by J. T. Edson
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
Things were bad in Arizona when the Rangers were formed. Killers, hold-up gangs and rustlers were overrunning the state and getting away with it … and all because there were no real lawmen to bring them to justice.
So when cattle boss Bertram Mosehan decided to form the Rangers, he was looking for a special breed of man. Tough.
Tenacious. Incorruptible. And handy with a gun.
Two Texans seemed to fit the bill perfectly. One of them looked like a dude, but no one was fooled. No one, that is, who knew his name to be Doc Leroy. The other was a young cowboy who wore his guns in a way significant to anyone who knew a fast and dangerous gunfighter when he saw one.
Waco was his name.
WACO 2: SAGEBRUSH SLEUTH
By J. T. Edson
First published by Transworld Publishers in 1968
Copyright © 1982, 2016 by J. T. Edson
First Smashwords Edition: October 2016
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges -*- Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
Case One – The Set-Up
The Wells Fargo stage rumbled at a good speed across the mesquite covered Arizona countryside, following the winding trail which led across country from Tucson to Backsight.
On the box the driver swung his whip, yelled to the team and cursed at every mortal thing under the sun. The shotgun guard riding beside him was amused by the cursing and admitted to himself that for sheer inventive power the driver had few equals. Lounging back with the ten-gauge shotgun held across his knees, the guard relaxed. This was only a routine run, carrying passengers, not mail, nor, to his knowledge, anything of value. All his instincts told him there should be no trouble on this run.
“Look there, Jeb!” The driver pointed ahead as they slowed down to round a corner in the trail.
A girl lay at the side of the trail, face down and still. Nearby a horse stood with reins hanging loose, telling of how the girl came to be here out on the range. The girl wore a divided skirt, a man’s shirt, and plain, high-heeled riding boots. A black Stetson covered her hair completely, so there was no way of telling what color it was.
Even as the driver was hauling back on the ribbons to bring his team to a halt, the guard was looking around, scanning the thick brush alongside the trail. Then he lay the shotgun down and swung from the box to walk towards the girl and check if she was badly hurt or just stunned when her horse threw her. In doing this he was breaking a strict company rule and if it had been a man lying there he would never have taken such a chance. It being a woman lulled his suspicions and instead of calling to one of the passengers to get out and check things he did it himself. Worse, he left the ten-gauge with its charge of nine buckshot on the top of the coach.
“What’s wrong?” One of the passengers stuck his head out of the coach window and called out the question the other travelers were putting.
The guard was almost by the girl as he turned to reply but hearing a sudden movement started to swing back round, his hand falling to the butt of his gun.
“Reach!” The girl rolled over and sat up. In her right hand she held a Colt Storekeeper .45 gun, its short barrel lined on the guard’s body. “Come on out, boys.”
Four masked men came out from the mesquite where they had been hiding. Guns in hand they advanced on the coach, fanning out in such a way as to cover driver, guard and passengers. They were all young men, that was plain to see, even though they, like the girl, were masked by bandanas drawn up over the lower part of their faces. In dress they might have been any of the cowhands who rode the cattle ranges, for their clothes were the sort which could be bought in any store from the Mississippi to California.
The guard stood fast, he was too wise a man to buck those odds. The way that bunch moved showed them to be fair hands at the game and he knew that his chances of beating them were almost nil. He kept his hands raised and allowed one of the men to take his gun from the holster and toss it aside.
“All right, now you gents come on out,” the woman ordered, looking at the coach. “Come out in ones and no tricks.”
The four men who were riding inside the coach came out as they were asked. Two were affluent-looking men in town clothes and unarmed, the third a grizzled old rancher with a Colt holstered at his side. The last was a thin, man poorly dressed clerk from Tucson. He appeared scared and tried to hide behind the others.
“Hand it over.” The girl moved forward, waving the first three men aside and holding out her hand to the shabbily dressed man.
“Sure, ma’am.” The man took an old purse from his pocket and held it forward.
The girl’s arm lashed forward like a striking snake, chopping viciously down on to the man’s wrist. Her voice dropped to an angry hiss that sounded like a cat facing a hound-dog.
“The money belt. The five thousand dollars you’ve got in that belt round your waist. Get it off and hand it over.”
The man gulped, his face looking even more nervous as he reached under his coat and shirt, fumbled around for an instant, then dragged out a thick money belt. Still looking scared he handed the belt over to the girl and casually dropped his other hand into his jacket pocket.
“Watch him!” one of the masked men shouted, his gun crashing.
The small man reeled back as the bullet caught him, crashed into the coach and went down, the Remington derringer falling from his hand. The other men stood still but the driver grabbed his reins and held the startled team under control.
“He thought the ole stingy gun would help him,” the girl remarked, looking at the other passengers. “It didn’t, so don’t any of you try anything.”
The other passengers shelled out their money with no arguments, even the old rancher. He was too wise to face such odds.
Hefting the money belt in her hand the girl passed it back to one of her men, who weighed it in his palm and laughed.
“Feels all fat and well filled, Belle.”
