The Western Justice Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  Micah was sitting at a desk. When he looked up and his eyes lit on Waco, he jumped to his feet and cried out, “Waco!”

  “Hello, Micah.”

  “It sure is great to see you back from the war safe and sound.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve got some trouble here, Micah.”

  “What’s the matter? You got wounded?”

  “Not by a bullet, but I found out Will sold the store and house and ran off with Alice.”

  “Well, I knew they left together.” Micah looked down at the floor as if he hated to look into Waco’s eyes. “I sure did hate to have to face you with it. I guess they got married just before they left town. I heard about them selling the house and the business. Have you been down to talk to the new owner?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  Micah said, “Well, I don’t know what charges we can bring. The lawyer who handled the sale said that Will was the only name on the property.”

  “That’s right, Micah. I signed it all over to him so it would be easier.” He grinned wryly and said, “Of course I didn’t realize he’d be taking it all anyway.”

  “We’ll see if we can run him down.”

  “I don’t guess it would do any good.” He hesitated as if he wanted to say something else, then turned and said, “If you hear anything of them, let me know.”

  “Where’ll you be staying?”

  “I’ll get a room at the hotel.” Waco left, but instead of going to the hotel, he rode down Main Street. His mind seemed to be closing. He couldn’t think clearly. “I can’t believe I was so wrong about a man—and a woman.”

  He glanced down the street and saw the sign THE GOLDEN NUGGET. It was an old saloon that had been there for years, and although Waco was not a drinking man in any sense of the word, he turned Sarge toward the saloon. He tied the horse up at a rail and went inside. He was struck by the acrid smell of alcohol, stale tobacco smoke, and unwashed male bodies. Walking over to the bar, he hesitated.

  A heavyset barkeeper nodded and said, “What can I serve you?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “Sure.” The bartender put a shot glass on the surface of the bar, poured it full from a bottle, then started to take the bottle away.

  “Leave the bottle here.”

  “Right.”

  Picking up the bottle, Waco went over to a corner of the room where there was a table with two chairs. He sat down in one, put the bottle down, then held up the shot glass. He studied it for a moment, and bitterness seemed to flood him. He was not by nature a bitter man, but he had been dealt a harsh blow. This was worse than being called back to the army! Worse than anything he’d ever had happen.

  For a time he drank the whiskey off, bracing himself as the fiery liquor bit at his throat then warmed his stomach. He filled the glass again and downed it quickly. He sat there alone until one of the women who frequented the bar came over. But when he shook his head, she sneered and walked away from him.

  An hour later, Waco knew he was drunk. He dropped some coins on the bar and was aware that there was a dullness of sound and knew that he had lost it. He got up, walked over to the barkeep, paid for the drinks, then left.

  He knew he had very little money left, but he went to the hotel and got a room. Going inside, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, making the room seem to swim. The bitterness had turned into hatred, and he lay there thinking of his “friend” Will Barton and his new bride, Alice Malone. He could not turn his mind away from the two of them, and he finally passed out, still thinking of how he would get his revenge if he ever saw them again.

  “That young man sure got a rotten deal,” Micah Satterfield said. He was talking to his deputy, Zeb Willis. They were both seated in the sheriff’s office.

  “He sure did.” The deputy was a tall, lean man with a ferocious mustache and a pair of mild blue eyes. “As I see it, he let himself in for it. Must be a trusting sort of fellow, signing his business and house over to Barton like he did.”

  “Yes, I guess he was trusting. He always was an easygoing man. Don’t know if he’ll ever trust anybody again.”

  “Well, trusting someone to keep something for you is dangerous business. I think he’ll have trouble getting his money back.”

  “He thought Barton was his friend,” the sheriff said. He remembered now how Waco had unloaded to him, and the sheriff knew there was really no recourse for Waco Smith to regain his business or his woman. But he had to check out every opportunity.

  A silence fell between the two men. Then Willis said, “I hear he’s staying drunk most of the time.”

