Waco 7

by J. T. Edson

  Cold eyes looked Flax over with none of his pretense at casual disinterest. However, the two men did not speak but went to a table and sat down.

  ‘Bring over a bottle and glasses, mister,’ called the black-haired man.

  ‘I’ll be right there, Mr. Elmhurt,’ Caffery answered.

  Grinning a little at the manner in which Caffery introduced the two men. Flax turned back to the bar. One of the filings Waco taught him was to wait and allow the other side to make first move in such a situation. Maybe he had been mistaken, occasionally a man’s eyes did play tricks on him, and Caffery’s guests might be completely innocent. For all that, Flax felt sure that he had seen the two men somewhere. As Caffery carried the whiskey bottle and glasses around the bar and towards the table, Flax remembered. Unless he sadly missed his guess, he had seen the two men – or somebody mighty like them – in Zimmerman’s saloon the previous night.

  ‘Hey, cowboy,’ called Laverick. ‘How about joining us for a drink?’

  ‘Not right now, thanks,’ Flax replied, turning towards the speaker. ‘I’ve got to tend to my hoss first.’

  Maybe nothing lay behind the invitation other than a desire to be friendly. Or it could be a prelude to the offer of a game of cards, in which Flax stood no chance of winning. The pair might be no more than card sharks looking to pick up some easy money while waiting for their stage. Yet there was another explanation; the pair could remember him and want to pump him about his reason for pulling out of Zimmerman’s saloon on the heels of the longriders. Whatever the reason, Flax did not intend to take chances. Setting his hat right on his head, he walked by the seated men and out of the building.

  ‘You gents want anything for a spell?’ Caffery asked.

  ‘Nope,’ Elmhurt answered after a glance at Laverick.

  ‘I’ll go tend to my work then,’ said the agent, and walked from behind the bar.

  Entering the room which held his telegraphic equipment, Caffery sat at the desk and reached for his sending key. After writing down the gist of Flax’s news and request for information, the old-timer unlocked the desk drawer and took out a cipher-disk. This consisted of two concentric disks, one smaller than the other. Letters, word pauses and other information marked around the edge of the larger disk corresponded with signal numbers on the circumference of the other. By checking the disk, he could copy the entire message down. While simple to use, the code could only be broken by long, tedious calculations, unless one possessed the cipher disk.

  During the War, Caffery served in United States Military Telegraph Corps and achieved the reputation for being the fastest, most accurate sender of coded messages ever to receive pay from the Quartermaster’s Department, under which his outfit came. Nor had his old skill deserted him. Deftly his fingers rattled out the message, which would be passed on until reaching the U.S. marshal down in Utah and be decoded by him with the aid of a corresponding cipher-disk.

  While the room in which Caffery housed the female guest might possess some advantages, for studying the movements of suspected persons, the agent clean forgot that he had placed her brother immediately over the telegraph office. Nor did the room above offer such effective – or defective, depending upon how one regarded the matter – flooring to give warning of what went on within its walls.

  Auscultation, listening to sounds from within the human body, had brought about the need for the stethoscope which Laennec invented in 1819. The man calling himself Loxton put such an instrument to a vastly different use as he knelt on the floor of the room above the telegraph office. Pressing the ivory-surfaced head of the small, flattened bell against the floorboards, he held the large, flat disk at the other end of the metal tube to his right ear.

  ‘He’s sending a message, Norah,’ Loxton said.

  Even sprawled upon her brother’s bed, clad in a plain white blouse and black shirt, Norah Loxton exuded a sensual attraction. Black hair, taken back in a severe bun at that moment, framed a beautiful face somewhat marred by coldly calculating eyes – not that most men would notice them, until too late. Although designed to avoid it, the blouse could not hide the fullness of her bosom as it rose in a magnificent swell over her slim waist. Nor could the plain lines of the skirt conceal the sweeping curves of her hips or the full shapely power of her legs. Five foot eight in height, Norah Loxton possessed the looks and figure to turn heads in any company, no matter how she dressed.

  ‘Can you read it?’ she asked.

