Cure the Texas Fever (A Waxahachie Smith Western--Book 3)

by J. T. Edson

  After the comment was made, Wax paid greater attention than he had so far to his surroundings. Built when there was a need for a structure sturdy enough to ward off attacks by hostile Indians, the house gave no indication of having deteriorated to any noticeable extent. In fact, he noticed for the first time that some improvements had been newly made. The walls had always been thick enough to hold out bullets as well as arrows, but the thinner planks forming the loopholed shutters at the windows had a lining of sheet iron that had only recently been installed.

  Considering the possibility of an attack should their presence be discovered by their enemies, Wax was in favor of the modifications. However, he still had misgivings over the grassy mounds around the buildings, which he did not remember being there when he left home to become a Texas ranger. Nor was his apprehension lessened when Cyrus admitted that there had been a few occasions in the past few days when strangers, whom Martha assessed as being hard cases of a kind she would not want her sons to know, had called requesting a meal while passing through on the way to some undisclosed destination and purpose. He was given a further cause for concern by Cy’s remark that one of the sheriffs deputies had dropped by a couple of days back and mentioned there were several more of the same kind in Waxahachie for some unexplained reason.

  Taking everything into account, Wax considered that he would be easier in his mind if the mounds did not offer such well-placed cover for anybody wanting to attack the house.

  The attack was launched shortly after midnight on the evening that Waxahachie Smith returned to his home.

  With the trio settled in to Martha Lombard’s satisfaction, the rest of the day had passed enjoyably and without incident. She had insisted on hearing about Wax’s activities and received a short account of the more humorous incidents up to his long-awaited return to his home state. There had been some discussion on the problem of finding a cure for the Texas fever, with Frank Smith asserting his belief that this could be achieved as a result of his involvement. When Wax had raised the matter of the mounds, he was told they had just seemed

  to grow, and Cyrus and his sons, all sharing the typical cowhand aversion to riding the blister end of a shovel, had decided against trying to level them.

  Because of the news about there being some hard cases assembled in Waxahachie, the rusty-haired Texan had insisted that a guard be maintained even though there would be a full moon and the redbone coonhound could be counted on to detect any unwanted callers in good time for defensive preparations to be made. He and Cyrus were sharing the duty, spending the time in a sotto voce discussion about the future—which he had stated would be to everybody’s satisfaction—when the dog justified the confidence in its abilities by coming to its feet and giving a low growl as it went to stand by the closed front door. Looking through the loophole in the right-side window, while the elderly man was waking the other occupants of the house, Wax saw three masculine figures carrying rifles advancing on foot and, as Cy had said the deputy put the number of hard cases in Waxahachie at fifteen to twenty, felt sure more were approaching from the other sides.

  Responding with a speed indicating that such a summons was not being received for the first time—Teddy giving the same impression as the Texans and the Negro—none of them having done more than removed their footwear before retiring, all the remaining occupants of the house were quickly assembled. They went to the positions they had been allocated when the arrangements for coping with such a situation were made earlier in the evening.

  “Who-all’s out there?” Cyrus called after he was notified that the defensive preparations were completed.

  Although the three men within Wax’s range of vision were probably surprised by the discovery that their presence had been detected, as were the rest around the building if various sounds were any guide, they reacted with a speed that suggested they were not engaged upon

  such an activity for the first time. Just as the rusty-haired Texan had surmised would prove the case, they took cover behind two of the mounds that had caused him so many misgivings. Not that he was surprised by this. If the visitors had been scouting the lay of the land in preparation for such an attack, they would not have failed to notice such effective positions and the protection they offered from the guns of the defenders. Nor was he alone in his assessment of the situation.

  “I say there, Wax!” Teddy called from the bedroom assigned as his defensive position, still employing his somewhat pompous manner of speech despite the situation. “These fellers of mine are taking cover behind the molehills you’ve got such a dislike for.”

