Wacos Debt

by J. T. Edson

  Waco took the rifle from the rack hefting it. It was heavier than the Model of 1873 which he was used to. However it also possessed several advantages: it was heavier and took a better bullet. His own rifle was in need of renewing and this would be just the answer. ‘How much are they?’

  ‘This model sells for forty-eight dollars.’

  ‘I’ll take it. Box of a hundred shells for it and a reloading outfit.’ Waco turned to Mary Anne as he finished making his order, ‘Sure wish I’d known about that bet Della was going to make about you and her. I’d have won enough to take me another hundred hulls.’

  Ballinger laid down the short-barrelled Colt Lightning revolver he was looking at and came over. ‘Did you say Della?’

  ‘Sure, why?’

  ‘Doc Pilsener used to go around with a girl called Della. A blonde, real good looking, about your size, Mary Anne.’

  Waco rested the rifle on the counter again and swung to face Ballinger, his face showing his eagerness. ‘What was her other name?’

  ‘Who, Della?’ Ballinger frowned for a moment. ‘I’m not sure. I think it was Della Christine.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE S.S.C. LOSES CATTLE

  RED BLAZE took command of the S.S.C. ranch without any great worry as to his ability to handle things. He’d acted as segundo of his brothers’ ranch back home and helped Dusty Fog out enough to know how to handle things here. He and Doc were skilled cowhands, they’d got the backing of a good crew and even though there was a chance of trouble they were not worried.

  For two days they handled the chores of the ranch, keeping the men close in and doing the chores around. Then on the third Red slung his double-girthed Texas saddle on his big claybank stallion. He called Larry and Doc and they rode out over the range looking for odd chores the other hands could take care of. It was a rule that the ranch buildings were never left unattended, there were always two of the crew to stay behind, their orders, in case of attack, or needing Red back in a hurry were to light the fire in the house sitting-room, heap it with wet grass and make plenty of smoke. The ranch crew who were on the range had their orders to return as fast as possible if the signal was sent up.

  A mile from the ranch they came on a herd of some two hundred head grazing quietly down at the foot of a long slope. The cattle were in a great fold of land. There was plenty of food and water for them.

  ‘Stock herd, in case we ever need them in a hurry. They don’t move about much. Stay down there most times, the food’s good and plenty of water. The boys come out this way every other day or so just to check on them and make sure they’re all right.’

  Red nodded. He understood this. The O.D. Connected and many another ranch held the nucleus of a herd like that for use in case of a fast market being found. The herd down there, with good water and grazing were not likely to stray far. The cattle were not longhorns but whitefaces, the cattle which were fast replacing the old, ornery longhorn. It was the march of progress. The longhorn was ideally suited to open range grazing for it was half wild and could live off the land like a wild animal. The only trouble was the longhorn’s beef was not up to the same high standard of the whiteface’s. The whiteface cattle were easier to handle, less likely to raise hell when being shipped by rail. Their arrival was a marking of the end of the old, open-range days when a man’s cattle roamed at will, were gathered in the great round-ups which often covered many hundreds of miles and involved many separate ranches.

  Red was never one for dreaming of the days gone by. He lived for the day, lived full, wild and reckless like a true cowhand. Never one to be hampered by self-restraint, Red was regarded, by the people he came into contact with as the enfant terrible. He lived under the shadow of his more illustrious cousin, Dusty Fog. Even in the War he’d been under Dusty’s shadow, as his second in command. Folks tended to treat Red as an amiable but reckless young heller. Only one man really knew his full capabilities. That man was Dusty Fog. Dusty knew that Red might act in a wild and reckless way, that he could and often did jump feet first into any fight that was going. He also knew that when once in the fight Red became as cool and capable as he usually was wild and reckless.

  Right now Red was accepting his responsibilities. He was cool and would not let himself be swayed from his duties, nor would he fail in them. He turned the big claybank and rode across the range again with the other two men by his side.

