Waco 7

by J. T. Edson

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Dedication

  One – No Chore for an Amateur

  Two – I Never Needed More Than One

  Three – So You’re Working for Him

  Four – An Error of Ignorance

  Five – Reckon You Told the Truth

  Six – A Bad Time to Give Birth

  Seven – A Hard Man to Convince

  Eight – My Father Was a Hound Dog Man

  Nine – The Wisdom of Not Carrying Identification

  Ten – Paula’s Mistake

  Eleven – Desborough Becomes a Point of Interest

  Twelve – News of the Killer Bear

  Thirteen – The Sign of the Bear Tree

  Fourteen – Scobie’s Mistake

  Fifteen – Miss Loxton’s Profession

  Sixteen – Pauline’s Decision

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Out in Wyoming it took a brave man –or a fool – to tangle with a cougar. In a land where men faced death readily, where lead flew with deadly accuracy, the speed and power of the cougar, or mountain lion, were to be respected and feared.

  If a cougar or an old grizzly was prowling around, there was only one thing to do – send for Scobie Dale, the man with the specialized knowledge and equipment which most ranchers lacked, the man they called the hound dog man.

  WACO 7: HOUND DOG MAN

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Brown Watson Ltd in 1967

  Copyright © 1979, 2018 by J. T. Edson

  First Smashwords Edition: March 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  For ‘Doc’ Sherman, George Hallam, Eddie Hardman, ‘Fingers’ Lomas,

  Jim Anstey and all other Army dog men.

  One – No Chore for an Amateur

  With the spring sun warming its bones, the big Absaroka grizzly bear felt a need for more substantial food than the grasses, sedges, roots and sprouting buds which had been all its stomach could take on emerging from its semi-hibernation. All through the frost, snow and storms of the winter, the bear slept secure in a snug hole beneath a deadfall of logs high in the Eastern Wyoming mountains. Hungry wolves found the den-hole, but did no more than pause, sniff around it and then lope on bristling their fear and hate of the animal inside. Even carcajou, the wolverine, fearless hunter and killer though it could be, ignored what might appear to offer an easy meal. Despite its other name, glutton, the wolverine knew better than enter the den of a sleeping male grizzly bear; undisputed master of the Wyoming high country.

  Standing with one forefoot on a fallen, rotten log, the bear looked out over the rolling forest-covered slopes of its kingdom. With a body length of some eight foot and shoulder height of a good forty-eight inches, the bear had seven hundred and fifty pounds of well-equipped power to enforce its desires. Belonging to the Big-Toothed sub-species of Ursus Horribilis, its well muscled jaws carried long canine teeth and powerful crushing molars designed for a carnivorous diet. Long yellowish-brown hair hid the winter-gaunt state of its body and gave it an appearance of even greater bulk. Steel-hard, sharp and long claws projected from its feet pads, weapons of murderous efficiency which exceeded its powerful mouth. All in all, the grizzly gave the impression of being what it was, the most dangerous animal oh the American continent.

  A powerful blow from one paw burst open the log as if a charge of dynamite exploded inside it. Grubs and insects exposed by the blow wriggled frantically in an effort at escaping from the hated daylight. Lowering its head, the bear licked up the insect life with its tongue. Such minute morsels could not even start to appease the gnawing hunger.

  Instinct, or maybe memory of other years, started the bear walking downhill. All the time as it moved, it foraged for food. Rolling over rocks, exploring bushes, it took anything which came its way, yet the hunger persisted. Rich and tempting to the bear’s nostrils came the scent of mule deer. However, long experience had taught the grizzly that only a sick or injured deer was likely to fall victim. So the bear wasted no time, but continued head downwards.

  Out on the more open rolling land could be found a much easier prey, one a comparatively slow-moving bear might stalk and kill. While the bear could gallop at around thirty miles an hour, raising it to thirty-five during the short burst of a charge, mule deer, elk, or the pronghorn antelope of the open range were all capable of higher speeds. Not so the animal which the hungry bear sought.

