Sagebrush Sleuth (A Waco Western #2)

by J. T. Edson

  “I’ll take you to the livery barn as soon as I’ve eaten, old timer,” he promised.

  “I tell you, Whisper, you can’t tell one from the other,” a mocking voice from the sidewalk jeered. “What a mean-looking cuss.”

  Targay sighed as he turned, for he knew what he was going to find. Three young cowhands stood just behind him, looking him over in the flat-eyed way a drunk had when he was reaching the truculent stage. However, Targay wanted to avoid trouble and holding down his anger he turned back to his horse.

  “Hey, you, ugly man,” the cowhand yelled. “We expects us an answer when we talks to a man. Come on, ole ugly man, you answer us.”

  “Look, boys.” Targay turned back to face them. “I ain’t looking for no trouble.”

  The three cowhands whooped in delight at this. The one who’d been doing all the talking swung down from the sidewalk and the other two followed him.

  “Ole ugly man’s all yeller, boys?” the young hand whooped. “Let’s us tromp some respect for the JC into him.”

  The cowhand caught Targay’s arm and turned him, smashing a fist into the side of his jaw and staggering him into the hitching rail. The second hand pushed Targay forward and hit him in the back hard, drawing a grunt of pain. Then Targay’s foot lashed back like a burr-stuck Kentucky mule, the high heel of the boot taking the young cowhand full in the stomach and jack-knifing him over in agony.

  The first hand yelled, “Get him, Whisper!” and leapt forward into a punch which flung him backwards again.

  The third man launched in at Targay, who twisted round with Indian speed and knocked him sprawling into the hitching rail, then back-handed the one who started it savagely. Both of them came at Targay, he fought back with all the speed and skill of his Comanche forefathers.

  A crowd gathered to watch the fun. These self-same people who would have been shouting for the sheriff if the cowhands were picking on a town dweller, stood by and cheered as they fought with the mean-looking man.

  Targay was as strong as whang leather, tough as they came and packed with fight-savvy gained in a hundred such battles. He was sober, too, and that gave him a big advantage over these cowhands who’d been celebrating all night.

  With blood running from his cut mouth Targay smashed the hand who’d started the trouble with a looping right, knocking over the one who was down holding his stomach. The last one, Whisper, leapt back, his hand going down to the butt of his gun.

  Targay’s hand dipped and the old Colt gun flowed from the low-tied holster in a flickering blur of movement. The hammer eared back under a trained thumb, fell, struck the percussion cap, sending flame into the charge in the chamber and a .44 caliber ball into Whisper’s shoulder.

  Coming round fast Targay stood in a gunfighter’s crouch, his gun covering the other two hands, even though neither were in any shape to try any aggressive action against him.

  “Leather it, pronto!”

  A short stocky man wearing range clothes and with the badge of the County Sheriff on his vest came off the sidewalk, advancing with a gun in his hand.

  Targay dropped the gun back into the leather again, a hard, bitter look on his face again. He rubbed the blood from the corner of his mouth and stood breathing heavily while he waited for the words he knew would come next.

  “You’re going to jail, hombre. I don’t like gunslicks in my bailiwick,” the sheriff warned as he closed in, watching Targay all the time.

  “Run him out of town, John, we don’t want his sort here,” one of the watching crowd yelled and the others yelled their agreement.

  “You’ve got the wrong man, sheriff,” a soft, drawling Texas voice cut through the noise of the crowd.

  John Monk, sheriff of Mecate County, turned to see who was brave enough to go against public opinion in this manner. He saw and what he saw told him that the speaker was well capable of going against anyone’s opinion and backing his will to the hilt.

  Two tall Texan cowhands stood on the sidewalk, undaunted by the looks being shot at them by the crowd. One was a handsome, blond haired, wide-shouldered young man in range clothes and with a buscadero gunbelt supporting matched, staghorn butted Colt Artillery Peacemakers. The other was almost as tall, though slimmer in build. His white Stetson was thrust back from his dark hair, his face was pallid with a tan resisting pallor. He, too, wore range clothes, but over his shirt he wore a coat, the right side of which was stitched back to leave clear the ivory butt of the Colt Civilian Peacemaker low-tied at his thigh.

  They lounged there, eyeing the sheriff as if waiting to see what he intended to do about their statement. His eyes went to their guns, noting the way they lay, a way which made the hair rise on the back of his neck. If these two were not top-hands with guns they certainly knew how to look that way. They were as salty a pair as he’d seen in many a long month.

  “Meaning?” he growled as the three cowhands staggered off, two of them helping the wounded third towards the doctor’s.

  “The three cowhands jumped him. He went backwards to avoid trouble,” the taller of the two Texans replied. “Doc and me were all set to help him out, but he didn’t look as if he was going to need help, even though he was up against three men. So we stayed out.”

  Monk digested the words, looking from Targay to the two Texans and back again. They would be a handy trio in a gunfight, that he was sure of, but there was no sign they’d ever met before. Nor were they the sort to make any sheriff feel like going out in the street and dancing a celebration when they came to his town. He was a fair-minded man, but he did have his electorate to think about. He knew the JC boys probably provoked the fight, but he had to stick to his local people if he wanted to keep in office.

  Still, it was one thing to jail a drifter, to help keep local sentiment running the right way, when he might be guilty. It was another thing again to do so with one who was innocent and had two tough witnesses who would not be afraid to stand up in court and say so.

