Waco 7: Hound Dog Man (A Waco Western)

by J. T. Edson

  Something splashed wetly on to the floor behind the ladder. Scobie looked up and saw a steady dribble of liquid oozing through the boards of the loft. Substituting the Remington for his rifle, he rose, vaulted over the bales and darted forward.

  Following their training, the pack scattered and allowed him access to the ladder. Swiftly he climbed up to the loft, yet ready to throw himself backwards and use the pistol if the need arose.

  Cautiously Scobie drew himself above the level of the loft’s floor and looked at the shape sprawled upon the hay. Outside voices shouted and feet began to thud as people heard the shooting and came to investigate. Scobie ignored the sounds and climbed into the loft. Still holding his Remington ready for use, he approached the shape on the floor. While guessing at his assailant’s identity, he struck a match to verify his conclusion. One glance told Scobie that he guessed right and also he need not fear any further trouble from Skerrit. Driving upwards into the killer’s body just under the ribs, the .50 caliber bullet cut its terrible funnel-like way through the chest cavity and burst – almost literally – out of the back beneath the left shoulder blade. Skerrit would have been dead an instant after the bullet struck him.

  ‘Like I said, feller,’ Scobie remarked softly. ‘I’ve never needed more than one.’

  Holstering his Remington, Scobie turned and walked back to the ladder. He left the body lying untouched and made no attempt to take up the killer’s Smith & Wesson. If the girl told him the truth – and Scobie began to feel inclined to think she did – it might be advisable to have complete proof that he shot in self-defense. Climbing down the ladder swiftly, he reached the floor just in time to stop his pack charging out to where the first of the investigating people approached.

  ‘Hold them dogs in, Dale!’ yelled a voice. ‘It’s the marshal.’

  Clearly Marshal Raven had more sense than come barging in on the dogs without warning. Scobie grinned bleakly and gave an order which silenced the pack’s growls. Collecting his rifle, he walked out of the barn with his dogs around him. Raven, the barn’s owner, and a deputy marshal stood by the wagon. Beyond them a growing knot of citizens and visiting cowhands gathered, Zimmerman prominent among them.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Raven, keeping a wary eye on Scobie’s hound pack and the big Rottweiler.

  At that moment Scobie realized that the girl was nowhere in sight; even her traveling bag had gone. However he gave no sign of making the discovery and decided to let things ride until learning more about the girl’s startling story.

  ‘I had a run-in with a jasper down at the Liberty Bell,’ he said in answer to the marshal’s question. Only he figured to carry it on up here.’

  ‘Heard about the fuss,’ Raven stated. ‘Fact being I was just on my way to warn you about that feller.’

  ‘He somebody special?’ asked Scobie innocently.

  ‘I figured you didn’t know him,’ replied the marshal. ‘He’s Ike Skerrit.’

  ‘So that’s who he is,’ said Scobie, trying to sound suitably impressed.

  ‘Sure. Where is he?’

  ‘Up there in the hay-loft.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘They don’t come any deader.’

  Raven eyed Scobie for a long moment, then shrugged. Even in 1895 Wyoming saw enough gun play for it to be only a minor novelty. Yet there were aspects to this one which the marshal did not like. While clear of the main course of the notorious Outlaw Trail, the town had some contact with the Wild Bunch and other criminal bands. Braddock’s marshal received certain unofficial additions to his civic salary for judicious closing of eyes at the right moment. One of the reasons he came to warn Scobie of Skerrit’s identity had been a desire to antagonize nobody and avoid trouble in his town. Raven had been aware of Skerrit’s presence in town, although not of the man’s mission; but was also aware that the killer possessed some influential connections who might not want him interfering with. Yet the hound dog man also had important friends, owners of big ranches and the like. As Scobie had no equal in the business of running down stock-killers, the men behind him would take exception should he be killed. Only it seemed that the killing went the other way and Raven wanted to try to learn as much as possible so he could explain if questions were asked.

  ‘You figure he was looking for evens?’ asked the marshal.

  Before Scobie could reply, he noticed Zimmerman stood well in front of the crowd which had drawn closer. So he decided to forget the girl’s arrival and disappearance.