  “Yes, he is, and that’s different, too.”

  “Well, I don’t know where he’s getting the money, but he’s sure trying to drink the Golden Nugget dry.”

  “Waco never was a real drinking man. Never any trouble in that way.”

  “I reckon he thinks he’s got a good excuse. Bad enough to have to go to that war, but to come home and find your best friend skipped out with your cash and your woman. That’s tough.” Zeb leaned back and said thoughtfully, “You know he’s got a pretty hard look in his eyes. I don’t blame him a bit.”

  “Well, he’s been hurt pretty bad. Last night I went by to try to talk him out of drinking, and he said, ‘They done me in, Sheriff, but they won’t do it again.’ You know, I don’t think he was talking just about Barton and that woman. He’s not going to trust anybody for a long time.”

  The deputy got up and left, leaving Satterfield to his thoughts. He sat for a long time, trying to think of a way to trace Barton, but knew there was little he could do.

  Finally he looked up to see Waco and called out, “Come and sit.”

  Waco stopped, hesitated, then came and lowered himself into a chair. He said nothing.

  Finally Satterfield said, “Well, you got to put this behind you, Waco.”

  “How do you do that?” Waco’s voice was harsh and had an edge to it.

  His eyes, as the sheriff had noticed, were hard and sharp, something unusual for him. “You need some money?”

  “No. I got a little grubstake. My grandmother left me a little plot of land. I sold it. My partner didn’t know about it, or he’d have that money, too.”

  “Well, why don’t you go back into business, Waco. The town is booming and—”

  “Nope, I’m pulling out.”

  “But you’ve got friends here.”

  “It’s not the same anymore. I need to get away.”

  “I sort of figured you might. Where will you head for?”

  “Someplace far out in the woods where the only company will be squirrels and timber wolves.”

  Micah Satterfield was a student of men, and he studied the stubborn cast to Waco’s face. The two had been close, and with a heavy heart he realized this was not the same happy young fellow he had known before the war. The easy ways and the careless manners were gone. What he saw now was a man filled with cynicism that obviously was turning into something much worse.

  Finally Waco shook his head and said, “I’ve had enough of people to do me for a lifetime. This is probably good-bye. I’m leaving early in the morning.”

  “Keep in touch. Drop me a line when you can.”

  “I won’t promise that. I never was much for writing.”

  Something much like grief touched Micah Satterfield. He hated to see a man go wrong, and if he ever saw a man on the way down, it was Waco Smith. “Look, boy, it’s not the end of the world. Not everybody’s a crook like your partner was. Not everybody’s a hussy like that woman was.”

  Waco shook his head and said, “No, I’m going to get out of here. Far away from everything I know. I don’t know where I’ll go. Maybe get on a ship and go to England or somewhere.”

  “You won’t like it there.”

  “Probably not.” Waco put out his hand and gripped the sheriff’s hand hard. “You’ve been good to me, Micah. I know it won’t please you, but I think I found a place where I can just live and won’t have to fool with
any man or woman.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Indian territory. Out in Oklahoma at the edge of Arkansas. Judge Parker is out there now, but he’s got some marshals. It’s a huge territory. A man can do anything he pleases.”

  Satterfield shook his head. “No. No man can do that. There’s still laws and rules.”

  “I’m through with all that,” Waco said. “So long, Sheriff.” He turned abruptly and walked outside.

  Satterfield stared at the door, shook his head, then murmured, “He’s headed the wrong way, and there’s not anything I can do to stop him.”

  Waco had pushed his way slowly westward, and as long as he had money, he stopped at small towns and drank himself insensible at bars. He would then carry a bottle with him and get drunk on the way.

  The whiskey destroyed something in him. He had not known alcohol could have this much effect. All he knew was that he had lost his good opinion of men, and at some point on his journey he reached a conclusion that he never would have thought of back in earlier days. “I’ll take what I want as long as I live.” That was the sum of his philosophy. It gave him a grim satisfaction to realize that he was headed for the one place in the United States where that would be totally possible—the Indian Nations where the only law were a few scattered marshals who could not possibly keep up with all the wrongdoers.