  On walked the grizzly in that seemingly slow, careless, but mile-eating way of its kind. Finding one of the trails it used upon other such forays into the low country, the bear ambled along it. At intervals along the trail it found a ‘bear’ tree. Halting, the grizzly reared up on its hind legs against the trunk and sniffed over the surface. No other bear had used the tree, as its nose showed, so the grizzly proceeded to mark a warning to others of its kind. Sinking its teeth into the bark as high as it could reach, the grizzly ripped out several chunks and dropped them on to the growing pile left by previous years’ markings. With proof of occupancy made, the bear continued its quest for food.

  Towards noon, as it moved through budding blueberry bushes, the bear picked up the scent it sought. With surprising silence and stealth, considering its bulk, strength and clumsy build, the bear wended its way through the bushes, following the wind-born aroma. Approaching the edge of the bushes, the grizzly slowed down and crept forward inch by inch until it could see through to the open land beyond. There, not ten yards away, the animals it came down from the high country to seek stood grazing with a complete lack of caution.

  In many ways the white-faced Hereford cattle proved superior to the Texas longhorn stock they fast replaced in the mid-1890s. They produced a better class of beef and more of it per animal, were more tractable, safer to handle, bred as well without supervision and generally showed a far higher profit margin. Yet in one major respect the whiteface could not even begin to compare with its predecessor. The longhorn had been at best only semi-domesticated, possessing all the wary alertness of a wild creature and a damned good defensive armament in the six to eight foot spread of sharp horns.

  Grazing contentedly and in a heedless manner no longhorn ever adopted, the small bunch of Rocking D Herefords just asked for the trouble soon to come. One of the cows moved away from her companions, drawing ever closer to the blueberry bushes and the bear’s ambush position. Measuring the distance with its eyes, the bear held down an inclination to rush out. Age brought wisdom that refused to allow hunger pangs to cause a premature charge.

  At last the moment came. With a coughing roar, the grizzly burst from the bushes as if they did not exist. Even then a longhorn might have escaped, or made a fight, but the whiteface lacked the speed for one and instinct for the other. Paralyzed by fear for a vital instant, the cow failed to react to the danger. Rearing up, the grizzly struck out with the paw that burst open the log. Bones snapped as the paw caught alongside the cow’s head and broke her neck. Even as her companions scattered in belated fright, the stricken cow collapsed to the ground.

  Normally the bear would have dragged its kill into the forest be
fore feeding, covering it with debris when full and lying up close by to protect it from marauders. With winter-hunger tearing at its belly, the grizzly could not spare the time. Licking the blood which dripped from gashes tom by its claws, the bear put the final touch to its appetite. The powerful jaws closed on flesh and tore out a sizeable chunk. As the meat slid down its throat, the grizzly felt a warm satisfaction welling inside it. That first bite meant winter had gone and days of good feeding lay ahead. Overhead the first of the turkey vultures made its appearance, circling high in the sky and knowing better than drop while the grizzly fed.

  Old Wilkie Wilkinson saw the circling vultures – for others soon gathered when the first located a possible meal – as he rode across the Rocking D’s range on his way to the town of Desborough. Being conscientious, he put aside thoughts of recreation until after investigating the cause of the birds’ gathering. After covering about a mile, he halted his horse on a rim and studied the cow’s body as it lay close to the blueberry bushes.

  Even from where he sat, Wilkie could tell that a bear killed the cow. Not a black bear either, but a grizzly, or that broken neck lied. Although he could see no signs of the bear, Wilkie remained at a distance. A man did not ride the Western ranges for some thirty-five or more years without learning a few lessons, including the value of caution. He knew a damned sight better than approach a grizzly bear’s kill, even in the bear’s absence, when armed with only a Colt Peacemaker and Winchester Model 1866 carbine. Being of a conservative nature, he had never seen the need to waste money on the purchase of a more modem, powerful, center-fire rifle; although he admitted, if only to himself, that the old rim-fire ‘yellow boy’ had its limitations. Twenty-eight grains of black powder did not, to his mind, constitute adequate power when a man stood likely to tangle with a grizzly bear.

