Waco's Badge

by J. T. Edson

  Even without needing the advice from the little blonde, Sarah was preparing to do as was suggested. Requiring a brief respite in which to clear her impaired vision, her not inconsiderable knowledge of boxing advised how best to gain it. Thrusting forward between punches, she clinched with Orme and succeeded in pinning his left arm to his side. Although acting as referee, the second “half breed”—who had auburn hair and a weak, sun reddened face—did not attempt to enforce the order when she refused his call for them to break. Thomas O’Carroll knew how she was likely to respond when subjected to attempts at enforcement and had no intention of suffering the painful consequences.

  Feeling the big breasts grinding against his chest, as he and Sarah bombarded one another’s ribs with their free fists, Orme found the sensation more of an irritant than most men would have. Wanting to escape, the short punches he was receiving being painful, he struggled against her encircling arms.

  “L—Let—g—go, you ‘mother-something’ bull-dyke!” the male boxer croaked, knowing he could not expect assistance in bringing this about from the referee.

  Although Sarah gave signs of complying immediately, it was not out of respect for the wishes of her opponent. However, the way she responded was only partly caused by the profane reference to her by one term for the dominant partner in a lesbian relationship. She always had a compulsion to be the winner in every form of competitive activity, regardless of the methods used to attain the victory. What was more, her vicious nature demanded she repaid the punishment he had inflicted upon her.

  Having acquired the time for the tears induced by pain to dry, Sarah acted. Loosening the grip of her arms, she felt Orme begin to back away. Up rose her right leg, bending so its knee passed between his thighs. A gasp of agony burst from him as, fortunately with less than her full strength, he was struck at the most vulnerable point of the masculine anatomy. Starting to fold at the waist, gloved hands trying ineffectively to reach and support the throbbing point of impact, he stumbled away from his assailant. His misfortunes were not yet ended.

  Dancing after Orme, bosom bouncing with the movements, Sarah propelled her right fist up to meet his forward inclined face. In spite of the cushioning effect of the eight ounce glove, the blow crushed his nose until he felt it must be flattened across his face. Blood far in excess of that he had drawn from the girl gushed out as he was forced upright, arms dangling helplessly by his sides. Coming across with all her weight behind it, the left hand smashed against the side of his jaw. Spinning in a half circle as he went down, he crashed face first to the well padded floor. Walking over to where Sarah was hovering above him, O’Carroll started to count in the accepted fashion. Although he tried to rise, his motivation was to get away rather than continue boxing. The effort proved too much and, arms slipping apart flaccidly, he collapsed unconscious at the feet of his exultant opponent.

  “Great work, Sarah!” called a masculine voice, but it did not belong to any of the male Summer Complaints.

  The boxing ring was erected in a large and open fronted lean-to by the side of the ranch house. Equipped as a gymnasium, it was one of the extravagances which had caused the shortage of funds needing to be rectified—in part, at any rate—by the hold up.

  Looking at the speaker, none of the Summer Complaints showed the slightest surprise or consternation on discovering he was one of the local peace officers!

  Having seen what was taking place in the lean-to as he approached along the track from the stagecoach trail, Deputy Sheriff Jackson Martin had not troubled to announce his arrival. Instead, leaving his horse tethered in front of the house, he had watched the bout without his presence being suspected by any of the young people. His interest had been less in the boxing than drinking in the sight of the voluptuous female contender’s naked torso made even more sensual by the black tights, curvaceous lower body and limbs.

  “Th—Thank you, Jackson,” Sarah replied, allowing Fiona to drape a towel across her sweat-soddened shoulders. It was an inadequate covering, leaving more exposed than concealed, but she disregarded this as she continued, “You’ve taken your own good time getting here, haven’t you?”

  “I came as soon as I could!” the young peace officer said shortly, possessing a nature which did not willingly accept criticism, staring at the still more than partially displayed breasts as they heaved up and down under the impulsion of heavy breathing to replenish depleted lungs.

