after the style of a successful professional gambler, he wore a gunbelt decorated by silver conchas with a pearl handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in a low hanging Missouri Skin-Tite holster.

  ‘You sound very sure, Mr. Ottoway,’ Fuentes remarked, without offering to introduce the newcomer to his companions.

  ‘I am sure,’ the man declared, glancing at the body on the floor. Instead of asking any questions, he went on, ‘He’s Sergeant Waxahachie Smith and he’s in the same Company of the Rangers that I w—am.’

  ‘You are a Texas Ranger?’ Rabena almost gasped, too surprised to have noticed the way in which the last word had been changed.

  ‘I’d show you my lil ole silver “star-in-a-ci
rcle” badge,

  but !’ Talbot Ottoway replied, swinging a gaze filled

  with mockery at the clearly startled Hispanic banker and letting the response end there.

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know they were sending somebody in?’ the rancher demanded, also having failed to attach any significance to the way the newcomer’s previous comment had ended.

  ‘I didn’t know myself until I got back to Headquarters like you said I should,’ Ottoway answered. ‘The Captain looked more than a mite surprised to see me afore my furlough was over, but I let on I was just passing through and dropped in to pick up any mail’s might have come.’

  ‘Why were the Rangers called in?’ Rabena asked, showing consternation. ‘Has news of what we are doing reached them?’

  ‘Seem’s your Sheriff Tobin figures all the cattle stealing and murdering in his bailiwick’s like’ to start a range war,’ Ottoway replied, wondering exactly what was involved and feeling sure it went far beyond the reason he had given. ‘So, like every local John Law can, he’s asked for help from the Rangers.’

  ‘And you’ve been sent to help this “Smith”?’ the rancher guessed, contriving to avoid showing his relief at hearing that the real reason for the killings and the theft of cattle was not under investigation.

  ‘The hell I have!’ Ottoway denied, but he had no intention of admitting he had been warned by Captain Frank Thornton on his arrival at Headquarters that his career as a Texas Ranger was likely to be terminated in a less than satisfactory fashion unless he tendered his resignation. Nor, wanting to add to the not inconsiderable sum of money he had already been paid by the rancher for supplying the information and assistance made possible by his official position, did he wish it known he had done so rather than face too close a scrutiny of the activities which were responsible for the demand. However, realizing he had been too vehement in his response, he went on in a less aggressive fashion,’ I nosed around and found out that Smith’d been sent.’

  ‘Just him?’ Fuentes asked.

  ‘Thornton doesn’t have anybody else on hand,’ Ottoway replied. ‘ Nor, what I heard, is he likely to for another week at the soonest.’

  ‘Is he good, this Smith?’ the rancher inquired, deciding the information explained why the man in question had dealt with the situation at the dance in the manner reported by Rabena.

  ‘Good enough,’ the former peace officer stated, relieved that the none of the trio had thought to raise the subject of why he had not been sent to assist Smith. ‘He’s one real smart son-of-a-bitch and’s come out the winner on some other mighty tricky chores.’

  ‘Then he might !’Grantz began.

  ‘ Not if he gets killed first,’ Fuentes purred.

  ‘If he does,’ Ottoway put in. ‘You’ll right quick wish he hadn’t!’

  ‘Why?’ Fuentes asked, impressed by the earnest way in which the warning was delivered.

  ‘You don’t kill any Ranger without asking for more goddamned trouble than you can handle,’ Ottoway answered. ‘And that’d go even more so with Waxahachie Smith.’

  ‘Why him?’ the rancher queried.

  ‘He’s a right popular feller and not only with our Company,’ the former peace officer explained. ‘And soon’s word got out that he’s dead, even should it be made to look like an accident, there’ll be more Rangers than you can shake a stick at headed down here to find out the why of it. Once here, they’ll move heaven and earth to get at the truth and won’t stop until it’s got. Then God help the feller responsible, because they’ll nail his hide to the wall no matter how they do it.’ xxx

  ‘You believe it’s that serious?’ the rancher queried.

  ‘I’m telling you it is,’ Ottaway declared.

  ‘Then we won’t kill him,’ Fuentes decided and glanced at Grantz. ‘But we’ll fix things so he won’t be in any condition to go on with his investigations and, by the time somebody gets here to replace him, we’ll have achieved our purpose and they’ll have other things to keep them fully occupied.’

  Chapter Eleven – This Won’t Hurt You

  ‘Where’s everybody, amigo?’ Sergeant Waxahachie Smith asked, finding the Cantina del Chili Con Carrie’s dining-room unoccupied except for the owner when he entered at noon on Sunday.