  “So’s my bunch, Massa Wax!” Wallace announced as he studied the situation from his position in the kitchen.

  “So why’n’t you start shooting at ’em?” Cyrus suggested, and sounds indicative of amusement arose from his sons. “Big as they be, Texas moles don’t make’s stout ’n’ sturdy hills’s some folks reckon.”

  With the suggestion made, the elderly man lined his Spencer rifle and squeezed the trigger. Far from being new, its kind had first been manufactured in 1860—although the one he was holding was one of the improved Model 1865. The result of the shot was as much of a surprise to Wax as to the man at whom it was aimed. On striking the grassy surface, the .56-caliber bullet passed through the mound with surprisingly little resistance. His hat having been ripped from his head by the lead, the hard case let out a yell of alarm and rose instinctively from what he had thought would be an ideal shelter from any gunfire directed his way.

  Giving a derisive cackle, Cyrus operated the trigger guard-cum-lever to eject the spent cartridge case and place the next of the six rounds in the tubular magazine. However, swiftly as he moved, by the time he had carried out the necessary manual cocking of the hammer—a feature that prevented the Spencer from enjoying the popularity attained by the Henry and its successors in the Winchester range of rifles equipped with a mechanism that obviated the need to carry out the second action—the man had dropped once more behind the mound.

  “You Smiths never was worth a cuss at doing, young Wax,” Cyrus stated while realigning the Spencer. “Or are you maybe waiting to get asked all perlite-like to get her done, if you wants to cut in on this folderol?”

  Despite being amazed by the unexpected and seemingly inexplicable turn of events, the rusty-haired Texan responded to the question by aiming the Lightning rifle—selected as being better suited than the slip gun to his present needs—at the man who was doing the same with a Winchester from the left side of the second mound, and who presented a marginally easier target than the one to the right, since Wax’s weapon was at his off-side shoulder. Wondering whether the result attained by Cyrus was some kind of fluke, despite something of the sort clearly having been expected, he made a slight adjustment to the alignment and touched off a shot. Although only .44 in caliber, as opposed to the larger size of the Spencer’s lead, the bullet he discharged passed through the mound and elicited a response more serious in effect than the one he had just seen caused. A great howl was heard and the Winchester’s barrel tilted into the air before it fell from its owner’s grasp as a result of the pain caused by the flat-nosed bullet plowing into his left shoulder.

  Manipulating the trombone slide mechanism that served to differentiate the Colt Lightning from its Winchester contemporaries and changing his point of aim, despite still being unable to fathom what was producing the surprising results, Wax sent the next round at the mound rather than the second of the men sheltering behind it. He achieved another hit, this time producing an even more dramatic effect. Lurching upward with blood flowing from the hole in his chest and dropping his rifle, the second attacker toppled sideways to measure his length on the ground.

  If the sounds that arose from the other sides of the building were any indication, Wax decided the rest of the defenders were attaining similar successes to those of Cyrus and himself. Following the shots from inside the building, there were cries of pain and yells of alarm all around. Then, demoralized by the un
expected turn of events, those of the would-be attackers able to do so turned and hurried off in the directions from which they had come.

  “Looks like they didn’t take kind’ to them Texas molehills,” Cyrus remarked as the sounds of the hurried departure faded away. “Somehow, way they was throwed up, I had me a sneaky suspicion’s such could prove the case.”

  “Was that some of your doing?” Wax inquired, deducing from the way the last part of the comment was worded that the mounds were not made naturally.

  “Waal, much’s I’d like to give you a ‘yes’ to that,” the elderly man replied, “I can’t come out all truthful truly true ’n’ say it was, but I reckon you’ll be meeting the gent who come up with the notion ’n’ fixed for it to be carried out soon’s he’s seen those jaspers ain’t fixing to come back again tonight.”

  “I might’ve known it’d be him,” Wax declared. “Let’s go take a look at those hombres who’re still around.”