  ‘Pass me that pencil and notebook,’ her brother replied, holding out his hand without removing his ear from the stethoscope.

  Six foot tall, Wilfred Loxton offered much the same attraction for women that his sister held for men. His handsome, regular features bore a family resemblance to the young woman, but without her strength of will. Although well-built, his body conveyed a hint of softness. His jacket lay at the head of the bed. It, like the rest of his clothing, was costly and of the latest Eastern fashion.

  Placing the offered notebook on the floor, Loxton began to rapidly mark down symbols. After making only a few marks on the paper, his face took on a puzzled expression and he pressed his ear more firmly on to the upper disk;

  Rising from the bed, Norah went to the window. Even with only her brother present she moved in a feline, sensual manner calculated to draw approving male glances and disapproving sniffs from women less endowed with feminine charms. She looked down from the window and watched Flax Fannon walk from the main building and make for the barn.

  ‘Now who are you?’ she said to herself, studying the Texan. ‘No ordinary cowhand, that’s for sure. You and the agent were on too close terms for that. The question is, who do you work for? Well, if I can’t get you to tell me, I’m not the girl I know I am.’

  ‘It’s finished, Norah,’ Loxton said, coming to his feet and dusting the knees of his trousers with exaggerated care. ‘But—’

  Before he could finish, the girl had advanced and taken the notebook from his hand. She looked down at, to her, a meaningless collection of numbers instead of written words.

  ‘What’s this?’ she hissed,

  ‘The message.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Damn it all, Norah—?’ Loxton began.

  ‘All right, Wilfred,’ she purred. ‘I know you’re good for something besides wheedling information from women. This is in code. Can you break it?’

  ‘Given time, I could,’ he answered coldly, taking the paper.

  ‘Then make a start at it, dear. If it’s anything to do with that saloon-girl the sooner we know the better.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’

  ‘Anything that’s important enough to be sent in code has a saleable value one way or another,’ Norah replied and walked towards the window.

  ‘Oh no! What the hell are those fools playing at?’

  The last part of her speech came inadvertently, caused by seeing Elmhurt and Laverick leave the building and head for the barn. Knowing the two men, she could guess at what they intended and a feeling of fury filled her. Since first learning of Schuster’s interest in Pauline Pitt, Norah had sought for the girl and put much effort into locating her. While not entirely sure of why Schuster wanted Pauline, Norah’s guess came pretty close to the truth. Learning that Pauline was working in Zimmerman’s saloon, Norah sent Elmhurt and Laverick to check on the story while she and her brother followed up another lead.

  Seeing the two men walk into the stage station that morning handed Norah a surprise. Fortunately they gave the agent an acceptable reason for coming and had even sense enough not to let him see they knew her. In her room, after the men came up to the one they rented until the arrival of the east-bound stage, she listened to their reason for leaving Braddock. Hard questioning drew out all but one essential fact. The men told Norah of how Scobie Dale clubbed down Skerrit and later killed him, also that Pauline disappeared. While they mentioned Zimmerman sending off the longriders, neither spoke of Flax Fannon leaving on Packer and Spice’s trail. If h
er hired help noticed Flax, they attached no importance to his departure.

  While Norah might be ignorant of Flax’s interest in the affair, she did know that more than pure chance brought him to the relay station. Seeing him arrive, she decided to learn, if possible, the nature of his business. Creeping downstairs, she tried to overhear Flax’s conversation with the agent and by its low-voiced manner guessed that it must be important. Perhaps she might have learned something had not Laverick and Elmhurt chosen that moment to leave their room. On hearing them, Norah turned and started back up the stairs. Only just in time she silenced Laverick’s greeting with an angry gesture.

  Maybe the Texan’s presence had nothing to do with the business in Braddock, in fact she could see no reason why it should. However, he came to the relay station for something and learning what it might be could prove interesting. The one thing she did not want was for her hired help to go bursting in with their heavy-handed methods until she could try her own way on the Texan.

  ‘Get the bags down to the buckboard,’ she told her brother, picking up the vanity bag from the bed and starting for the door. ‘We may not have to pull out, but if we do, it will be in a hurry.’

