Waco 5

by J. T. Edson

  The cowhands heard the sound at the same time, coming to their feet and all reaching for their guns. No man approached a fire without announcing his arrival with a call for permission to come in, not unless he was looking for trouble, or was badly hurt.

  A big paint stallion walked into the light of the fire, its rider hanging forward, arms dangling on either side of the sleek neck. Beth started forward but Braden was in front of her, his gun out, ready for any trick. He lowered the rider to the ground and the others gathered around.

  “What is it?” asked Beth.

  “Looks like he’s been shot,” replied Braden, then looked at the cook. “What you reckon, Cookie?”

  The cook, who also handled any rough doctoring on the spread, bent forward, looking down at the wound. He grunted; the man had been lucky, very lucky. The bullet grazed the side of his head, opening a furrow which was shallow, bloody, but not over dangerous.

  “How is he, Cookie?” Beth asked worriedly. “Take him by the fire. Darkie, make a bed up for him, will you?”

  The man moved fast, obeying the girl’s orders. Waco was carried to the side of the fire and laid on the blankets Darkie put down. Beth bent forward and took the Stetson off, it had been hanging back by the storm strap when Waco was shot and was still slung behind his back. She looked down at the face; it was so young, strong and handsome. There was something like a lump in the girl’s throat as she looked at the wound. An inch the other way and this handsome young man would be dead.

  “I wonder who he is,” she said, as the cook started to clean the wound.

  Braden did not reply He could never remember seeing her look in such a way at any man. He looked down at the Texan’s boots, then at the hat. Both were costly, the hat a genuine J.B. Stetson, not a cheap Woolsey; the boots were costly, made-to-measure. His clothes were good quality and the shirt looked new. There was some of the signs of a top-hand about this young man. He was not wearing a gunbelt but the levis showed one was mostly strapped around the lean waist. Braden’s keen eyes noticed something more sinister than just a gunbelt. There were signs of two holsters and the bottoms of the holsters were tied down when he wore them. It was an old range saying that a man who tied down his holster did not talk much with his mouth.

  The angry snort of a horse brought Beth and Braden’s eyes back to the big paint stallion. One of the hands was walking towards it, meaning to tend to it. The paint snorted and Beth called.

  “Keep back from him, Johnny.”

  The cowhand did not need that warning. He knew a bad horse when he saw one and here stood a real bad horse. Beth came to her feet and walked towards the big horse, speaking softly and soothingly to it.

  “Watch him, Beth gal,” warned Braden, dropping his hand to his gun butt.

  The girl did not stop, but walked straight up to the big paint, never showing any hesitation and talking all the time. The horse snorted again but slowly it relaxed and allowed the girl to reach out a hand and touch its neck. Its head dropped and snuffled at her shirt and she stroked its neck. Then she started to work the saddle loose. She could handle a saddle, even the unfamiliar double-girthed rig every Texas man used. When the horse was cooled she stripped the saddle and bridle off, allowing the paint to move away and graze.

  Braden came to the girl’s side, his eyes went to the saddle. “No bedroll on it,” he remarked. “You aiming to tote him out to the spread with us?”

  “I am!” replied Beth defiantly.

  “We don’t know him, gal.”

  “He’s hurt. That’s all that matters.”

  Braden’s hard face relaxed, he laid his horny hand on her head and gently ruffled her hair.

  “You alius bringing some damned fool hurt thing back to home,” he said softly. “Remember that time you found that wolf pup and toted it in. Fed it for a month and then it bit your hand.”

  Beth looked from Braden to Waco’s still form. She shook her head. “Not this one, Seth. He’s not wearing guns.”

  “Has been, and regular. Look at his hands. They’ve got the marks of a gun-using man on them. Got the marks of a rope, too,” Braden replied, bending to pull the Winchester from the saddleboot. “One of the new’ns. A forty-five-seventy-five.”

