Waco 3

by J. T. Edson

  Waco turned and went back into the camp, collecting his big paint stallion and leaving word that he would meet his partner in town. He rode out along the trail, this time watching more carefully. At the ford in the small stream he saw the clear imprint of the wagon team tracks and saw he was right; there was no horse with a barred shoe in the sign.

  In the woods he kept his attention on the ground and soon found where the second wagon pulled off the main trail and along a smaller, almost concealed track. Since they’d gone by, someone had been busy with a piece of branch, sweeping over the tracks and obliterating any sign of where the supply wagon went. Waco took the big paint into the woods, looking for and finding a small clearing. Here he stripped the saddle and bridle from the big paint, put them under a tree and left the horse standing loose, grazing. He slipped into the woods, moving to, but not on, the trail used by the exchanged supply wagon.

  He moved fast and in silence, watching the trail all the time. Then he halted, freezing behind a tree and standing without a movement Ahead of him the woods opened into a large clearing and at the far side it, almost surrounded by trees, stood a small cabin. In front of the cabin were the two wagons and a couple of horses. Weiland, Gratton and Dugdale came from the cabin and stepped up to one of the wagons, looking inside. Waco dropped his hand to the butt of his gun and was about to step forward when he heard a slight noise from behind him. He started to swing round when something smashed down on to his head and everything went black.

  ~*~

  Waco opened his eyes and groaned, shaking his head. He tried to move his hands but could not. For a few moments it did not sink into his mind that he was tied up, seated with his back to a small tree, hands lashed together behind the trunk. It was night now and in the flickering light of a big fire and the light of the moon he could see Gratton, Weiland and an Apache seated against the side of the wagon. A noise to his left brought Waco’s head round. He looked at Dugdale who gave him a savage grin, then called.

  ‘He’s woke up boss.’

  Gratton lurched to his feet. He’d got Waco’s gunbelt swung round his shoulder, and he came across and looked down at the young Ranger.

  ‘I owe you something,’ he said and drew back his right foot.

  Waco’s left foot hooked round behind Gratton’s left ankle, the right foot against Gratton’s knee, then pushed hard. With a yell Gratton went over on to his back, landing heavily. He came up with a snarl and lunged forward. Weiland jumped in, grabbing the man and holding him.

  ‘Cut it out, you damned fool,’ he roared. ‘Gratton, quit it.’

  With all his strength, Waco kicked up, his boot smashing in between Gratton’s legs, driving home with agonizing and all but crippling power. Gratton gave a scream of tortured agony and doubled over, clutching his injured body. He dropped to his knees, face ashy pale and drawn in lines of agony. For a moment, Waco thought Weiland would jump him and tensed to defend himself, but the agent shook his head, stood back and told Dugdale to help Gratton back to the fire.

  ‘Do you know why I stopped Gratton kicking you to death?’

  ‘Sure,’ Waco replied, watching the startled expression on the man’s face.

  ‘You do, huh?’

  ‘Why sure. You know that when you kill me there’s going to be an investigation by every Ranger in the Territory. If there’s one small slip-up they’ll be on to your foot, hoss and artillery. What they’ll do to you then won’t be fit for a man to think about.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m going to be another Apache Kid killing, I reckon. That buck there isn’t the Kid. He’s the one who’s been doing all the killing for you and that Eastern syndicate that’s offering stocks in a cattle company that takes in most of this strip?’

  Weiland’s face showed more than surprise now. ‘You know all about that?’

  ‘Sure. The folks running the syndicate are going to be in for bad trouble if they can’t offer the land for sale. The three places the Kid made his kills at control the water hereabouts. I sent to ask Cap’n Mosehan to check on who owns the places now, or if they were sold, to find out who bought them. You’re going to let the Apache kill me and make it look like an Apache Kid killing again, figger that’ll rile the others of Cap’n Bert’s men to say they forget anything but investigating my killing. I hope you get away with it.’

  ‘We will, don’t you worry any about that. We will.’ Weiland rose and went to where a saddled horse stood waiting for him. He was about to mount when he asked, ‘How did you get on to us?’