  “I’m sure you did,” Sarah asserted, revelling in the open—if lascivious—gaze to which she was being subjected. Her words were dictated by the knowledge that she could exercise less control over the deputy than the male Summer Complaints. Ignoring her unconscious opponent, she crossed to leave the ring followed by Fiona and stood without making any adjustment to her skimpy attire in front of the newcomer. Then she asked, “Well, has everything turned out satisfactorily?”

  “Not all the way,” Martin admitted, without raising his eyes from the firm mounds of feminine pulchritude.

  “I don’t think I like the sound of that, Jackson darling,” Sarah stated, and the way she spoke the name had none of the endearment in it that she used to win the cooperation of the young peace officer on other occasions. “And where didn’t it go ‘all the way’?”

  Without waiting for an answer, the beautiful girl started to stroll toward the nearby horse trough accompanied by Fiona. Following and finding the view from behind almost as sensual as at the front, Martin noticed that none of the other male Summer Complaints was offering to attend to the loser of the bout. Leaving him where he had fallen, they were coming to listen to what was being said.

  “The sheriff of Pinal County and his posse followed your trail to where it crossed the county line and you had a break we didn’t count on,” the deputy explained, as Sarah shamelessly discarded the towel and started to splash the water over her perspiring torso. “I didn’t have a chance to let you know, but because of that business in Coconino County, the Governor has sent an order forbidding local officers to go outside their jurisdictional areas when pursuing criminals—.”

  “We told you he would be chary of doing it under the circumstances,” O’Carroll pointed out sullenly.

  “It was better having it made official,” Martin answered, showing none of the amiability with which he had addressed Sarah. “When he came to Marana, I told him I wasn’t able to leave because of there being so much work with all the people in town for the cattle sale. Of course, it would have made things easier if you hadn’t killed that Blenheim feller—.”

  “I didn’t kill him!” O’Carroll protested.

  “But, as I pointed out, we’re all considered equally guilty of it,” Sarah interrupted coldly, the attempt to disclaim guilt for the killing having been one of the bones of contention with which she had been compelled to deal since the hold up. “Anyway, it’s immaterial, they’re blaming Belle Starr and her gang for it.”

  “Not everybody’s convinced it was her,” Martin warned. “The driver said it was, but one of the passengers started stirring up doubts.”

  “Not the Senator?” Sarah asked disdainfully. “If so, I hope he was no better at it than he is at writing shorthand. None of us could read what he’d put in that pocketbook he was so eager to get back.”

  “Maybe I can read it,” the deputy hinted, always watching for a chance to turn any event to his own use.

  “Not this side of hell,” the girl replied. “I threw the god-damned thing on the stove along with the money belt just in case anybody should come around to investigate us in spite of your promise they wouldn’t.”

  “Like you promised to make sure nobody doubted it was Belle Starr and her gang,” put in the man who had felled Benjamin Eckland with his Winchester Model of 1871 carbine. “It seems you weren’t any too successful at doing that.”

  “Who didn’t we fool, Jackson?” Sarah inquired, more to prevent unpleasantness between her male associates than out of any real curiosity.

  “The youngest passenger, Franks,”
Martin replied, scowling malevolently at Kenneth Alan Taylor who he suspected of sharing his close relationship with the asker of the question. “We tried to close his mouth for good. But, like the stupid son-of-a-bitch he always was, Leftie botched things up so badly he broke his leg while he was running away from Franks.”

  “Was he—?” Sarah began, allowing the water with which she had continued dousing herself to run down and soak the tights.

  “He would have been, but I killed him before he could be caught,” the deputy anticipated, returning his gaze to the girl and finding, as she had surmised, the sight of the sodden garment more attractive than continuing his argument with Taylor. Having described how he had explained the killing, he concluded, “But, with all that and the other gun play there’s been around Marana, I wasn’t able to get away until today.”

  “What other gun play?” Sarah asked, deriving a vicarious pleasure from arousing such interest by the flaunting of her body before the peace officer in particular.