  An examination—performed with precautions taken against the possibility of reprisals being attempted—informed the defenders that there was no fear of such an eventuality. Although the man affected by a shoulder wound made good his escape, as did a couple more injured in a similar fashion—more by accident than deliberate intent—by Waldo and Teddy, Wax’s second victim and one who was hit by Wallace were dead. Another, who had been lying in front of where Cy was positioned, had sustained a serious wound that, in the absence of more highly skilled attention than Martha was capable of producing for all her experience in dealing with injuries of various kinds, caused his death before much time had elapsed.

  Shortly after the examination of the area around the cabin was started, a flurry of rifle shots sounded in the direction taken by the fleeing attackers. When these ended, there sounded a savage whoop of a kind not heard for many years in the vicinity of Waxahachie. Teddy and Wallace reached for their weapons, but apart from Cyrus remarking, “It’s him and he’s all right!” none of the others paid any attention to it.

  The elderly woman was just rejoining the men in the dining room to announce that the wounded attacker had died, without saying more than to give his name and the address of his parents—to which he wanted news of his fate to be sent—when the redbone gave another warning of somebody approaching. However, even if a yell of “Hey, Wax and the rest of you, don’t shoot, it’s only me!” had not been heard, the way in which the rider was coming without attempting to keep his presence unsuspected would have prevented anybody from feeling concern.

  Coming through the door on being given permission, removing his low-crowned and wide-brimmed Texas-style J. B. Stetson hat as he did so, the newcomer proved to be a tall man clad from head to foot in black clothing. There was just a hint of graying in his coal-black hair and a few lines on his Indian-dark face, which would have given a suggestion of close to babyish innocence had it not been for his feral-looking red-hazel eyes. Only the dark brown walnut grips of an old Colt Model of 1848 Dragoon revolver, butt forward for a low cavalry twist-hand draw in the holster of his gunbelt, and the ivory handle of a massive bowie knife sheathed at the left differed from the somber hue of his garb.

  “Sounds like you had a mite of fuss back a whiles, Lon,” Wax remarked.

  “Not as much as they did,” replied the Ysabel Kid, who was continuing the part he had been assigned to play in the attempt to have a cure found for the Texas fever. “I was ready to let you know they was coming, only it wasn’t needed and I soon saw you was handing those yahoos their asking-fors without needing me to cut in. So I snuck along after them when they lit a shuck. Then damn me if they didn’t stop after ‘round a mile and one of ’em starts saying’s how they should come back to finish what they was sent to do and some of the others seemed of a like mind. I recognized him as a loudmouthed yack who didn’t want to take the warning from the ole moccasin I left in their camp afore I snuck off with their hosses one night when you was headed for Chicago, Wax. So I concluded, him being a mite too trigger fast and up from Texas for my liking, he’d have to be showed what it meant.”

  “That would be what all the shooting was about, then,” Teddy guessed.

  “Why, sure,” the Kid agreed. “Seems like he wasn’t took with the notion when I yelled for them to get moving or else, and they went for else. Some of the other knobheads figured to help him, but sort of had trouble working out where I was until I started cutting loose, which sort of discouraged them, ’specially after I’d put down the loudmouth and two more. So they went on their way, and from what I heard being said, I concluded they aren’t figuring on coming back, nor doing nothing else save getting their gear, then getting as much distance as they can from Waxahachie. So I might as well head along here to see if there was any chance of a cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll fetch you one, Lon,” Martha promised, having left a pot on the stove to be used by the man standing watch.