  ‘You’ve got a hoss with a barred horseshoe in one team and not in the other.’

  ‘Does your partner know about it?’

  ‘Why sure,’ Waco answered cheerfully, knowing Doc was fully capable of taking care of himself.

  ‘I don’t think he does,’ Weiland swung afork his horse. ‘I’m going to town and if I think he does know I’m afraid there’ll be two dead Rangers, not one.’

  Weiland rode off into the darkness along the trail and for a time all was silent. Dugdale sat watching his groaning partner and the Apache hunched down on his haunches, black eyes all the time on the young Ranger. Suddenly the Apache came to his feet and walked towards Waco, looking down.

  ‘Why did you come here to the San Carlos Reservation?’

  ‘To hunt for the man who was killing and blaming the Apache Kid.’

  ‘That is me, Toya. I killed all the men that the white-eyes say Cabrito killed.’

  ‘I knew that, the Kid is a warrior, not a killer of women and children.’

  The Apache grinned, his dark face fiat and expressionless. ‘You talk well, white-eye, I will see if you can die well, too. Many times will I make you cry before I kill you. Then I will leave you at the edge of the reservation.’

  ‘One day the Apache Kid will find you, killer of women,’ Waco answered, his voice mocking. ‘Then you will cry many times.’

  ‘That day I will kill him and sell his head to the white-eye soldiers,’ Toya scoffed. ‘The Kid is a little boy fresh from horse herding. I am a warrior.’

  Standing up, the Apache walked away and joined the other men at the fire. Time dragged by and Waco worked desperately trying to free his hands. He knew that the Apache would be coming for him soon and wanted to have a fighting chance.

  Then Waco felt something cold touch his wrist and the cords part under the edge of a razor-sharp knife. He was about to move when a hand gripped his wrist and a deep voice hissed, ‘Wait!’

  Something hard touched Waco’s hand, his exploring fingers ran over smooth wood and made out the shape of a rifle butt. Slowly he moved his hands along the wood, knowing that this was his own rifle here. He could tell by the feel for he knew that rifle well. Sitting as if he was still tied, he waited, watching the men at the fire.

  Gratton got to his feet. He still looked shaken by the kick and his hatred of Waco was not lessened any by taking it. ‘Let’s go, Toya. I want to hear him scream some afore you finish him off.’

  The other two rose and Waco waited, wondering if his rescuer meant to take any more part in the proceedings.

  ‘Supaway John?’ a voice called from the darkness, giving the traditional call an Indian made when entering a white man’s camp looking for a handout.

  A tall, wide shouldered Apache came into the light of the fire. He wore the usual buckskin shirt and trousers and the long-legged Apache moccasins. Around his head was the red band of a chief and across the crook of his arm he held an old Winchester ’66 carbine.

  Gratton and Dugdale looked at the Apache with no great interest, for they were used to having Indians come in like this begging for food. Toya stared at the other Apache for a moment, then with his hand grabbing for the old Dragoon revolver in his waistband, he shouted:

  The Kid!’

  Like a rattler striking, the tall Apache moved. His old yellow boy flowed from the crook of his arm and levered three shots into Toya’s belly so fast the reports merged into one blur of sound and movement. It was don
e so fast that neither Gratton nor Dugdale had a chance to make any move at all.

  Waco came to his feet with a bound, hand gripping the Winchester at the small of the butt and throwing it forward. His hands were stiff but he still moved fast enough. Held hip high the heavy rifle roared, throwing a four hundred and five grain flat-nosed bullet into Gratton’s body, knocking him off his feet and into Dugdale even as he was trying to throw down on the Apache Kid.

  Round swung the muzzle of the carbine and spat, once. Dugdale rocked backwards, a hole between his eyes.

  Flipping open the lever of his rifle Waco walked forward and rolled Gratton on to his back. The man was as dead as one could be with what appeared to be half of his right side blown away. Looking up at the Apache Waco nodded and said:

  ‘My thanks, red brother.’