“You damned, stupid fool!” The girl whirled to face the speaker. “Why the hell don’t you draw them a picture instead of just naming me.”
The man drew back before her apparent anger. She gave her attention to the robbing of the other passengers, then returned to her horse, holstered the gun and mounted. Pulling the short Winchester carbine from the saddle boot she rode to the coach. Looking down at the travelers she asked: “None of you boys know who I am, do you?”
“No, ma’am,” the old rancher answered for the others, “none of us know you at all.”
“That’s good, real good. Keep it that way.”
The masked men backed off into the brush and the girl followed them. None of the men round the stage made a move until they heard the sound of rapidly departing hooves. For a moment none of them spoke, then the old rancher spat into the dust.
“That gents,” he said drily, “was Miss Belle Starr. Get that poor lil feller on board and let’s head back for Tucson.”
~*~
Bertram J. Mosehan stood just inside the door of the Wells Fargo office and watched the pretty woman climb down from the incoming stage. She was certainly well worth looking at. Not to
o tall, but with the mature curves that set a man thinking of settling down. Her hair, framed by the hatless black hair, was heart-shaped and beautiful, the skin soft and creamy, the eyes liquid brown with long lashes. Her face was more than set off by her figure and tasteful, expensive clothing. In her left hand she carried the tight rolled parasol that was all the rage, in her right hand she held a vanity bag.
Ignoring the looks every man in the office gave her, she swept gracefully and majestically across towards the agent’s desk. Then her bag slipped, fell to the floor and burst open. An expensive-looking necklace slid across the floor and a roll of money large enough to choke a big horse, shot out and bounced at Mosehan’s feet.
“Allow me, ma’am,” Mosehan scooped up the money, crossed the room and picked up the necklace, handing both to her.
“Why thank you kindly, sir.” The voice was a deep southern drawl, the sort which went with mint juleps and cotton blossom. “It was surely clumsy of lil ole me.”
Mosehan watched her casually dump both money and necklace in her bag. The girl apparently did not know the value of the articles, the way she handled them.
“I wouldn’t take those out of here if I was you, ma’am,” he said.
“I don’t intend to do so,” she replied. “I’m just waiting for the next stage to Backsight and then I’ll be going on.”
“That won’t be until tomorrow, ma’am,” the agent put in from behind the counter, where he stood with his eyes on her vanity bag.
“Land sakes.” She tapped a dainty foot on the floor in exasperation. “When will I be able to get to Backsight then?”
“Noon tomorrow, ma’am,” Mosehan answered for the agent.
“But where can I spend the night?”
“Trent Hotel is near here and comfortable.” Mosehan looked her over. They were all the same these rich deep south girls. Take them away from home and servants and they were as helpless as newborn babes. “I’ll escort you there, if I may.”
She turned and looked up at him, seeing a tall, wide shouldered, sun-bronzed man wearing good range clothes. He was handsome, his eyes blue and frank, his mouth firm, shielded by the close-clipped moustache. Her eyes went down over his blue shirt with the string tie, to the brown levis tucked carefully into the tops of his fancy-stitched and expensive boots. Then went back to the ivory-handled Colt Cavalry Peacemaker in the low-tied holster at his right side.
“Why, I just can’t impose on you, sir. But if you could help me I’d surely take it kind.”
Mosehan saw to the stowing away of her heavier bags and took up her overnight bag, but failed to get her to leave her valuables in the Wells Fargo office safe.
On the way to the Trent Hotel he learned that her name was Magnolia Beauregard, that she came from Atlanta, Georgia. She was going to visit a cousin who lived in Backsight, the necklace being a wedding present for the cousin. From the way she talked Mosehan knew there wouldn’t be a cheap crook in Tucson who hadn’t heard about the money and necklace before nightfall.
Leaving the girl at the hotel, Mosehan stepped back out into the street and stood for a moment looking around. The town was busy and there was a fair crowd moving along the sidewalks, too many for a man of the open range to fancy battling against them, so he stepped on to the street.
Walking along the street, avoiding the wagons and horsemen who were using it, Mosehan thought about the girl. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice yelling his name.
“Hey, Mr. Bert, Mr. Bert! My ole pappy told me to look you up if I saw you.”
Mosehan turned to look at the speaker, who was now stepping from the sidewalk and advancing with the slightly reeling step of a man who’d just has a mite too much coffin varnish for his own good. He was a tall Texas cowhand, unless his clothes lied. Six-foot-two at least he stood, a wide shouldered, lean waisted, handsome young man with curly blond hair which showed from under his thrust-back J.B. Stetson hat and eyes as blue as a June sky after a storm. Young though he was, around his waist was a brown, hand-tooled buscadero gunbelt with matched, staghorn butted Colt Artillery Peacemakers in the holsters.
“Howdy, boy,” Mosehan’s reply was more dignified than the Texan’s boisterous greeting. “Come along and have a drink.”
“Them’s just about the sweetest words this lil ole Texas boy heard today,” the young man answered gravely. “You, sir, are a gennelman.”
