Sagebrush Sleuth (A Waco Western #2)

by J. T. Edson

  “Known what, ma’am?” Waco’s tones were mild and innocent.

  “Who I am?” the young woman touched her swollen lip and winced. “I’ll have to wash and change before I can go any further.”

  Waco did not get a chance to reply, for they came into view of the other Rangers at that moment. Mosehan saw one of his men staring bug-eyed at the bushes and turned. He was a noted poker player and his features usually showed nothing of his feelings, but right now they did. He was by the door of the stage coach and examining the Manhattan Navy revolver he’d taken from Magnolia’s smoking parasol.

  “What’s all this about, Waco?” he asked.

  “One thing for sure, this here,” Waco indicated the sobbing Rona, “isn’t ole Belle Starr.”

  Glendon, having his wound attended to by Doc Leroy, glanced at the girl and nodded in agreement.

  “Her name’s Rona, works in the Eagle Dance Hall. She could be Belle Starr.”

  From the corner of his eye, Waco watched Magnolia’s face as he replied, “This isn’t Belle Starr. Belle’s better looking than her. And smarter. Ole Belle, wouldn’t have fallen for a set-up like this.”

  Magnolia never even looked at him. She asked the guard to pass down her overnight bag and then requested Waco to carry it to the stream for her.

  “Do you know that awful Belle Starr woman?” she asked as they started down the slope.

  They were out of sight and Waco’s reply was not in answer to her question.

  “What made you follow Glendon?”

  “You did see me then?” she asked, turning merry eyes to him.

  “Nope, saw one of your boys though. The half-Indian boy. Later I got a smell of that perfume you’re wearing. I was just too late to see you get back into your hotel room.”

  “Say I was thinking of combining business with pleasure.” Her voice was not the tone of Magnolia Beauregard now. “But first I saw you with Mr. Mosehan, then Blue Duck told me somebody of your description was following Glendon. Later I saw you and Glendon talking in the street. I’m only a dumb lil ole Southern gal, but I can add two and two. Taken with rumors that Bertram Mosehan is starting a Territorial Ranger group and the fact that there was to be a whole lot of money on the stage, it made me suspicious. I thought I’d cut out the business and have the pleasure. If that tells you all you need to know, I’d like to wash.”

  Waco walked back up the slope, his doubt cleared away and his suspicions confirmed. He was pleased the outlaw gang had not been as smart as Magnolia Beauregard or they would never have fallen for the set-up. At the top of the slope he found the wagon and the dead and wounded outlaws being loaded into it. He saw his big paint stallion and Doc’s black as well as a horse for Glendon fastened to the wagon. The stagecoach |was to carry on with its normal run to Backsight and the Rangers would ride back to Tucson.

  “How well do you know Belle Starr, boy?” Mosehan asked, coming over to Waco.

  “Not well, Mark Counter told me about her.”

  “Did he tell you what kind of gun she totes?”

  “She’s got more than one,” Waco replied evasively. Looking down at the Manhattan percussion-fired revolver, Mosehan felt suspicious. He waited until Magnolia returned, then asked, “Why were you carrying this gun, ma’am?”

  “A southern girl has to be ready to defend herself when she’s travelling among Yankees, sir.” It was Magnolia Beauregard again talking. “I surely hope my Uncle Seth never hears I fought like a common street woman.”

  She was climbing into the coach and looked at Waco as she spoke. He grinned back at her and replied, “Don’t worry none, ma’am. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Mosehan was about to speak, but turned on his heel and walked away. Standing by his partner’s side Doc Leroy could have sworn that Magnolia’s left eye closed in a wink.

  The coach started forward again and the Rangers prepared to ride back to Tucson with their prisoners. Just as they started off one of the Rangers looked back after the coach and said, “I hope that drummer don’t bother Miss Magnolia none. I means for her sake, after what she’s just been through.” The rest laughed, but at the rear of the party Doc Leroy saw Waco was looking solemn. Then Waco turned and grinned at Doc.

  “I hope he doesn’t too.”