  ‘Buzzard, Red,’ Doc pointed ahead. ‘He’s circling like he’s over something and calling the rest of the boys up.’

  They rode across the range making for where the buzzard was spiralling and saw what was wrong. A lone bull stood there moaning dolefully and making no attempt to avoid them as they rode nearer.

  ‘Looks sick to me,’ Larry remarked.

  Red unstrapped his rope and rode nearer the bull, swinging the loop gently. He watched the big animal carefully and rode around it to flip the loop out in a hooleyann throw which landed the rope around the head and drew tight.

  ‘He’s all swelled up here, Red,’ Doc announced as he rode behind the bull and looked down. He’d been almost sure of what the trouble was and this was proof.

  ‘He’s one of our best bulls. A mite old but he’s still the best we’ve got. Going to shoot him?’

  ‘Nope. Goodnight him.’

  ‘Do what?’ Larry looked puzzled.

  ‘Goodnight him. Something I’ve learned from Uncle Charlie Goodnight. He always put bulls in his early trail-drives and found he was losing a lot of them. They got bruised up and swelled like this one’s. Head back for the house and get me some grassrope, real thin, Larry.’

  Larry swung his horse. He did not hesitate as he sent his horse leaping forward headed back for the ranch. He made a fast ride, collected the thin grass rope from the store and headed back. He found that Red and Doc had thrown the bull, hogtied its forelegs and were waiting for his return. Doc held a sharp knife in his hand. He took the grassrope, stripped off a strand or two then nodded to Red. Bending, the young man forced the bull’s seeds up into the skin of the belly then cut off the loosened bag of flesh. Red held down the bull’s off hind leg and kept the near hind held up while watching Doc work. Red could have done this as well, or nearly as well as Doc, but the slim young man was better at the next and most important part. The wound left must be stitched up so it would not open again, if it did, the operation was a failure for the seeds would come down again but without the protective bag.

  Doc moved fast, punching holes in the flesh and carefully winding the grassrope fibre through the holes made, then drawing the edges up together. When he finished the job he nodded to Red and let clear, swinging back on to his black horse. Red released the legs of the moaning, struggling animal and leapt for his saddle. The bull came up with bellow and Red swung afork his horse.

  ‘What good’s that done?’ Larry asked. ‘You castrated him.’

  ‘Nope, just cut off the bag. Give him a week and he’ll be back out there chasing the little gal cows ragged again and bellowing coarse as he ever did,’ Red answered. ‘We’ll take him back to the spread and leave him in the corral where we can keep an eye on him.’

  ‘You mean he’ll be all right?’

  ‘Why sure. Colonel Charlie always does it to his bulls when they start showing age. He allows it might not make a young bull out of an old’n, but it does keep an old’n going a piece longer,’ Red Blaze replied. ‘Lead him back, boy.’

  ‘That’s what they call Goodnighting a bull,’ Doc remarked; ‘I’ve been thinking of setting up as a doctor and do the same on old gents.’

  The three young men headed back to the ranch, leading the bull with them and leaving it in one of the two corrals which were at the back of the house. Larry was dubious about the success of the operation although he had to admit the bull did not look any the worse for the Goodnighting.

  A week later it was still all right, bellowing as coarse as ever and Larry admitted that the two cowhands knew what they were talking about. He was expl
aining this to one of the other hands, then turned as Red called him over.

  ‘Saddle up, Larry, and you, Song. We’ll head out and see how the stock herd is.’

  The other two did as they were told, collecting their horses in a rush which showed how they liked to be out and about with Red Blaze. The three of them made good time across the range, headed for where the stock herd were grazing. The valley was just the same: the stream flowed along the bottom and the grass grew just as green and lush. There was only one thing wrong. The herd of cattle was gone.

  Spurring their horses down the slope the three young cowhands brought their horses to a halt and looked down. ‘Not more’n two hours back,’ Red snapped, indicating the sign.