  With that she left the room. Loxton did not waste time. While he might not like her way of addressing him, he admitted that she was the brains of the family and rarely steered them wrong. Swiftly he packed the notebook and his belongings into the traveling bag, went to his sister’s room and found that she had already made ready for leaving. Carrying two bags, he started downstairs.

  After Caffery left to send the telegraph message, Laverick and Elmhurt sat in silence for a time. Then Elmhurt glanced at the door, listening to the tapping of the key.

  ‘That Texan was in Braddock last night,’ Elmhurt commented.

  ‘Yeah, and come here to send a message to somebody,’ Laverick went on.

  ‘Who’d he send it to?’

  ‘Let’s go ask him.’

  ‘Maybe we should ought to tell Norah first,’ Elmhurt said.

  ‘He might be saddled and rid out before we can,’ Laverick answered. ‘Let’s go get him and make him talk. We might learn something.’

  ‘What’ll Norah say?’ asked Elmhurt.

  ‘I’m getting just a mite sick of her and all she has to say, Laverick replied. ‘If we learn something, it won’t matter what she says.’

  After finishing the message, Caffery first locked up the cipher disk and then burned the message sheet, crumbling its ashes into powder. Before he could leave the office, the telegraph began to click out his signal and a routine message came in to demand his attention, preventing him from leaving and noticing the departure of his guests.

  At the barn Flax went to his horse first and made sure that it had everything it needed. Collecting his bedroll and rifle, he was about to leave when the two men entered. They acted in a casual manner, one going to either side of the door and each showing interest in anything but the young Texan. If anything, they made it appear too casual; although Flax gave no sign of noticing that as he walked towards them.

  As Flax came level with the door and started to pass between them, Laverick withdrew his attention from the harness hanging on the wall, pivoted and threw a hard-looking right fist at the Texan’s head. At Flax’s left, Elmhurt spread out arms ready to grab him as he reeled under the impact of Laverick’s blow. The two men moved with skilled precision, obviously having practiced their tactics. Against an unsuspecting man, the attack worked with devastating, simple ease and rendered the receiver incapable of making anything more than a token defense.

  Unfortunately Flax was not unprepared. Even as Laverick struck, Flax swung up and chopped forward with the barrel of his rifle. Instead of striking flesh, Laverick’s knuckles met with hard steel and he let out a howl of pain. Before Flax could make another move, however, Elmhurt reached him and he felt his arms pinned to his sides by the other’s grasp.

  ‘Do something, Lav!’ howled Elmhurt as Flax struggled to escape from the hold. ‘Don’t leave it all to me!’

  Surging and trying to free himself, Flax dropped the bedroll but retained his hold on the rifle. Carrying it by the foregrip, he could neither use it as club nor firearm, with his hands pinned down. Laverick heard his companion’s yell and sprang forward a backhand smash to Flax’s face with all the power of his uninjured left arm. Again he drew back his fist, meaning to drive it into the Texan’s face. Thrusting in with his high-heeled range boots, Flax dragged both himself and his captor forward. Up swung his right leg, jabbing the boot into Laverick’s belly and shoving him backwards. However, Flax knew he must free his hands; and figured he knew just about the most effective way of doing it.

  Down whipped Flax’s raised leg, to drive back into Elmhurt’s shin. The pain inflicted by the backwards kick was far higher than the mere bare impact could hope to achieve. Like all cowhands, Flax wore spurs; large roweled and with a number of points rising from them. Such an item served a useful purpose, even though the points had been blunted so as to inflict only a reminder, not punishment, when used on his horse. Blunt or not, the spurs sent a shock of agony biting into Elmhurt and caused him to relax his hold on Flax’s arms. Not much, but enough. Giving a surging heave, Flax freed his arms. Then he drove backwards with the rifle, sending its metal shod butt plate into Elmhurt’s groin. Again the blow did not carry his full power, but served its purpose. In addition to jack-knifing its recipient over, it allowed Flax to slide his hand back from the foregrip, over the frame and close his fingers around the small of the butt.