  “For the girl’s sake … ?” the Doc inquired.

  “For his sake. That was Belle Starr.”

  Doc eyed his partner for a time, then asked, “You sure?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Since just after the stage started. Mark told me she used a half-Indian boy in her regular bunch. When I saw a half-Indian following Pete I never thought much about it. Then I remembered when I smelled her perfume in the stage. I’d caught a smell of it the night before when she watched me talking to Pete. I tied the two together on the stage, and knew for sure when I looked at her hands. They were just a mite rough for a Deep South girl who never worked no harder than lifting a coffee cup. There’s a scar on one, she got it when she tangled with Calamity Jane up in Elkhorn City. I knew for sure when Captain Bert showed me the old Manhattan gun. Belle usually totes it with her. She aimed to rob the stage herself, but she smelled a trap and called it off. Just came along to get the gal who was using her name and getting her blamed for pulling hold-ups.”

  “You going to tell Captain Bert?”

  “I reckon he suspects it. I’ll let her get a couple of days’ head start before I tell him. She saved Mark’s life, so I owe her that much. Besides, she’s a reb like us.”

  Doc rode in silence for a moment, then in a fair imitation of Magnolia’s Deep South drawl, said:

  “Why landsakes a’mercy, you’re a southern gennelman for sure.”

  Case Two – A Rope For Johnny No-Legs

  The cottonwood spread its mighty branches over the land, standing in magnificent isolation some thirty yards clear of the wooded land behind it. For many long years the old tree had been growing here. The now departed buffalo had once rested in its cool shade, the half-wild cattle rubbed their long horns against its gnarled old trunk. Its branches had given nest space to birds and a sleeping spot for a cougar, but this day no bird or animal found rest in the tree.

  Instead, across one limb lay a rope, one end tied to a thick root which had forced its way above ground. The other end was tied round the neck of a man.

  Johnny No-Legs, the Apache scout, sat a’fork his wiry pony, his dark face held rigid and immobile, as if indifferent to the rope round his neck. He looked down at the faces of the white-eyes who stood around and did not speak. If he was to die, and hanging was the worst way an Apache could die, he would try to die well. No man could do better than that.

  The white men who formed the lynching party were not the sort usually found at such an affair. Their dress was that of a city and not a Western city at that. Only one wore a gunbelt, the others being armed with either cheap single-shot rifles or even cheaper shotguns. The man with the gunbelt was tall, arrogant and clearly the man the people wanted, a leader of men. He stood clear of the others, one hand resting on the butt of his Colt revolver, the other tapped a quirt against his trouser leg with idle purposefulness.

  “Let’s get on with it,” he snapped.

  “Do you reckon we should?” a small, meek-looking man asked.

  The leader of the men turned and looked at the dissenter with disgust. “Of course we should. He killed our scout and we should kill him. Anyone in the west would hang him if they were here.”

  The small man, who would have looked more at home behind the counter of a New England store than here at an Arizona hemp hoedown, shook his head.

  “We don’t know he killed Schulze. He came into camp peaceable enough this morning and he’s been with us for a week without giving any trouble.”

  “Look, Heeley,” the tall man spoke patiently, as if talking to a not over-bright child, “our scout was killed by an Indian and scalped up there in the woods. That means an Indian did
it and the only Indian round here is this one. So he must have done it.”

  “Why don’t we take him into the next town and let the law handle it, Mr. Daggert?” Heeley asked, and a few of the others mumbled their agreement.

  “And be laughed at or called cowards?” Daggert snarled back. Like all the others he was new to the west, but more than they wanted to be accepted as one of the hard men of the country. “They’ll know for sure we’re greeners if we take him in like that. Folks out here string up Indians and leave them as a warning to the others.”

  Heeley sighed. He too, wished to be accepted in the west but not on the terms Daggert wished for. However, none of the others was willing to go against Daggert’s will, so he stood back. Daggert’s face was a study in savage triumph as he swung back his arm. Having come out here too late for the Indian wars he was going to not only kill an Indian, but actually hang one. The quirt lashed down on to the rump of the wiry little Indian pony and it leapt forward from under Johnny No-Legs.