Mosehan watched the young man pivot round on his high heels and teeter off to the sidewalk, swing up with exaggerated care and head for the swinging doors of one of Tucson’s better saloons. Following his young friend, Mosehan entered the bar and glanced around. Even at this early hour it was very busy, almost every table being filled with men. Looking around a Mosehan saw one table at the far side of the room with only one customer seated at it. Jerking his head towards this table he made for it, followed by the young Texan.
They attracted little or no attention as they crossed the room. Some of the customers knew Mosehan as the manager of the Actez Land and Cattle Company, the mighty Hashknife Outfit. They also knew him as the man who’d been taken on to try and cut the rustling which was costing the Hashknife almost a quarter of its yearly stock. How successful he’d been was also known and men watched him with some interest. They paid little attention to the tall Texan. He might look young, but those guns were worn with the air of a master.
The man seated at the table was tall, lean and studious looking. His face had a pallor about it which might have been the result of only recently coming from the east or out of prison, or it could just be the sort of skin that never tanned. He wore town clothes, a brown suit, white shirt and string tie, and at first glance he would be taken for a dude.
“Ole Doc surely looks elegant,” the young Texan remarked as he sank into the chair. His voice, though it still held the sleepy, southern drawl, was sober.
“You look like you’re advertising a leather-shop yourself boy,” the pale man replied, his voice also a southern drawl. “Ole Dusty’d never believe it, Waco. You wearing two shirts in one week.”
Waco grinned back at his friend, bunkie and partner in many a wild adventure, Doc Leroy. Since the day Waco took lead in a fight and was left in Backsight to recover, the two had not managed to return to Ole Devil Hardin’s great OD Connected ranch in the Rio Hondo of Texas. On their way to do so they lost most of their money in a fair poker game and were hired as hands to the Hashknife. For two months they proved themselves to be top hands in any branch of the cattle industry, be it roping, throwing, branding calves, goodnighting bulls or hunting rustlers. Now along with their boss, Bertram Mosehan, they were entering on yet another chore.
“It’s all set for tomorrow,” he remarked, injecting an apparently irrelevant note to the conversation.
“Reckon it’ll work?” Waco inquired, dropping his voice.
“Sure.” Mosehan leaned forward, holding down his own voice so that his words reached only to the two young men. “There’s been five stake holdups so far, all the work of the same bunch. The local law can’t get a thing on the gang, all they know is Belle Starr’s running it.”
“Now how’d they know a thing like that?” Doc asked mildly.
“One of her gang named her every time.”
“Which same’s why I don’t see ole Belle mixed up in it,” Waco objected. “I never met Belle myself, but Mark Counter knows her real well. He told me plenty about her, but he never told me she was dumb enough to let that kind of mistake happen more than once.”
Mosehan sat back. “All the witnesses said it was a woman leading the gang.”
“Sure, so that makes it Belle Starr.” Waco had been a deputy enough times to know how much reliance to put on the testimony of stage hold-up victims. They always wanted to make it appear they’d been robbed by some really famous outlaw. “Happen the gal’d been wearing a red headband and said ‘How’, they’d have said she was old Geronimo holding them up.”
“Couldn’t be, he’s in Florida,” Doc Leroy put in. �
�Me, I thought ole Belle was surely slipping.”
Mosehan looked at the two young men with a sardonic gleam in his eyes. He pulled out a sack of Bull Durham and started to roll a smoke.
“All right, I’ll give you that it doesn’t look like Belle’s work at all. It could be some gal using Belle’s name. The only reason you’re trying to prove that it isn’t her is because she’s a reb like you pair. How’s your side of the set-up going, Doc?”
“I’ve been round town plenty, flashing my roll. Reckon near on every man in Tucson knows I’ll be on the stage to Backsight tomorrow.”
“Good, with Pete Glendon coming into town on the evening stage we’ll have the trap set. You boys know this is a try-out for us. There’s a lot of political opposition to the Governor forming the Territorial Rangers, so if we don’t get this gang we have to disband without ever being heard of. When he can holler keno on this bunch he’ll announce the Rangers have been formed.”
“You all think that pretty gal is part of the gang, and that the Trent House is the jail?” Waco asked, winking at his partner.
“Nope. She’s on her way to Backsight to visit kin. You get one more reb up there and you’d have near on all the Army of the Confederacy in town.”
Waco lost his grin fast. “You mean she’s on the stage tomorrow. That’ll shorten our stake rope some.”
Mosehan nodded his agreement. He could see how having the girl along would leave them at a disadvantage. There was nothing he could do about it, for she’d reserved her seat now and would want to know why she was not being allowed to go.
“We can’t stop her from going along. With any luck she’ll not get too much in the way when the gang hits,” Mosehan told the two young Texans. “You’ll just have to hope for the best.”
“And we’ll likely get the worst,” the studious looking Doc Leroy concluded.
Shoving back his chair, Waco came to his feet. Once more he was the slightly drunk cowhand, although he still held his voice down as he spoke.