  He was almost to Oklahoma when he drew up and saw that a wagon was pulling up close behind him. He pulled Sarge over and hid behind a bush. He saw that it was a Union Army wagon. They’re bound to have some money on there. At least those soldier boys will have, he thought. I’ll get what they’ve got in their pockets. Pulling his pistol, he waited until they were close enough then stepped out and called loudly, “Pull up there, or I’ll shoot!”

  One man was driving the wagon; two more were on horseback. One of them immediately reached for his gun.

  Waco fired, not to kill but just close enough where the man might have heard the bullet whizzing by his ear. “If you want to die, go ahead and pull for that gun,” Waco called out and was gratified to see that the man stopped. “No shooting,” he said. “Now, you two drop your weapons and get off your horses. You get out of that wagon, sonny.” He waited until all three men were down and were disarmed. “Okay, you head back down the road. If I still see you in five minutes, I’ll shoot you.”

  The three stared at him and saw something in his face that kept them silent. “Come on,” the oldest of them said. “Let’s get out of here. We’re not going to die for this.”

  Waco watched until they were mere blue dots down the road, and then he climbed into the wagon. He found more than he bargained for. There was a strongbox there. It was locked, but he shot the lock off and opened it up. “Look at that,” he said. It was filled with papers, but there was also a pile of gold coins. He looked at the papers and discovered that this was the payroll for a small fort almost in Oklahoma. He found a sack, put the gold coins in it, cut the horses loose, and then mounted Sarge after tying the gold to his saddlebag. “Come on, Sarge, we got financing.”

  The horse leaped ahead, and Waco Smith, for one moment, had some sort of guilt. He had never stolen anything before except for some livestock, mostly chickens, when he was in the army. But this was a different Waco Smith. He reached into his saddlebag, got out the whiskey bottle, drained it, and threw it away. “Well, here’s my new rule,” he announced to the air. “I’m going to do what I please and take what I want!”

  CHAPTER 6

  Indian Territory, April 1870

  Trey LeBeau leaned back and threw his cards on the table. There were several men there, including the James brothers, Frank and Jesse. His band included five other men, but only Al Munro and Zeno Shaw were at the card table.

  Trey let his eyes go over to the woman who sat at the table, not playing cards but just simply sitting and watching. Calandra Montevado, whom everyone called Callie, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had a pure olive complexion and large almond-shaped eyes with long lashes. The color was blue, a particular shade of blue. He had seen a stone that was called lapis lazuli. Her eyes were that particular shade of blue. She had hair as black as the darkest thing in nature and sensuous lips.

  He let his eyes rest on her, admiring her figure as usual. She lifted her glance and met his gaze coolly. They had been together now for nearly a year, and he had never gotten the best of her in any way. In any case, she added something to his life that was missing.

  “We got to pick up somebody to take Butch’s place,” Al Munro said. He was a small man with pale blue eyes and hair that was prematurely white. A deadly man with a gun, a knife, or any other weapon.

  “I don’t know where we’d get one,” LeBeau said.

  Zeno Shaw was the biggest man at the table. He was six feet two and weighed well over two hundred pounds. He had brown hair and brown eyes and was a ferocious saloon fighter. He was not particularly accurate with a gun, but in any activity requiring brute strength he was a good man to have. He glanced over at LeBeau and said, “You might think about that fellow Waco Smith. I’ve heard lots of talk about him.”

  “He wouldn’t be interested,” Callie said. “He’s a loner. He takes what he wants, but he’s not a killer. Not like you fellas.”

  The insult, if that was what it was, did not move the other men from the table. Frank James said, “Why don’t you look into it.” He glanced over and said, “Jesse and me are going to be leaving pretty soon. We’re going back to civilization.”

  Jesse James smiled slightly. “Yeah, this is hard living here, Trey.”