  Although the International Hotel offered excellent food, considering his time had been spent in a comparatively unproductive fashion the previous evening, Smith had come to the small cantina with the joint purpose of having his favorite kind of a meal and trying to discover whether there had been any further instructions for the unemployed hired guns from their mysterious benefactor.

  The night before, taking advantage of the interest aroused by the arrival of Sir John Besgrove’s party, the sergeant had made for the saloon which was patronized by the men from the B Bar D. Satisfying himself that the foreman was present to ensure the cowhand was not led into mischief, as he had assumed would prove the case when seeing the signal Bradford Drexell had made, he had continued to keep watch from an alley across the street. When ‘Cousin Cyrus’ had left alone, he followed in the hope of learning who was behind the attempt to provoke trouble between the ranch crews.

  Having delayed entering the brothel for a few minutes, so as to avoid letting the man he was after suspect his intentions, Smith had learned he made an error of judgment. ‘Cousin Cyrus’ had left by the rear door and there was nobody around who might have been able to supply information about the direction he had taken.

  Realizing his hope of discovering something of use about the activities of the would-be trouble causer would not be fulfilled, the sergeant had returned to the schoolhouse. On reaching the main classroom, he had found the groups from the Rancho Mariposa and the B Bar D were still present. What was more, there appeared to be a much more relaxed atmosphere than when he had taken his departure. Watching what was going on, he concluded the improved state of affairs was produced by the people who had come in with ‘Monocle Johnny’.

  Nor was Smith unduly surprised that such a thing had happened!

  Not only was the beautiful woman related to the rancher, she was the wife of the already legendary Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog xxxi and had acquired quite a reputation on her own account. A scion of the British aristocracy, she had elected to come to the United States and employ the alias, ‘Freddie Woods’, for some undisclosed reason. xxxii Despite being in what was still basically a ‘man’s world’, her capability had enabled her to own and operate the best saloon in Mulrooney, Kansas. In addition, having been elected as mayor, the policies she had caused to be adopted had ensured a standard of honesty and fair dealing which was the exception rather than the rule in the other trail end towns along the inter-continental railroad. Furthermore, since her marriage had brought her into a clan of considerable importance in Texas, she had proved to be a powerful influence upon the affairs of the State; particularly where its major source of income, the cattle business, was concerned.

  Studying the way in which Drexell in particular was behaving, Smith had decided all he had heard about Freddie Fog’s personality and diplomatic skill was correct. The rancher was talking amicably with Besgrove and Ran-some Cordoba. What was more, there was a mingling of the cowhands from the three ranches, which had been conspicuous by its absence prior to the sergeant leaving. From various remarks he heard passed amongst them, he had guessed the change partially come about by the presence of the two red haired youngsters who had arrived with the beautiful woman. If their references to her as ‘Aunt Freddie’ were any guide, they also were part of the powerful Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan. Furthermore, other comments implied they worked on the OD Connected ranch and, as such, were able to indulge the local cowhands’ wishes to hear about the exploits of the spread’s floating outfit which had earned its members—now no longer as active as in earlier years—a legendary status among their kind.

  Although Ransome had introduced Smith to Freddie and mentioned how his intervention had helped smooth over a potentia
lly dangerous situation, he had not been invited to stay in their company. In fact, it had been made obvious by Besgrove and Drexell that his presence was an embarrassment. Therefore, rather than do anything which might have threatened the improved state of affairs, he had made his excuses and withdrawn. Satisfied there was no danger of hostilities breaking out amongst the crews, he had left the schoolhouse.

  The search which the sergeant carried out in the hope of finding ‘Cousin Cyrus’ had proved fruitless and he had decided to end it by visiting the Cantina del Chili Con Came. Taking a couple of drinks and declining a meal, but promising to have lunch there the following day, he had learned the offer of free food was still in effect and a number of the professional gun fighters were taking advantage of it.

  However, failing to discover anything else of interest, he had elected to call it a day and returned to the International Hotel. His room was at the front of the building and he had watched from his window the departure of the ranch crews. As had been the case during the later part of the dance, the groups from the spreads had behaved in a far more friendly fashion. He had noticed that, although the foreman and Tule were present, ‘Cousin Cyrus’ was not with the party from the B Bar D.

  Indulging in the luxury of having nothing of especial importance demanding his time, the sergeant had slept late that morning. Rising, he had carried out his routine of exercises and taken a bath. By doing so, he had been too late for breakfast in the Hotel and had come to the Cantina del Chili Con Came as promised to the owner with the dual purpose of partaking in his favorite kind of meal and finding out whether there had been any further developments of interest to a ‘hired gun’.

  ‘You are too early, senor,’ the owner replied, his fat face wet with sweat.