  Beth nodded her agreement. It was the first time she’d seen one of the new Winchester Centennial rifles. They were little used by cowhands for they were expensive, more so than the lighter Model of ’73 or ’66 which the cowhands preferred. The Centennial’s ammunition gave a greater range, but was more costly than the bullets for either the Centerfire ’73, or the Rimfire ’66. The Winchester found favor among the visiting hunters, but only two kinds of Western men carried it for the extra range, Lawmen—and outlaws.

  “He could have bought it any place,” she snapped, eyeing her foreman truculently. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Nope, I reckon it don’t.”

  “Those gun-marks on his hands, they don’t mean anything. You’ve got them. So have Bix Smith and Simon Girty.”

  Braden chuckled. “Pull your horns in, gal. I’m not allowing that Pinkertons or the laws’s after him. It’s just a mite unusual for a man to come in off the range wounded like that and without any duffle along of him.”

  “He could have come from Two Forks.”

  “The way he come in?” Braden scoffed. “He didn’t ride far with that wound.”

  “We’d best leave it until dawn before you start in to wiring the Pinkertons and telling them we’ve caught Butch Cassidy, or Sam Bass.”

  “I ain’t going to argue with you, gal. You’re a whole lot like your mammy in that.”

  She looked at her foreman for a long moment, then asked, “Why did you say that, Seth. You rarely mention my mother. What was she like? I can’t remember anything about her.”

  “Good, kind, square and a real lady,” replied Braden, slowly, as if feeling out each word before he said it. “A man’d be proud to know her.”

  “I wish I’d known her,” she sighed. “Uncle Frank and Aunt Annie were always good and kind to me, so are you. But I wish I’d known my mother.”

  At that moment Waco groaned and the girl turned her attention to him. Braden looked relieved as if he did not wish to discuss the subject of Beth’s mother with her. It was getting too hot for comfort and Braden took his chance to join the other men of the crew, leaving Beth to tend to the stranger who had come in out of the night.

  Beth bedded the wounded young man down as comfortably as she could, then rolled into her blankets near to him. The girl got little sleep that night; she would doze off, then wake to look at the still form beside the fire.

  The following morning at dawn, Beth rolled from her blankets. She went to Waco and looked down at him. His eyes were open and she thought she’d never seen such nice, blue eyes.

  “Howdy,” she said gently. “How do you feel?”

  Slowly Waco forced himself into a sitting position. He looked up at the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Not even the marks of the fight made Beth any less beautiful to the young Texan. His hand went up to touch the bandage around his head and he winced.

  “What happened? Where am I?”

  Gently the girl moved his hand from the bandage and ordered, “You lay still a minute. You’ll be all right. That was a real nasty graze you collected. How did it happen?” A puzzled look came to Waco’s face. He shook his head as if trying to clear it, then felt the bandage again.

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I surely don’t know. Who am I?”

  “Who are you?” Beth felt silly repeating the words, but she could not prevent herself from doing so. “Don’t you know who you are?”

  “I can’t remember,” there was worry in Waco’s voice. He started to force himself up. “I don’t know—”

  “Easy now, easy,” she replied, easing him down again. “You’re wearing Texas clothing and the big paint horse belongs to you. Does that help?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  The girl looked at the horse, it was g
razing near the camp and as it turned she could see the brand it carried. She licked her lips which suddenly felt dry and tried to help him.

  “The horse is branded CA, that’s a ranch owned by a man called Clay Allison. You talk like a Texan.”

  “Could be, ma’am,” he answered. “But I surely wouldn’t know about it.”

  The girl straightened up, her face working sadly. She wondered if the close-passing bullet could cause the man to lose his memory. She knew instinctively that he was not lying to her. She’d been well educated and knew that loss of memory could result from a blow on the head, and, even though it merely grazed the side of the head, the bullet must have struck hard. The Texan talked rationally, yet he was clearly puzzled.

  “Well, until you can remember, I’ll call you Texas,” she said. “I’ve got to talk with my foreman. You lay there for a spell, then I’ll bring you some food.”

  Braden saw the girl’s face as she came towards him. He knew there was something badly wrong but was not prepared for what she told him in reply to his:

  “Who is he?”