  “Pretty safe though. You go back to Missouri or somewhere, you’ll have sheriffs and deputies and all kinds of lawdogs on your trail all the time. Here all we got is a few marshals.”

  “I don’t like it here,” Jesse James said. “You better look into this fellow Smith. What’s he like?”

  “Well, he’s evidently pretty tough. I’ve never met him. I don’t think many have. He stays in the territory mostly with Indians. I hear Judge Parker has put a special price on his head.”

  “If he ain’t a killer, I don’t know how we can use him,” Al Munro said.

  “The man will do what he needs to do if there’s enough money involved.” LeBeau nodded. “But anyway it’s a good idea. I wonder where he is?”

  Frank James said, “I heard some talk about him when I was over at Travis’s store. He’s around there somewhere. He comes in for supplies.”

  “That’s not far from here,” Trey said. “What do you say we go look him over, Callie?”

  “That sounds good to me. I’m bored with watching you men lose at cards.”

  LeBeau laughed and said, “Come on. We can be there in two hours.”

  As they were on their way, LeBeau said, “You watch out for Waco Smith. Stay away from him.”

  Callie laughed. “You don’t own me, Trey. Don’t tell me what to do.”

  They reached Travis’s store and were surprised at how easy it was to find the man called Waco Smith.

  “He comes in here pretty often, but he’s got a camp over by Red Canyon.” Travis, the barkeep, explained how to get there. “I wouldn’t try to sneak up on him though. He’s as quick as a snake with that .44 of his.”

  “Oh, it’s just a friendly visit.”

  The two mounted again, and two hours later, as Travis had said, they came upon a camp, but they did not get far before a voice said, “Hold it right where you are.”

  Immediately Trey LeBeau held up his hands. “No trouble. We come friendly.”

  Callie glanced around and saw a man emerge from behind some bushes. He was very tall with black hair and a tapered face. He had a coppery tan, and he held a .44 loose in his hand. Not pointing it at them, just saying that it was there.

  “I’m Trey LeBeau.”

  “I’m Waco Smith.”

  “Sure,” Trey said. “We come looking for you. This is Callie Montevado.”

  “I’m glad to know you, Miss Calli
e. Why are you looking for me?”

  “Is it all right if we get down and talk?”

  “Sure. Just be careful that you don’t make any moves that would set me off. I’m a nervous type.”

  “I doubt that.” Trey smiled, and his eyes crinkled when he did. He stepped off his horse, as did Callie, and kept his hands carefully away from the gun. “The thing is, I’ve got a pretty good bunch of boys. We’ve taken in quite a bit of coin. Somebody said you might be interested in joining up with us.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m doing all right on my own.”

  “Well, we can talk about it, can’t we?”

  “Sure. Come on and sit on the front porch.”

  The three sat down in front of a shack that at least had a porch with a roof on it.

  Waco brought out a bottle and three glasses. “If you’re dry, this is pretty good whiskey.”

  “Any whiskey is good whiskey,” Trey said. When he swallowed it, his eyes flew open, and he gasped. “That’s like liquid fire.”

  “Yeah, the Indians like it.”

  “What are you doing out here all by yourself?” Callie asked.

  “That’s what I am. All by myself. I got tired of people back East. Here I do as I please.”

  “You couldn’t be making much coin selling whiskey to the Indians.”

  “I don’t need much.”

  “Of course you do. Every man needs a lot. Look, you go in with us, and in six months you’d have enough cash you wouldn’t have to sell whiskey to the Indians.”

  “Well, tell me about it.”

  Trey was a good talker, and for a while he outlined the plan for making money. “Robbing trains, that’s where it’s at. My boys are good at that, but like I say, we lost a man.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Well, you don’t know me either. You watch me and I’ll watch you.”

  “I wouldn’t do it if I were you, Smith,” Callie said.

  Her remark obviously interested Waco. “Why not, Miss Callie?”

  “You just look like a loner.”

  “That’s what I intend to be.”