  Catching his balance, Laverick grabbed for his gun. Flax’s left hand replaced his right on the foregrip, his right forefinger entered the rifle’s trigger-guard and the remaining three passed through the loading lever. Held hip-high, he threw a bullet into the chamber and the menacing double click ended Laverick’s move half-completed even without the grim vocal warning which accompanied it.

  ‘Hold it!’ Flax ordered, moving into a position where he could cover both of the men although that put him with his back to the open doors of the barn.

  Just a moment too late, Flax saw the shadow behind him. He started to turn, ready to shoot or strike; and did neither. Had a man been there, he would not have hesitated. Seeing the girl, even though she had her arm raised to attack him, he hesitated. Around and across whipped the girl’s hand, driving the leather wrapped, lead-loaded billy against the side of Flax’s head. She aimed under the brim of his shoved-back hat and landed true. Blackness engulfed Flax and he collapsed to the ground without a sound.

  ‘Get him inside!’ Norah ordered.

  ‘I’ll kick his g—!’ Elmhurt began and moved forward to do so.

  ‘Do as I say!’ the girl hissed.

  Sullenly and reluctantly Elmhurt halted, then obeyed. Inside the barn, the two men searched Flax thoroughly and efficiently; checking the tops and soles of his boots, the inside of his belts and the sweat-band of his hat among other places. Displaying just as good a knowledge of where papers or other items might be hidden, the girl went over the rest of Flax’s property. At that moment the wisdom of not carrying identification showed. If Flax had anything to prove his connection with Waco, those three efficient searchers would have found it.

  ‘Nothing!’ the girl said at last. ‘You damned fools! I could have learned all I wanted from him if you’d left him to me.’

  ‘Can’t you now?’ asked Laverick.

  ‘He saw me, knows I hit him. Do you think he’ll forget that?’

  ‘Could be he doesn’t know anything about the girl,’ Elmhurt pointed out.

  ‘He knows something about something and it might have been profitable to learn what!’ the girl snapped. ‘Dump him in an empty stall, then get the horses. If Dale took the girl with him, we’ll find her at Desborough – and if we do, for the Lord’s sake let me handle things, will you?’

  Ten – Paula’s Mistake

  Lying on the branch of a large flowering dogwood tree, the big tom cougar woke and raised
its head to listen to the sound of hounds baying. At first it ignored the sound, having heard a similar noise on more than one occasion due to its habit of raiding ranches to pick up a meal of its favorite food, horse-meat. When the baying drew closer, the cougar rose and adopted a tactic which paid good results on other occasions. Gathering itself, the cougar sprang from the branch, curving through the air with its long tail serving to keep it balanced. It lit down with barely a sound some forty feet from the tree and went loping away at an easy mile-devouring trot.

  First of the pack, by a narrow margin, the Treeing Walker reached the flowering dogwood. From a firm scent picture, the line went to nothing as the cougar bounded upwards on deciding to rest in the tree; but that failed to puzzle the experienced hound, Leaping up at the trunk, the white and tan hound smelled where the cougar struck and cut loose with his tree bellow only to have it falter off as he realized that the prey no longer was up the dogwood. Independent natured animals like the rest of the pack would never accept another hound’s summing-up of a situation and not until each one of them tested the tree did they halt their treed music.

  Following up at a fast trot, Scobie heard the clamor, read its message and smiled grimly. No cougar in its full health would remain up a tree on hearing the approaching hounds. Not until tired and hard-pressed would it climb and stay put. Nudging the dun’s ribs with his heels, he urged it on at a better speed so as to guide the pack on to the line should they need it.

  Before their master readied them, the hounds started to spread out with their noses to the ground, snuffling and questing as they cast around for the line lost at the tree. Nothing but the cougar’s scent mattered to the hounds; a cottontail rabbit burst from beneath a bush and passed inches in front of Belle, the second Bluetick bitch’s nose, without her even raising her head from the ground. A deer’s scent met Song, the Treeing Walker’s nostrils, and he snuffled it away as of no importance to a cat-and bear-hunting hound.