  If Wilkie knew anything about grizzly bears, and he figured he did, the cow’s killer ought to be in the bushes sleeping, unless it was down on Trout Creek taking a drink. In either case, being jealous of its kill, it would charge out and attack any living creature which approached the cow. Not wishing to force the issue, Wilkie turned his horse and urged it at a better pace towards Desborough. Once a grizzly started killing stock, it formed the habit and must be stopped. Wilkie figured he knew the best way to accomplish the stopping.

  An hour after finding the cow, Wilkie rode towards the John Barleycorn saloon on Desborough’s main – and only – street. The usual bunch of town loafers sat on the porch and all studied the old cowhand’s lathered horse with interest.

  ‘Is Daniels inside?’ he asked.

  ‘Went on over to Reiger’s place to test a batch of applejack,’ big, bulky and well-dressed Copson, the local butcher, replied. ‘You look like you’ve been pushing your horse some, Wilkie.’

  ‘Some,’ admitted Wilkie.

  ‘You got trouble?’ Copson inquired hopefully.

  ‘Depends on what you call trouble,’ countered the cowhand.

  ‘What kind do you have?’

  ‘A grizzly done took one of our cows out by Trout Creek.’

  ‘Where’s its hide?’ asked the butcher. ‘I’ll buy it off you.’

  ‘The boss owns the cow’s hide,’ Wilkie answered. ‘And last trail count the bear was still wearing his.’

  Something about the burly butcher always put a burr under Wilkie’s saddle. The old cowhand never cared for Copson’s attitude of breezy friendliness, which always put him in mind of a city politician hand shaking for votes come election time. So he prepared to ride on in search of his boss at Reiger’s general store.

  ‘You mean you didn’t get the bear?’ demanded Copson, grinning at his cronies, then glancing back at Wilkie.

  ‘Well now, I sort of figured the bear might give me an argument about being got.’

  A guffaw broke from Copson’s lips. ‘So now you’re here looking for your boss to help out?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ admitted Wilkie. ‘I figure he’ll call in Scobie Dale.’

  ‘The hound dog man,’ grunted Copson. ‘Why bother with him? Reese here’s got a real good hound.’

  ‘Ain’t gainsaying his Lou bitch’s good – for running coon, or treeing a squirrel,’ replied Wilkie.

  ‘She’ll trail anything I lay her to,’ put in Reese, indignantly defending his newly purchased dog.

  ‘Never yet saw a red-bone’s’d go again’ a black bear – and that out there’s a grizzly less I miss my guess.’

  ‘So?’ snorted Copson.

  ‘Mister, a grizzly starts being mean where a black bear leaves off,’ Wilkie explained patiently. ‘And the red-bone’s never been whelped that’ll tangle with either of ’em.’

  ‘Then we’ll take my Vic dog along,’ the butcher stated. ‘I’ll fight anything that lives and breathes.’

  ‘Hunting a grizzly’s no chore for amateurs,’ Wilkie insisted, making the word come out as ‘hammer-chewers’. ‘I’ll go tell the boss.’

  With that, Wilkie started his horse moving and rode on in the direction of the general store. Copson watched the old man go and let out a barking snort of annoyance. Never a man to be put off once he made up his mind, the butcher determined to hunt the bear.

  ‘Let’s get the dogs,’ he said, turning to his cronies.

  None of the loafers, especially Reese, showed any enthusiasm at the idea. While living in the Wyoming range country, they were town-dwellers who rarely went beyond Desborough’s limits. Reese bought the red-bone, having her shipped in from the East, because he wished to enter the society of a group of prominent citizens whose prime interests in life centered on hunting and fishing. By owning a trained coonhound, he hoped to join the select group and gain numerous financial benefits from his acceptance. So he did not relish the idea of putting the dog on to a grizzly bear’s trail.