  “Anyway, the sheriff of Pinal County admitted I couldn’t leave town as things stood,” Martin went on, after having supplied the information. “He said that it would be too late to catch up with the gang anyway, as they were heading north and would be out of Pima County before I could take a posse after them.”

  “Then he’s convinced it was Belle Starr?” Fiona piped up, sounding and looking far more innocent and virginal than was the case, as she wanted to have the suppositions upon which Sarah laid plans for the hold up substantiated.

  “He said he couldn’t think of anybody else it could be,” the deputy replied. “I suggested that, if it wasn’t her, it could be you Summer Complaints.”

  “You did what?” demanded Stanley Crowther, the member of the gang whose Winchester had helped kill Blenheim, while the other men expressed similarly alarmed sentiments.

  “Would you have rather somebody else had done it and have the sheriff, or Anstead when he heard, ask me why I hadn’t thought of you?” Martin challenged disdainfully.

  “And what did the sheriff say to that?” Sarah wanted to know, showing far less concern than the male Summer Complaints, as she checked the towel she had been dabbing at her nostrils and found they were no longer dribbling blood.

  “Even if he hadn’t heard of you before, the rest of his posse and the local men who were there soon enough put him to rights,” the deputy explained, his attitude suggesting he was drawing satisfaction and not a little amusement from the information he was imparting. “They all said none of you Summer Complaints would have the brains, even if you had the guts, to pull off such a play.”

  “I’m pleased to hear they feel that way about us,” Sarah said, showing none of the annoyance displayed by the male members of the gang although she too was irritated by the indication of how they were regarded by people she considered to be ignorant country bumpkins. “And what did the sheriff say to that?”

  “That, as you lived in our bailiwick, it wasn’t up to him to look into it and I should come out here to do it,” Martin replied, with less satisfaction and amusement as he thought of the derision his ploy had caused to be levelled his way. “And Anstead said the same when he arrived from the county seat and heard about it.” Then, clearly wanting to change the subject before any comments could be made regarding the attitude shown toward him by the sheriffs of Pima and Pinal Counties, he went on, “Hey though, has that horse you turned loose at the hold up come back?”

  “No,” Sarah answered, guessing what had motivated the question and willing to cooperate in the interests of harmony between the men. “But it had had so many owners before us, it probably doesn’t regard this place as its home.”

  “It was caught by those two god-damned beef-heads who gunned down the rustlers, the same who claimed to know Belle Starr,” Martin announced, the grimness in his tone created by remembering the treatment he had received at Waco’s hands. “Nobody suggested it might be used to help trace the gang, so I was figuring on fetching it back with me. But, when I went to collect it from the office stable this morning, it was gone.”

  “Gone?” Sarah repeated, showing more puzzlement than concern.

  “The greaser who looks after the horses for us probably forgot to fasten its stall last night and it’s strayed, although he won’t admit to it,” the deputy replied, in a manner which indicated he too attached no importance to the loss. “Hell, who’d want to steal a worthless piece of crowbait like that?”

  Chapter 13

  WE’VE BEEN PAID TO KILL YOU

  “WHOOEE!” JEDROE FRANKS BREATHED, CLOSING THE telescope as he took it from his right eye and wiping perspiration, which was not entirely caused by the warmth of the sun, from his brow. He had just witnessed the conclusion of the boxing bout in the lean-to, from a place of concealment in the woodland on a rim some half a mile away. Despite the serious intent of his observations, he had found the sight—particularly the appearance of the voluptuous female contender—interesting and not a little sexually stimulating. “Lady, even if I hadn’t seen who’s visiting you, I would know now that you were the ‘Belle Starr’ who held us up.”

  Deputy Sheriff Jackson Martin had been wrong in his assumption!

  The horse released by Sarah Siddenham as a prelude to the robbery of the stagecoach had been stolen!

  However, the theft had been carried out with the best intentions!