  ‘What else?’ Scobie said.

  ‘What caused the fuss at the saloon?’

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’

  ‘I’d like to hear your side of it,’ Raven answered.

  ‘It wasn’t much,’ Scobie drawled. ‘I saw this jasper trying to make a gal go with him again’ her will and cut in. Had to club him down a mite, which same he didn’t like it and came down here after evens.’

  Although Zimmerman tried to will the marshal into asking about the girl, Raven proved unreceptive. The marshal glanced to where the local doctor approached and then turned back to Scobie.

  ‘I’d best take a look at him. You said he’s up in the loft?’

  ‘He’s not likely to have moved,’ Scobie answered.

  ‘I may as well come with you, marshal,’ the doctor put in. ‘The county pays me to look ’em over dead or alive.’

  Entering the barn, Raven collected one of the hanging lanterns and lit the way up to the loft. There he and the doctor examined the body, then checked on the Smith & Wesson revolver. ‘It’s been fired,’ Raven commented.

  ‘Looks that way,’ grunted the doctor. ‘And afore Scobie cut loose with the rifle. It’s certain sure that jasper didn’t start shooting after he was hit.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Raven. ‘The hound dog man told the truth.’

  ‘I never figured he hadn’t. Let’s go back down so’s I can make arrangements to have this gent moved.’

  While waiting for the two men to return, Scobie stood looking towards the barn. Seeing the hound dog man’s preoccupation, Zimmerman decided to take a chance and check on whether the girl was hidden in the wagon. It seemed unlikely that Skerrit would shoot at Scobie unless she had been present. True the killer had a fair hate for the man who knocked him down, but knew better than to indulge in a private feud when working.

  As Zimmerman started to peer into the dark rear of the Rocker wagon, he heard a growl and teeth snapped scant inches from his face to cause his rapid withdrawal. Turning, Scobie looked at the saloonkeeper and his right hand brushed the Remington’s butt.

  ‘You want something, mister?’

  ‘There’s a dog in there!’ gasped Zimmerman.

  ‘You was expecting maybe a Shiras moose?’ countered Scobie.

  ‘I – I heard a noise inside and went to look,’ the saloonkeeper explained, making the first excuse to come to mind.

  ‘Thanks, but my dogs can tend to my wagon,’ Scobie drawled, and turned back as the marshal came from the barn followed by the doctor.

  ‘Do you want to hold an inquest, doc?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Can’t say that I do. That feller’s dead. We know who did it, how and why. I don’t see any point in wasting Scobie’s time and the taxpayers’ money.’

  ‘I’ll pull out then,’ Scobie said, grinning at the doctor amiably.

  ‘Sure,’ Raven answered.

  ‘I wish I was going with him,’ the doctor said as Scobie swung aboard the wagon and started it moving, the pack around it.

  ‘Huh?’ grunted Raven.

  ‘I was talking to the only cuss here worth listening to,’ sniffed the doctor. ‘Me.’

  Watching the wagon depart, Zimmerman scratched his head thoughtfully. He decided that he must make a try at learning if Pauline was aboard or still in town. The man who hired Skerrit had power and pull. It would be worth the time and money spent if Zimmerman could render a service to the killer’s employer.

  Five – Reckon You Told the T
ruth

  Holding his team horses to a steady trot, the hounds loping alongside and the big zebra-dun riding stallion following without fuss, Scobie Dale drove his wagon out of Braddock and followed the trail which offered easiest traveling during the first miles to Desborough.

  ‘Mister,’ said the girl’s voice from behind him.

  While not a man given to showing his emotions, or easily startled, Scobie whipped around on the seat and surprise showed on his face. He could hardly believe his eyes, but Pauline stood at the front of the wagon. All too well Scobie knew the fierce protective nature of the Bluetick bitch in the wagon. At the best, Vixen only tolerated strangers and certainly not when they entered what the bitch regarded as her private domain. Yet the girl stood behind Scobie, as large as life and unmarked or unflurried.

  ‘How the hell—?’ Scobie began.

  ‘I’ve a way with dogs,’ Pauline answered. ‘Thanks for saving me, and not letting on I was around.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were still around,’ Scobie corrected, wondering how the girl managed to get by Vixen silently and with the bitch mean with her pregnancy.