  “He doesn’t remember who he is, or anything about himself.”

  “Yeah?” grunted Braden skeptically.

  “He doesn’t!” snapped Beth, stamping her foot. “It’s true. I know it is. He wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Braden started to say something, saw the glint in her eyes and knew better. He grinned wryly and squeezed her arm, then said, “You’re all right, girl. And you surely wouldn’t hurt a living thing.”

  Beth managed to smile back, for she was very worried and disturbed by the presence of that handsome young man.

  “I surely tried to hurt that girl yesterday. I’ll take him his breakfast over. He’ll have to come with us, and stay until he remembers who he is.”

  Braden watched her go, watched the way she sat and talked with the stranger. There was a grim look on his face as he looked at the young Texan who was now sitting by Beth and eating a hearty breakfast.

  “That gal thinks she loves you, stranger,” Braden hissed under his breath. “You hurt that gal and I’ll kill you.”

  Nine – Texas Proves His Worth

  “Ain’t love wonderful?” Darkie White inquired of his friends.

  The rest of the BM hands greeted the remark with knowing grins and wise nods as they studied their boss-lady and the tall young Texan who sat next to her on the wagon-box.

  “Seth,” the girl remarked casually, “I think Darkie had best ride the East line for a spell.”

  Braden nodded in agreement while Darkie howled his protests to the skies. The East line was one of the dark cowhand’s pet hates. It was boggy land and the line rider spent much of his time hauling cattle out of the mud. Darkie tended to be something of a dandy dresser and hated getting his clothes all muddied up.

  “Serves you right,” the hand called Johnny said severely. “Putting your big ole nose into other folks’ love-lives.”

  “And there’s a whole lot of fence digging on the spread that’ll just be Johnny’s big enough,” Beth went on cheerily.

  That ended the comments. Beth knew how to handle her crew, knew all their likes and dislikes. When they riled her she could always find some task they particularly disliked to give them.

  Braden was worried as he watched the girl. She hated to ride on the wagon, but this day insisted that she did so, sitting next to the stranger who she’d also decided was unable to ride his horse.

  The girl talked with Waco, trying to help him discover who he was. He knew about the range and the cattle, but it was his past life, his name and other personal details he did not remember. She was more than sure he really knew nothing and that he was not trying to trick her. She was puzzled by this and thought of what they knew. His horse was good, better than usual run of cow horses. His saddle was a plain, very well-used cattle rig and his rope was more than a decoration. He’d worn a gunbelt and two guns, that was far from usual; the men who wore two guns, were either trying to bluff people into thinking they were tough, salty and good—or they were tough, salty and good. That rifle was not a cowhand’s weapon either, although there was no reason why a cowhand should not own one if he wished. His lack of a bedroll was another unusual thing. She wondered if she should send word to Two Forks and have that Drifter Smith, the sheriff, come out to take a look.

  Behind the wagon the rest of the hands were just as interested in Waco.

  “Wonder who he are?” asked Darkie White.

  “Been a cowhand,” Braden replied. “Least, his hands carry the marks.”

  “Used him a gun more than a might,” Angus McKie remarked.

  “Any man who rides the range’s likely to,” Braden growled. “I’ve never seen none of you bunch riding around naked.”

  “Ain’t every man who shows that he’s been toting a brace,” Angus stated. “I never seen many who wore two and less that looked as if they could handle both of ’em when they did. He can. Look at that rifle of his’n.”

  Not knowing the interest he was causing, Waco relaxed, listening to the talk of the pretty girl by his side. He could never remember when he knew another girl like this one, for the voice raised stirrings in his heart. His mind was working, trying to probe back and remember who he was, what he was doing here.

  At last the girl pointed ahead to her home. “That’s our place, Texas.”

  Waco looked ahead. Near a small clump of scrub-oaks, with a stream running in a curve around it, lay the BM ranch house. It was a small, neat two-story stone building, fresh painted and pleasant looking. The bunkhouse lay off to the left, a few smaller buildings behind it and the usual three corrals out front. All in all it looked like a middle-sized, well-cared-for ranch, the sort of place Waco would have dreamed of owning, had he ever found time for dreaming.