  ‘You saved my brother’s life, Ranger,’ the other replied in a deep-throated growl. ‘Your friend saved an Apache in the village. I have repaid my debt to you.’

  Waco bent and took up his gunbelt, checking that the guns and holsters were not dirty. When he looked up again he was alone with the three bodies. The Apache Kid was gone in complete silence. Waco lifted a hand in a silent tribute and then turned and went back along the tracks, looking for his horse.

  ~*~

  ‘I tell you, boys,’ Weiland looked at the crowded saloon in the cold grey light of dawn. ‘We’ve got to do something about these Apaches. The Ranger who went out to the reservation is dead. I found his body out there, just over the reservation border.’

  Doc Leroy looked up, his face showing none of the anxiety he was feeling: Waco should have been back long before now. Of course the young man could look after himself and would stick on to whatever he found until he followed it to an end, and somehow Doc could not bring himself to believe anything could happen to Waco. He also did not believe that Weiland had found his pard’s body and left it where it was to prove the killing took place on the reservation.

  ‘You said wait until dawn, Ranger,’ a man spoke up. ‘It’s near enough dawn right now. If the Apache Kid is around here he must be hiding with them Apaches on the reservation. Now I don’t say as how we should go in there shooting, but I allow we ought to take a posse out there, see if your pard is dead or not and then search every wickiup in the village.’

  There was a rumble of approval at this from the other men. They’d been here most of the night and Weiland’s arrival nearly sparked off trouble. Doc and Breakenridge were now trying to hold the men from going out to the reservation and either searching or attacking the Apaches.

  ‘You know what’ll happen if you try it, Neal,’ Breakenridge put in. ‘They won’t let us make the search and there’ll be shooting.’

  ‘And then the Apaches’ll be cleared off that reservation by the Army,’ Doc went on. ‘Throwing all that land open for sale.’

  ‘Is that bad?’ the man called Neal asked. ‘I could use some more land.’

  ‘You won’t get it. An Eastern syndicate is selling shares in a land and cattle company out there that covers every inch of reservation, including those three spreads where the Kid hit and damned near all of the neighboring ones.’ Neal looked at Doc for a moment. He was a rancher, running a small place on the edge of the reservation. ‘I ain’t selling my place.’

  ‘Mister,’ Doc sounded mocking. ‘You won’t need to sell out. They’ve already bought the three places and those three—’

  ‘Control all the water,’ Neal did not need that explained to him.

  ‘That’s right,’ Breakenridge agreed. ‘They control all the water. The only thing that’s stopping them moving right in and taking over is that Apache reservation. If the Apaches are driven out that land is offered for sale. The land company gets it. Just you boys think about that.’

  ‘What’s all that mean?’ another man asked.

  ‘It means, friend, that those Eastern company men need the Apache land. When they get it they can force every one of you out of your places. They’ve already started to sell shares in that company—’

  ‘I don’t know how you can stand there talking when your pard is laying dead out there on the reservation.’

  ‘Gents,’ the voice came from the door. ‘You’re looking at the best looking ghost in Arizona.’

  Weiland and every man stared at the door. The Indian Agent recovered first. He leapt down from the table where he’d been arguing with the crowd and ran across the room to the other door, throwing it open. Then he screamed. Outside stood a tall, wide shouldered Apache Weiland knew all too well.

  Slamming the door Weiland hoped to save his life, but from outside the Winchester carbine cracked twice, two holes leaping in the wood. Weiland stood erect for a moment, then turned and crashed down on to the ground.

  The other men came to their feet, shouting and drawing guns. Waco’s voice cut over the noise, bringing silence to the crowd.

  ‘All of you, listen to me. The Apache Kid didn’t kill those three men. A buck called Toya did it. He’s dead, so are Gratton and Dugdale.’

  ‘So?’ a man asked, jerking a thumb towards the door. ‘Let’s go after that Apache who just downed Weiland.’.

  ‘Why sure,’ Waco replied, ‘go right ahead. That was the Apache Kid. He saved my life and killed Toya.’