  ‘Thought it would be better if nobody saw me,’ the girl explained. ‘So I ducked into the wagon. I’d only just got friends with Vixen when the first of the folks came and I hid under your bunk.’

  ‘Which I call quick thinking,’ commented Scobie, and the wagon jolted over an excuse-me-ma’am [iii] in the trail.

  ‘Hey, easy!’ Pauline warned. ‘You’ve an expecting mother in back here.’ She glanced back in the bitch’s direction. ‘It’ll be any time soon, or I miss my guess.’

  A shiver ran through the girl and Scobie realized that she must be very cold as her clothing was more suitable for the barroom than riding in a wagon on a chilly spring night.

  ‘There’s a wolf-skin coat on the bed,’ he said. ‘Need a match?’

  ‘I can find it,’ the girl answered and disappeared into the wagon. A few moments later she emerged wearing the heavy coat over her dress. Showing a shapely leg, she swung over on to the wagon box and sat at Scobie’s side, ‘Why didn’t you say I’d been with you when Skerrit came?’

  ‘Nobody asked if you had.’

  ‘I saw Zimmy looking in the back until Vixen scared him off. Maybe Skerrit told him that he was after me.’

  ‘Or maybe Zimmerman just wanted to get you back to work.’

  ‘You still don’t believe me!’ Pauline snorted.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Scobie answered.

  ‘You meant it,’ the girl insisted. ‘Didn’t Skerrit coming after me prove anything?’

  ‘Could be he wanted evens with me for clubbing him down in the saloon. A feller with his reputation wouldn’t want it known that happened to him, and he did nothing about it.’

  ‘Then why else would I be in your wagon?’

  ‘Not for my good looks, anyways,’ Scobie said dryly,

  ‘You’re not bad looking,’ Pauline replied seriously. ‘Apart from— How did it happen?’

  ‘A bear clawed me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The bear got around to being. You can see his hide on the floor at the L Over V any time you’re that way.’

  One of the things Scobie hated most about the disfiguration of his face was the fact that it came about partly from inexperience and particularly because of over-confidence. Early in his independent career as a hound dog man, Scobie bought one of the recently introduced Colt Lightning Express rifles. While the Winchester Models of 1873 and 1876 proved more powerful than the old ‘yellowboy’ 1866 rifle, neither struck Scobie as having quite the punch he required. Nor did he fancy a heavy caliber Remington or Sharps single-shot, accurate at long ranges though they might be, for general hunting – he did own a Sharps Old Reliable buffalo gun that found use for special work. So he bought the new trombone slide action Colt rifle, its .50.95 caliber striking him as heavy enough and its nine-shot magazine capacity proved the deciding factor. The Express caliber rifles were an attempt to lessen the trajectory of a black powder-powered bullet’s flight and increase accuracy, using a heavy charge and light bullet.

  While hunting a bear, Scobie gave the rifle its first working trial and used factory Express bullets. The pack brought the bear to bay and Scobie came up to play his part. Although he held true, the light bullet shattered on the outside of the bear’s skull and provoked a determined charge. Three more bullets struck the bear before Scobie decided to take more effective measures. A shot from the old Remington pistol tore into the bear’s head at the last moment and tumbled it; but not before it managed to rake open Scobie’s face with its claws.

  After patching up his face as best he could, Scobie skinned the bear, allowing the pack to feed on some of the meat and hung the rest in a tree. Then he mounted his zebra dun and rode eight miles to the L Over V ranch house to receive more effective treatment.

  What annoyed Scobie most about the affair was that it had been a black bear weighing no more than two hundred and fifty pounds which gave him the injury. After that he always loaded his own bullets, using a solid lead ball which might not have the Express’ flat trajectory, but packed enough power to smash through the skull bones of any animal he had come across.

  ‘What will you do about me?’ asked Pauline, guessing that the subject of his face was distasteful.

  Take you as far as you want to go, up to Desborough anyways. What’ll you do then?’

  ‘I’ve enough money to buy a stage ticket down to Arizona and I can find work there.’

  ‘In a saloon?’