  A rifle’s flat bark echoed the slap from the quirt, fired from the woods behind the men. The heavy bullet struck the rope where it crossed the branch and severed it cleanly just before the Apache’s weight hit it. Johnny No-Legs dropped lightly to the ground, landing catlike on his feet and turning, as were all the others, to look at his rescuer.

  He sat a’fork a seventeen-hand paint stallion with the easy grace of a born horseman. If these men had been used to the west they would have known that here was a Texan and an outstanding member of that reckless breed. They noted he was young, wide-shouldered and handsome, but they noticed it after they’d given attention to the staghorn-butted Colt Artillery Peacemakers in his holsters, the butts flaring handily to his grip. They noticed, without knowing the full significance of it, the Winchester Centennial rifle smoking in his hands. To a man who knew the west that rifle told a message. No cowhand would carry the .45.75 Winchester rifle, preferring the lighter and handier Winchester ’73. Only two kinds of men in the West carried the newer and heavier model for the advantage its extra range gave them. Lawmen and outlaws.

  Riding forward the young man brought his paint to a halt and he looked down at the lynch crowd with unfriendly blue eyes. It was Daggert who first found his voice, although it was by no means as arrogant as usual.

  “What the hell! Who are you?”

  “The name’s Waco, mister. I’m a Territorial Ranger and seeing as how decorating cottonwoods is against Territorial law I concluded to stop it. So stop she is.” The voice was soft and drawling, yet filled with menace as the purring snarling of a hungry cougar. “All right, what happened?”

  “The Apache murdered our scout,” Daggert answered in a tone which implied that all would be well now and the Ranger would give his blessing to the hanging, if not actually helping with it.

  “And you caught him?” Waco studied the men, reading Daggert for what he was, as well as noticing the obvious relief in other faces. His voice held mocking disbelief that they could have caught the Apache. Then his eyes went to Johnny No-Legs and the Army saddle on the pony. His eyes narrowed as he spoke rapidly in the deep-throated Apache tongue, filling in here and there with a Spanish word when his knowledge of Apache failed him.

  Daggert and the others listened without understanding to the rapid flow of talk. At last it was Daggert who could wait no longer. He broke in with an angry tone.

  “What’s he say, we can’t understand him any.”

  This was not unexpected, for Johnny No-Legs at this time spoke only odd words of English picked up from the soldiers. They were not polite words at all.

  Waco tossed his leg over the saddle horn and dropped to the ground. The move was so quickly executed that it gave the watching men no time to make any hostile moves. He landed straddle-legged, the rifle held across his body but ready for use.

  “Says he didn’t do it. Cut him loose.”

  “He’s lying!” Daggert roared, pushing Heeley back as the small man edged forward to obey the order.

  “Mister,” there was a hard edge to Waco’s drawled words now, “you’ll meet a sight more white liars than Apache. He’s Johnny No-Legs. Al Sieber’s top-hand scout. Had you hung him and the law didn’t hang you, Sieber and Tom Horn both’d be after you and do it. Just turn him loose and I’ll look into it.”

  “You?” Daggert sneered. He was as tall as the Texan, older and more heavily built.

  “I’m the only law between here and the Territorial line. Get that Apache cut loose and—”

  “Like hell!” Daggert bellowed, realizing that matter was being taken out of his hands and not liking the feeling, “I never heard about no Arizona Rangers.”

  With that Daggert’s temper snapped and his hands reached out to grab the front of Waco’s shirt. The rifle butt came round in a swing which carried all Waco’s power behind it. Daggert caught the metal-shod plate full in the stomach. He croaked in agony as the wind was forced from his lungs and he went to his knees.

  “Some folks just don’t know when to get tough,” Waco growled, “and I’m getting quite sick of asking for that Apache to be cut loose.”

  Heeley stepped forward, taking out a knife and cutting the rope which held Johnny No-Legs’ hands. The Apache grunted his thanks, walked to where his pony stood, vaulted into the saddle and rode off.