  There was a lamentable lack of willingness amongst the men to go after the Apache Kid. Not one of them wanted to go out there first in case the Kid was waiting in ambush.

  ‘The Kid didn’t do the killings; he couldn’t have killed the Randals,’ it was Breakenridge who spoke. ‘From what Waco told me I sent a wire to Tom Horn. He saw the Kid over near the New Mexico line morning after the Randals died.’

  Every man here was a horseman and knew that horse or relay team was never foaled which could run that distance in the hours of one night.

  ‘What’re we going to do now, Waco?’ Doc asked. ‘The Kid’s sign is fresh out there.’

  ‘We were sent to get the man who killed those three. We got him. Let some other team hunt for the Kid. He saved my life and I owe him for that.’

  Case Three – A Man Called Drango Dune

  Waco rode into the small mining town of Allenvale, sitting easily in the saddle of his big paint stallion and looking around with some disgust. He rode slowly and whistled a cowboy tune as he held the horse to an easy walk.

  The young Ranger was riding along and doing a job which did not greatly interest or please him. It was something he would rather not be doing at all, and if left to his own devices, would have left undone.

  A few weeks before, along with his slim, pallid and very able partner, Doc Leroy, Waco broke up the hold-up of a private stagecoach carrying bullion from a mine near Allenvale. It was just a routine piece of work for them, two of the gang were dead, one badly wounded and the other two making hair bridles in Yuma. Then a message was received from the owner of the mine, Frank Allenvale, requesting that the men who had saved his money be sent to Allenvale so he might reward them.

  Such a request at another time might have been ignored, but the Governor of the Territory sent along a request that one of the two men responsible be sent along. Waco was still not sure whether Doc arranged the cards when they cut or not, for his nine was beaten by Doc’s jack and he rode out.

  Now he was riding slowly along Allenvale’s main street and not wanting to get to his destination. He asked for no reward for doing this work, nor did Doc Leroy; they saw what they had to do and did it.

  The sign over the door of a shop caught his eye as he rode past and he swung the big paint round in a circle to get down. Over his head the store sign announced to the world:

  Henry D. Hawken.

  You Want It, I’ve Got It.

  Swinging down from the saddle of the big paint stallion, Waco tossed the reins over the hitching rail and walked into the store, halting just inside the door and looking around. The owner was almost justified in his claim, for there was almost everything a man could need on view and for sale here. Rifles were
racked against one wall, a case of revolvers showed at the side of the room; there were clothes, cooking utensils, canned foods, mining implements and a vast assortment of other goods all neatly arranged.

  The owner of the store was busy when Waco came in. He sat on a clear space of the counter, a small, fat, happy-looking man of indeterminate age, dressed in a collarless white shirt and black trousers. Around him were ten or more young children, all eagerly listening to him talking. Waco crossed to look in the gun case and listen to the story. At the age of those kids he’d been running wild in Texas, not being told fairy stories.

  ‘Well now,’ the little fat man at the counter said to his enthralled audience. ‘The beautiful princess woke up when the handsome prince kissed her. She looked up at him and said—’

  The door opened and two men came in. Both wore range clothes but they were not cowhands. Waco’s experienced glance told him that. They were hard-faced, tough-looking men wearing low tied guns. One was a man Waco’s size, the other shorter and vicious-looking. Both were alike in their cold, hard eyes and arrogant, sneering ways.

  The taller of the pair glanced at Waco then snapped. ‘All right, Hawken. Stop your fooling and get over there.’

  ‘Yeah, move it,’ the other went on. ‘We ain’t got all day. Mr. Allenvale’s down at the saloon waiting for us.’

  They started forward and Waco moved to block their way, his voice gentle yet as menacing as the distant rumbling of a storm.

  ‘You just set back and wait, I like the story.’

  The big gunman’s hand reached out for Waco’s shirt, his other fist pulling back. Then he let loose and howled, hopping on one leg, the other gripped in his hands, for Waco raked his Justin down the shinbone hard. In the same instant Waco’s right fist shot out, smashing full into the face of the man and knocking him back across the room to crash into the door.