  ‘Where else?’ she asked defensively.

  ‘Pull your horns in, gal,’ Scobie drawled. ‘Only if there’re fellers after your hide, working in a saloon’s the easiest way to lead them to you.’

  ‘A girl has to live.’

  ‘I ain’t gainsaying it. Only those fellers sent after you are hunters, like me. And I know better than go looking for cougar out on the open plains. Sure one might be there sometimes, but a cougar sticks to wooded country. That’s the way it lives.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Those fellers know you work in saloons. So they’ve a start to searching for you. And saloon folks talk, travel around. How long will it be afore word gets back to them where to find you?’

  When it was pointed out to her, Pauline could see the truth in Scobie’s words. ‘But I don’t know any other kind of work,’ she protested.

  ‘Can’t you cook?’

  ‘Of course I can, but not good enough to make a living at it – or at least not as good a living as I can make in a saloon.’

  ‘It’s your life,’ commented Scobie.

  ‘If I can make enough to go East—’ Pauline began.

  ‘Thorpe can’t let you stop alive, East, West, or any other place, gal.’

  ‘Then you believe me?’

  ‘I reckon you told the truth.’

  ‘But what can I do?’ groaned Pauline.

  ‘Like I said, get work away from saloons. But you’ll spend your whole life wondering when they’ll find you. Why not go to the law?’

  ‘The law!’ Pauline gasped. ‘Thorpe has the Cheyenne marshal’s office in his pocket. They’ll not move against him.’

  ‘That’s local law. No man, from the Governor down, has Waco in his pocket.’

  ‘Waco?’

  ‘The United States marshal.’

  ‘How would I be able to reach him?’ the girl asked.

  ‘I might be able to help you there,’ Scobie answered. ‘Just afore he was appointed U.S. marshal, I was down on his ranch in Utah. Happen I can reach him, he’ll do what he can.’

  Like most folks who worked in and around saloons, Pauline found little cause to trust the average peace officer who crossed her path. She had seen local lawmen bow to power and political pull, so wondered if a U.S. marshal would prove any different. With her life depending on it, she felt disinclined to take chances.

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ she finally sa
id.

  ‘Think on it, gal,’ suggested Scobie. There’s no rush. We can’t do much until we reach Desborough. Let’s hope that nobody else can do anything faster.’

  After the wagon departed, Zimmerman walked slowly back to the saloon. While walking, he tried to decide what might be best to do. Most likely the girl had been with Scobie Dale, hidden in the wagon and guarded by the dog. If so he should make a move at carrying out the work Skerrit had been sent to do. Which produced a problem. What had Skerrit been hired to do about the girl?

  From the fear Pauline showed when Skerrit approached her she for one figured that he came to kill. Certainly his actions at the barn pointed that way. If he intended to abduct the girl, he would hardly have made the attempt from in the hayloft. True that would be his safest way of dealing with Scobie Dale, but the girl could escape before Skerrit reached the floor of the barn.

  That simplified the problem. Kidnapping the girl might prove risky; but dead women were just as silent as men in the matter of telling tales. Only one thing need now be settled, finding somebody to go after and kill both Pauline and Scobie Dale. There were too many things against Zimmerman using his own men, but he reckoned something of a more satisfactory nature might be arranged.

  On arrival at the saloon, Zimmerman studied the crowd. Townsmen and local cowhands could be discounted straight away. In fact, the saloonkeeper could see only three suitable candidates. A tall, blond-haired young man in the company of the best-looking girl Zimmerman hired caught the eye. Something of a dandy dresser, wearing the height of current range fashion and with a low-hanging ivory-handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in a fast draw holster, he looked just a mite too prosperous for an honest working cowhand. That was the trouble, the blond young man was too prosperous. He would not be willing to accept such a chore as Zimmerman had in mind.

  Which left the other two and to the saloonkeeper’s way of thinking, they presented a much more satisfactory picture. Seated at a side table, they nursed a couple of schooners of beer with such care that it seemed likely they could afford nothing better nor more in the drinking line. Both wore range clothes, were tall and unshaven; and each carried a Colt in a tied-down holster, giving the impression that they knew how to use it.