  Being instructed to remain in Marana until an inquest upon the killing of Deputy Sheriff Alfred “Leftie Alf” Stubs could be convened, Franks had had an acceptable reason for staying!

  The young Easterner had put his time to very good use!

  Not only had the attempt upon his life failed, with tragic results for the intended murderer, but Franks had gained useful information from its aftermath. As there had been no mention of it having happened in such a fashion, he had not failed to notice the slip made by Martin when referring to the intruder having come to his room to try to kill him. This had warned him there must be more than just disdain for the opinions of a dude against the earlier insistence of the deputy that Belle Starr and her gang were responsible for the hold up. It had strengthened his belief that the robbers had been trying to place the blame upon the famous lady outlaw. What was more, he had concluded, everything now pointed to the local peace officers having been implicated in the scheme.

  During the period of enforced inactivity, keeping a careful watch in case Martin should make another attempt to silence him, the Easterner had sought for clues which might shed light upon his self-imposed quest. He had realized that, should his suspicions regarding the involvement of the two deputies be correct, the actual perpetrators of the hold up must live somewhere in the neighborhood. He had soon received an intimation of who and where they might be. Having lost nothing in the telling, the story of Martin suggesting that the Summer Complaints could be the outlaws had struck him as significant. Regardless of the scorn being poured upon the possibility, out of consideration of by whom it was made, he had believed it was worth looking into. It was, in his opinion, exactly the tactics which the deputy would employ if he were involved with the gang. He would rely upon the very low esteem with which the young people from the East were regarded to have his suggestion scorned.

  Despite having been sure that Sheriff Anstead had not been implicated in the activities of the deputies, Franks had kept his suppositions to himself when they met. Nor had he confined in Waco, Doc Leroy, or Major Bertram Mosehan, although he had frequently been in their company. His reticence in their case too had not resulted from a lack of faith in their honesty. Not only had he wanted the satisfaction of proving his theories personally, he hoped that by doing so he would achieve his ambition to become a peace officer.

  Discovering how the Summer Complaints could be located had presented no difficulties. Limited though it had been, past experience had taught the Easterner that owners or hostlers of livery barns—along with barbers and bartenders—were fruitful sources of information and general gossip. It had been
from the first source that he had obtained the answers. He had also been amused and flattered, as he considered it a compliment to the reputation he had established since reaching Marana, by the hostler commenting that he did not seem the kind to mix with “that bunch of useless, no account Eastern remittance yahoos and their women who’re no better’n they should be.” Having disclaimed any connection with them, or having any interest in them other than what he had heard about them being suspected of pulling the hold up, he hoped to avoid having his curiosity mentioned to Martin. From all appearances, he had been successful. Certainly the deputy had shown neither interest nor hostility toward him on the few occasions they had met.

  At last, with the inquest over and a verdict returned in keeping with the explanation of Dubs’s motives offered, Franks had been at liberty to commence the more active phase of his investigations!

  Being aware that he would need to produce some form of evidence against the Summer Complaints, the Easterner had decided that the propensity of range horses to return to their home if allowed to roam free offered at least a starting point for acquiring it. The means he had adopted to bring this about could, he had realized, have proved very dangerous. Seeing him removing the animal from the small stable maintained for the benefit of the deputy sheriffs, Martin could have shot him without the risk of the real motive been suspected. However, this had not happened and, riding a horse rented from the livery barn, he had set off undetected leading his acquisition. He was clad after the manner of a working cowhand, having purchased the requisite garments from the general store, but he carried his Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker in its spring retention shoulder holster under his leather vest.

  Following the direction he had been given, Franks had turned into the woodland from the trail as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the ranch house. Tethering the horses where they would neither be seen nor heard by anybody who chanced to ride by, he had taken the powerful telescope—one item which, having been in his small portmanteau, had not been carried off by the gang—and moved through the woodland on the rim to conduct a reconnaissance. Taking up a satisfactory position, his observations had soon convinced him that he was correct in his assumptions.