  ‘Rustlers?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Unless you think maybe the cattle just took a yen to go off by themselves, which ain’t likely,’ Red answered. ‘Song, head back for the spread and bring the ranch crew. Tell Doc what’s happened and bring them along. Wish we’d brought our rifles along with us.’

  ‘You reckon you could hit anything with that relic of your’n?’ Larry replied, for Red always boasted he was a poor shot with his old Spencer carbine.

  ‘Nope. It’s just nice to tote it along. It likes to go out for a ride now and then. Let’s go.’

  Song grunted. He did not like the idea of leaving when there was the chance of a fight, but he knew better than waste time arguing at a time like this. Swinging his horse he lit out for the ranch, riding as fast as the horse would run. There would be several men with the cattle and a rustler would always fight. With a rope or a long stretch in the State Penitentiary waiting for them rustlers would always fight. Red and Larry were going after the gang right now. Two men would not be enough to handle them.

  Larry and Red rode side by side. They did not speak for a time. Red was concentrating on the sign, trying to estimate how many men were handling the herd. Larry was thinking of what would happen when they caught up. He wore a revolver and was a reasonable shot with it but he’d never used the Colt on a man before. He knew that he was not even as good with a gun as was Red, who insisted that he was the veriest beginner when it came to weapons. Not that Larry or the other members of the ranch crew believed him, they’d seen him use his guns and knew that he was good.

  ‘Say Red,’ Larry spoke up. ‘They’re headed for the Ranse from the look of the sign. That means they use Dead Horse Ford, it’s the only place where they could move cattle across in a hurry and they’ll be in a hurry.’

  ‘That figgers,’ Red agreed. He did not know the country as well as the other man and was going along with Larry’s thinking. The rustlers would not know how long they’d be unpursued and would not want to waste any time in trying to swim the herd across a difficult stretch of water if they could find a reasonable ford.

  ‘We can head for the ford and get after them.’

  There was a problem facing them right now. The herd night be taken across the Ranse River and if it was, by taking the shortest and most direct route for the ford, they would save time. If the rustlers were not headed for the river, they would be wasting time for they were going to have to search for the tracks again. It was an even gamble, one way or the other. Red gave the matter some thought as they rode along the line. The rustlers would have to drive across S.S.C. and Lazy W land if they were not going to cross the river. They would be risking detection from any of the crew of either ranch who might be about. Most likely they were taking the herd over the river.

  ‘All right, Larry.’ Red made his decision. ‘Head for the ford by the fastest way you know. If we miss out we’ll have to come back this way and follow them.’

  Larry turned his horse and headed across the range, going by a route which would have been impossible for men handling a herd of cattle. Red followed the other man’s lead, trusting Larry’s knowledge of the range. They rode at a fast trot yet held the horses in, for speed might be necessary later. Red was wishing he was afork his claybank for he was riding one of his string today and giving the stallion a well deserved rest. The horse he rode was all right, trained for cattlework, but did not have the speed of the claybank stallion.

  They came to the Ranse River and rode the short distance along the banks, making for the ford. Red brought his horse to a halt and pointed down into the shallows. The body of a big bass lay on its side in the water, a real big bass, weighing perhaps ten or more pounds.

  ‘Old Mossyhorn,’ Larry remarked. ‘I’ve seen him more than once in his hole. What’s that thing in his jaws?’

  Red swung down from the saddle, tossing the reins to Larry and then sliding down the bank. He stood in the ankle-deep water and picked up the dead bass by the thing which hung from its mouth. The weight of the dead fish dragged it loose and Red looked down at what appeared to be a grasshopper shape thing made or rubber and with three triangle hooks in it.

  ‘Looks like Sunshine Sam got into the big feller after all,’ Larry remarked. ‘I remember he brought that thing back with him from town on the day before he was killed. Called it a phantom.’

  Red took his handkerchief out and wrapped the phantom in it. ‘Where’d he get it, I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Nor me, didn’t say. He just showed it us and. told us that it was going to win him some money. Went out, him and the boys, they didn’t come back again. We went out and found their bodies.’