  “Nice spread you’ve got there, ma’am,” he said.

  Beth eyed him with mock severity. “I’m not going to tell you the name’s Beth anymore.”

  Three men came from the bunkhouse, making for the corral to greet the rest of the ranch crew. The hands attended to their horses, telling of their adventures in town and describing the fight to the other two old BM hands. The third man was mostly ignored. He was a tall, handsome man with black hair and a close-trimmed moustache. His dress was good, a rangeland dandy with a low hanging Colt gun in his holster. There was arrogance in his every line as he studied Waco, watching the Texan turning his paint into an empty corral.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, glancing at the bandage around Waco’s head.

  “A new hand. His name’s Texas,” replied Beth, not hiding her dislike of the handsome man.

  “Looks like a bagline bum to me,” grunted the cowhand. “I didn’t know you wanted any new hands.”

  “I hire, or fire, who I please,” Beth snapped. “You remember that, Jack Hatch. Did you dig that new backhouse hole?”

  “Got started on it, but we was too busy guarding the spread.”

  “You’ll push your luck just too far, Hatch,” barked Braden. “I’m getting sick of you and your ways.”

  “Yeah?” Hatch grinned, hand lifting over the butt of his gun.

  “Seth!” Beth spoke quickly, trying to prevent trouble. “Take Texas to the bunkhouse and see he gets bedded in. Windy, tote Texas’s kak up to the barn and put it on the burro for him.”

  Waco drew the rifle from the saddleboot and followed Braden towards the bunkhouse. The rest of the hands followed along, talking among themselves, while one of the pair who’d stayed on at the ranch picked up Waco’s saddle and toted it to the barn.

  Hatch watched the others go and there was dark anger on his face as he followed them. Beth watched him and went along to the house where a fat old Osage woman stood waiting on the porch. She was Little Doe, Beth’s housekeeper, maid and one-time nurse. The girl went to the old Indian woman and began telling her about the man who had come so suddenly into her life.

  Waco followed Braden into the large bunkhouse. He laid his rifle on the tab
le in the room center and went to the empty bunk the foreman showed him. The other hands entered the room, talking eagerly about the fight, the hand who’d missed it cursing his luck. None of them noticed Hatch come in, but the man crossed the room and stood looking at Waco.

  “Hey you,” Hatch said loudly, bringing an end to all the talk. “We don’t like you here.”

  Waco turned, looked the man over, seeing he was primed for trouble. “We don’t—or you don’t?”

  “Me for one. I don’t like Texans any time. I like them a damned sight less when they can’t remember their names.”

  “Mister,” replied Waco. “What you don’t like’d be like to fill the big ole Grand Canyon.”

  Hatch started as if Waco had slapped him in the face. There was sudden anger in his eyes. “Why you damned saddle-tramp!” he began, and made a mistake.

  His fist shot out, smashing into Waco’s face. He staggered back, hit the wall and Hatch came at him, ripping a punch which jerked his head to one side. Waco was taken by surprise but his instincts came to his aid. He’d learnt fist-fighting from a man who was acknowledged as being one of the finest rough-house brawlers in the West. Mark Counter’s lessons came in useful right now. Waco’s left arm came up to deflect the next punch, his right ripped into Hatch’s stomach, bringing a grunt of pain. Waco brought up his left, snapping Hatch’s head back and before the dandy got a chance to recover, Waco drove across the right. The dandy staggered back across the room and went down. He came up again, his Colt falling from the holster, but did not get a chance. Waco attacked fast, his fists slamming the man across the room before him. Hatch hit back, spinning Waco on to a bunk. Then Hatch dived across the room, hand clawing for his gun.

  That was when the ranch crew saw how fast Waco could move when needed. The young Texan went over the table in a rolling dive, scooping up the rifle as he went. He hit the floor and the rifle bellowed, the heavy bullet smashing the revolver from under Hatch’s hand.