  “I tell you-all one thing,” the Kid drawled as the woman was making for the kitchen. “I’m not sorry this chore is just about through. Like Rainey said when she heard what I was told to do, I’m getting too old for the amount of sage-henning, with ole Mother Earth for a mattress and the stars as a roof, that I’ve been having to do most of the time while Dusty and Mark was able to lie all warm and comfortable in their beds comes night.” xxvii

  Chapter Seventeen – We Were On To You Right From the Start

  Walking down the stairs of the Gunnison Hotel shortly after ten o’clock in the morning, meaning to have his bags taken to the stage depot so he could shake the dust of Texas from his heels as soon as possible, Walter “the Actor” Steffen did not feel the slightest concern when he saw that two men were standing in the entrance hall. One was Waxahachie Smith and the other was a somewhat insignificant-looking bespectacled man wearing what—had Steffen been better acquainted with such matters—he would have known was the attire of a cowhand from a more northern cattle-raising state.

  Having complete faith in the disguise he had selected for use while bringing what he hoped would be the conclusion of what had so far proven an unsatisfactory, albeit not unprofitable, affair to its conclusion, the Actor felt sure that the rusty-haired Texan would not recognize him as the “gambler” met in Hereford. xxviii Except that he had on a shorter black wig, the rest of the amendments he had made to his appearance were those he had worn in Austin and, unbeknownst to him, Denzil Kline had described to the other liberals in Chicago. Furthermore, he now had on the garb and other accoutrements of priest of the Catholic Church who served in an Eastern city.

  Of course, selecting such attire precluded Steffen from wearing the gunbelt and Colt Peacemaker that he had used to kill Joel Daly for trying to trick him into believing the first attempt to gun down Waxahachie Smith had met with success, and that formed part of his “costume”—he always thought in theatrical terms for everything employed in his disguises—when he appeared as a professional gambler at Hereford. However, he had a short-barreled Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver in a spring-retention shoulder holster beneath the left side of his jacket, and because he carried this more frequently than the Colt while working, as he had always done before in the East, he considered himself to be even better with it. What was more, as had always been the case back East, he was convinced its presence would not be suspected unless the need arose to bring it into rapid use.

  Taking everything into consideration, the Actor judged that the time spent in Texas had proved unsuccessful even though there had been some—if not as much as he had hoped—money to show for the expenditure in time and effort put into carrying out the plan for which he was hired. Never one to accept blame, he attributed the repeated failures to having to rely on assistance from others besides his regular partner. In fact, he thought that the only positive parts of the affair had come about through his and Amos Cruikshank’s efforts. Not that even these, apart from having claimed the offered bounty for bringing about the death of Edmund Dell in Austin, had amounted to much.

  The main
problem for Steffen had been that his only contact in Texas proved to be far less useful than he had been led to assume was the case. Therefore, the information he had received, taken with the low price he had offered in return for services rendered—mistakenly believing that nothing higher would be expected by the dull-witted denizens of the West he had expected to meet—had enabled him to obtain assistance of only a low quality. With the exception of an old-timer who had given support after some incident during the pursuit of Smith from Hereford, none of the men he hired had shown any signs of intelligence or initiative. Or, if it was the latter, whatever was done ended badly.

  Added to snippets of information gathered mainly as a result of Cruikshank’s ability to read lips, a chance meeting with a drunken cowhand in Fort Worth while collecting the reward for Dell had supplied the place to which the two Smiths would go after having made the successful escape from Chicago. Receiving the money Steffen had demanded from Malcolm Penny, they had hired assistance—including some of the men used in the abortive pursuit of the rusty-haired Texan—and made a rendezvous at Waxahachie.

  Only one of the men who had been sent to kill the two Smiths at the ranch where the Actor had learned they would be staying returned to notify him of the failure to do so. He said all the survivors had not waited until morning before taking what he called a greaser standoff, and he meant to follow their example now that he had fulfilled what he considered to be his obligations by delivering the news. Having no desire to attempt flight on horseback, or to try to hire a buckboard in which to do so, Steffen and Cruikshank had elected to leave by the eastbound stagecoach when it arrived. Only the man who had brought the news knew either of them, and they felt sure he would not be available for questioning. Therefore, should any of the bunch who were unable to leave the ranch have been taken alive, there was no way Smith could learn where to find them.