  Thrusting the phantom, wrapped in his handkerchief into his levis pocket Red climbed back up the slope and mounted his horse. ‘Let’s get on to that ford, we’ve wasted time enough now.’

  Riding on again they came to the ford and Larry gave a sigh of relief. The sign was plain, the herd was driven across the stream here. The water was still muddy and the hoof sign made Red bring his horse to a halt and examine it more closely. The herd was not far in front of them and from the look of things did not cross easily. The rustlers appeared to have had trouble in taking the herd across although it should not have taken them any effort at all. The water here was not deep enough to give the cattle any concern, the sun was, if anything, behind them. No driven beef liked to enter water with the sun in its eyes so it could not see the other side. There was not even this cause of trouble here.

  ‘Good work, Larry. You called it right. Let’s go across and see where they’re headed.’

  They sent their horses into the muddy water, it was not even deep enough to wet their boots as they rode across. On the other side they allowed their horses to make better time for the tracks were fresh and easy to follow. Ahead they heard, faintly, but growing louder all the time, the sound of cattle moving.

  Topping a rim the two men looked down on the herd, it was below them and being hazed along by nine men, too big a bunch for so small a herd if it was being driven legitimately. The men, for all their number, seemed to be having trouble in handling the cattle. Far more trouble than experienced rustlers would have. One thing which could always be said for a rustler was that he was a tophand with cattle. He needed to be, for fast handling was of vital importance to him.

  ‘They’re not nesters riding the herd,’ Larry remarked. ‘But they’re headed right for Wilben’s place. It’s just over that rim there.’

  Red was watching the cattle and hardly heard what the other cowhand was saying. Then the import of the words struck him. He lifted his eyes from the herd to the rim ahead of them, on the other side of it smoke curled into the air. He saw that although the herd was down below them and headed away the men at the point were swinging it to line on the house. In that instant he saw it all.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Red barked the order and swung his horse in a direct line towards the slope, not at the herd.

  ‘Herd’s down there, Red!’ Larry yelled as he sent his horse after Red’s. ‘What’re you going this way for?’

  ‘They’re going to stampede that herd, over the Wilben place,’ Red shouted back. ‘They’re not rustlers, can’t handle cattle well enough for them to be.’

  There was no time for more t
alk. The two horses were hitting the best speed they could manage. Down the slope the two men raced, sitting their horses with that ease which every cowhand showed in the saddle. They were both well mounted, Larry on his favourite, go-to-town horse, a leggy and fast bay and Red afork a powerful bay coyote which was generally conceded too fast for cattlework. They were riding these horses as what they were on amounted to a pasear rather than a working trip. Right now speed was of far more importance than good handling qualities. Red, a light rider, despite his size, handled his horse like the master he was, sending it at a far better pace, bounding and reaching out down the slope.

  Racing his bay, Larry followed Red, riding in close in the mad race. Excitement tingled his cheeks, wild excitement like he’d never known before. The route they were taking would bring them to the rim in front of the herd, after that he was willing to follow any lead Red Blaze cared to make. Then he heard a scattered volley of shots and the steers were running in a wild stampede, the nine men hazing them and encouraging them to run faster than trying to halt them. Larry knew for certain Red was calling the play right, the men were not rustlers at all and they were trying to stampede it across the nesters’ cultivated land.

  Three of the wild riding men around the herd turned their horses from the line and came hurtling towards the two cowhands, guns in their hands. Larry watched them although Red did not appear to be giving them any attention at all. His eyes flickered in their direction just once, then were back on the route they were riding. It was then Larry saw the men were all masked. Real rustlers would not be, not while travelling with the herd off the ranch land from where they stole it. Masked men would attract attention and no rustler wanted to do that. Larry’s gun was in his hand, but he held his fire. He saw a flame flicker from the Colt of one of the riders, but did not hear the bullet. This was not unexpected for it would have taken a lucky shot to hit at that range when riding a fast running horse. Larry lifted his own Colt but Red snapped, ‘Don’t waste lead yet.’