  ‘I can’t rightly go just now, Cop,’ Reese finally said.

  ‘Then we’ll borrow that Lou bitch and go without you,’ replied Copson, not easily put off. ‘Won’t we, boys?’

  Suddenly all his companions started to remember other, more pressing business which prevented them from leaving town. Their refusal only served to strengthen the butcher’s intentions.

  ‘All right,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll go by myself – if you’ll loan me the bitch, Reese.’

  For a moment Reese hesitated, then saw the tightening of the butcher’s lips and a warning glint coming to Copson’s eyes. Reese owed the butcher a fair sum of money, a loan the other kept like the sword of Damocles over his head, and was altogether in no position to refuse the request. Reluctantly he nodded his agreement and went along with Copson to hand over the dog.

  At the store, Wilkie learned that his boss had gone along to a nearby stream to watch the local doctor try out a new trout-fly just arrived from the East, so followed Daniels to pass on his disturbing news.

  After collecting the red-bone bitch, Copson went to his home and made ready for the trip. He saddled his horse, slid his Winchester Model 1876 carbine into the saddleboot and turned loose his own dog.

  In a way, Copson’s dog Vic was just as much a status symbol – although the term had not yet come into use – as the red-bone hound. Copson did much business in the State capital. Cheyenne, and his eye on a seat in the Legislature. To improve his chances, he cultivated a sporting set of business and political men in the capital. The sports went in for such diversions – from a spectator angle – as boxing and wrestling, while indulging in cock and dogfights for added entertainment. To win membership into the select association, Copson kept a fighting dog of some ability. He figured the dog to be a match for anything that breathed and aimed to prove his point.

  At thirty-eight pounds, Vic could have modelled for the ideal type of Bull Terrier bred in the Cradley Heath area of England for the purpose of fighting with others of its kind. Instead of being the somewhat leggy breed favored in the Walsall country, or the lighter, more terrier-like dog of the Darlaston district, Vic showed a bulldoggish appearance. With a short
, deep, broad skull, its pronounced cheek muscles, short fore-face and level mouth telling of enormous, crushing power of bite, short, muscular neck, tremendous spring of ribs and depth of chest, the dog gave an immediate impression of controlled, deadly toughness. Vic walked in a mincing, springy manner, sharply tapered tail drooping like a pump handle, looking ready for anything.

  Only Copson’s presence and unceasing watch prevented Vic from attacking the bitch, for a Staffordshire Bull Terrier trained for the fighting-pit lived only to try conclusions with other dogs. In fact, Copson finally solved his problem by hoisting Vic on to the horse’s saddle and keeping the dog there while the bitch trotted along at his side.

  Spiraling turkey vultures guided Copson to the kill, as the first arrival had done with Wilkie; but the butcher failed to appreciate the significance of the birds still being in the air. Nor did he possess the old cowhand’s knowledge of other basic, but vitally important, aspects of hunting a grizzly bear. Instead of halting and studying the situation, Copson continued to ride forward and he even failed to draw the carbine.

  The bitch loped ahead, making for the dead cow. At first, her tail wagged in anticipation of an interesting investigation. On reaching the cow, she caught the first warning whiff of the grizzly’s scent and her tail ceased to whip back and forwards. Instead a growl, which sounded three parts whine of fear, broke from her. Copson failed to read the warning signs and continued to ride forward.

  Suddenly a deep, awesome roaring snarl shattered the air and the grizzly burst into sight to protect its kill. Throwing herself backwards, the bitch whirled and fled. No less shocked by the terrifying and unexpected sight, Copson’s horse reared on its hind legs. Man and Bull Terrier slid backwards over the horse’s rump to land on the ground, but where Copson lit down on his rump, Vic arrived feet first.