  “We’d best head back for your wagons there,” Waco remarked, jerking a thumb in the direction of a group of wagons which were circled half-a-mile away. “This thing wants talking out.”

  The would-be lynch mob walked in a loose group around Waco, and Heeley told him about themselves. They’d come west, heading for the mining strikes in Arizona, in hopes of making their living. However, these strikes were overcrowded and hearing of good land to the northwest they headed that way. Now they were making for the town of Two Forks over the Arizona line in Utah, prepared to join a larger train and head west. Their wagon-master broke his back in an accident and had been left in the last town. They’d gone on with the train scout, Schulze, who’d took on Johnny No-Legs to help him.

  It was the scout’s habit every morning to go ahead and look over the route for a couple of miles before they started out. None of them was a really expert driver and he’s always tried to locate the easiest route. This morning, he’d gone out to check on a wide track through the woods ahead and after a time a man went out to look for him. Schulze was dead, an arrow in him and scalped.

  The Apache returned soon after the discovery of the body. He’d been sent back down trail the previous afternoon to hunt for a wallet lost by Daggert at the last camp site and returned just after the body was found.

  The lynch talk had started and Daggert grabbed the Indian, disarmed him, then said they should hang him. The others were not altogether in favor, but Daggert was a forceful man and used to getting his own way.

  “So you just took a rope and went to hang Johnny?” Waco growled.

  “Daggert said it was what a man out here would do,” Heeley answered.

  “You’ll get fools any place who’ll do something. I reckon my partner’s right when he says if there’s nothing stupid left to be done some damned fool goes right ahead and does it.”

  The men looked sheepishly at each other, for they were getting the idea that if they’d hung the Apache things might have gone badly for them.

  The wagons were thrown out in a protective circle, although not barricaded down as they would be if an attack was expected. Waco watched the faces as he rode in at the head of the lynch party and saw looks of relief on the faces of the women. The children gathered round, studying this cowhand with interest, but he did not waste any time. He’d been to the border with a prisoner, handed him over to a Utah sheriff and was now headed back to join Doc Leroy in Backsight, ready to take on the next chore for Captain Mosehan.

  He attended to his horse and then made for a fire where most of the men of the train were gathering round. By the time he got there Daggert was back.

  “Tell it one of you,” Waco o
rdered as he looked at the men.

  “Well, Mr. Downer here found the body,” Heeley remarked.

  One of the few men who hadn’t accompanied the lynchers stepped forward. He was a tall, bronzed man, wearing a hybrid mixture of eastern and western clothing. His hat, shirt and the suit were eastern in their cut and style but the gunbelt, with its Colt Omnipotent in the holster, and the boots had been made by a western man who knew what he was doing. Waco glanced at both belt and boots for an instant, to confirm his original impression. What he saw gave him food for thought.

  “That’s right, friend,” the man agreed. “I found the body. When Schulze rode out and didn’t come back again I went out. He’d told me the direction we’d be going and I followed the trail over there. It led to the woods and there I found his body. I brought it in; didn’t seem any point in leaving it there, as there’d be no chance of meeting a lawman out here. It’s there by the wagon.”

  Waco turned and walked to the wagon indicated, looking at the tarpaulin-covered shape which lay by it. Drawing back the tarp he looked down at the body of the scout. He’d been a tall, lean man. His whiskery face was twisted in an expression of agony. The arrow had struck him in the center of his buckskin shirt and he must have died in seconds. There was blood on his gunbelt and the gun still in its holster.

  By the side of the body lay a bloody arrow. Waco took it up and looked it over, noting the barbed head and the coloring of the shaft. It was an Apache war arrow without a doubt. He’d seen enough of them to be sure of that. Beyond that he could tell nothing from it.

  “See, he’s been scalped!” Daggert thrust his way through the other men and pointed to the bloody horror that was the top of the man’s head.

  Something in the man’s tone and attitude irritated Waco. “When I want advice from a damned Arbuckle I’ll ask for it,” he snapped back.

  “How many coffee coupons do you reckon he cost, friend?”