  A plain-looking woman forced her way through the crowd. She limped badly as she came on to the street and faced the sheriff, hands on the hips of her gingham dress.

  “They’re telling the truth, John. I saw it all from my window. The stranger wasn’t doing a thing when Billy, Whisper and Hank attacked him.”

  There was gratitude in Targay’s eyes as he looked at the three people who were standing up for him. Never before had it happened to him. The Texans showed neither friendship nor interest in the matter other than a desire to see fair play, the woman, though not good looking, seemed to radiate happiness and friendship to this lonely, embittered man.

  “Thank you, ma’am, thank you kindly,” he said, flushing red and jerking off his hat. “And you gents.”

  The crowd started to mumble amongst themselves, but talk was all they aimed to do. They’d seen the mean-looking man draw and with the inborn instinct of a westerner knew that here were two more men as good, if not better.

  “All right, break it up, get on about your business, folks,” Monk ordered. “I’ll handle this.”

  The crowd started to break up, mumbling amongst themselves. At any other time they would have been against the JC cowhands, but not when the mean-looking man was involved. One of the men stopped. He was a storekeeper and an influential citizen of the town.

  “Big Joe Crawford ain’t going to like this, John. He’ll want to know why you let a mean-looking cuss like that wound one of his hands.”

  “And I’ll tell him when he comes,” Monk answered angrily. He hated to be backed into a corner and threatened by anyone. “What should this gent have done, stood there and called Whisper’s shots for him?”

  The man turned and stamped away, muttering veiled threats under his breath. Monk watched him go, then turned back to Targay.

  “How long before you get out of town?” he asked.

  “Not until he has a meal and I’ve fixed up that cut at least,” the young woman put in. “Come along with me.”

  Targay allowed the woman to
lead him on to the sidewalk and into Olsen’s Eating House. Monk watched them go, then turned to the other two, drew in a deep breath and asked: “How long will you two be staying?”

  The taller of the pair pulled a badge from his pocket and held it out for Monk to see.

  “We’re Territorial Rangers. I’m Waco and this is my partner, Doc Leroy. We’d like to see you and the banker both.”

  “Sure.” Monk had heard of the forming of the Arizona Territory Rangers, but this was the first time he’d met any of them. Rumor was true, from the look of this pair that Bertram Mosehan was picking the toughest, handiest men he could find. “Come on down to the bank. Do you know that mean-looking cuss?”

  “Never seen him afore,” Waco answered. “But I’ll tell you, he’s some long on patience. Had they called me half they called him you’d have needed a burying.”

  Monk walked with the two Texans along the street, steering them towards the stone-built bank. He did not get a chance to inquire about their business with the banker and himself, for he was stopped by three different citizens with requests that he cleared that mean-looking man out of town.

  Entering the bank Monk was about to ask the two Rangers what they were doing here, but first he went to speak with the teller and came back with the information that the banker was in conference and could not be disturbed.

  While they waited two more influential citizens came up to demand the eviction of the mean-looking man. The sheriff tried to read some expression on the faces of the two Rangers as they stood looking on. He also explained to the citizens that until the man committed some crime or breach of the peace he could not be chased out of the town. This did not entirely satisfy the taxpayers. Monk was on the horns of a dilemma, for although he did not wish to go against his friends, he did not want to give those two expressionless-looking Texas cowhands the wrong idea about the way he handled the law in Mecate County.

  Like many other lawmen, Monk was not sure just what the duties of the Territorial Rangers comprised, or what their powers were. One thing he and every other lawman did know was that they were answerable only to Captain Mosehan, their leader, and the Governor of the Territory. Any reports these two Texans put in would be read by both of those gentlemen. That meant Monk must play scrupulously fair in his dealings now. He admitted to himself the mean-looking man played fair and had been forced both to fight and shoot to protect himself. It would not look good in a report that he ran the man out of town for doing no more than that.

  The door of the banker’s office opened and two men came out. The first was a tall, slim, handsome young man dressed in quiet, but expensive range clothes, the second a fat, well-dressed man who could only be a banker. No other man in the west ever managed to have the same sort of overfed look about him.

  “Thanks for your help, sir,” the young man was saying as he shook hands with the banker in a way that suggested he was a depositor and not a loan seeker. “I’m real obliged to you. It’s good of you to go out to the spread with me tomorrow.”

  The banker looked up sharply and an expression of annoyance crossed his face as he shook his balding head vigorously.

  “Not tomorrow. I can’t take you to see the property tomorrow. I thought we’d settled that. Any day after tomorrow I’ll be free to go with you.”

  The young man turned and walked across the room. He smiled at Monk and the sheriff rose, holding out his hand. “Howdy, Mr. Dancer, you staying on here after all?”

  “Sure, I’ve just been to fix up with Mr. Dingley when we go and look over the old Sullivan ranch.”

  Banker Dingley beamed warmly at Dancer. “The property is not in good shape. Old Sullivan was not a good or successful owner. However, all it needs is a little work to make it pay. Just a little work. Then it will be a credit to Mecate County. I’m sorry I can’t go with you tomorrow.”

  Dancer thanked the banker again and walked out, glancing at the two cowhands as he passed. Waco watched him go, noting that although he wore the dress of a top hand he did not have the look of a cowhand. Outside the bank he was joined by two other cowhands and walked off out of sight with them.

  “I’d like to see you, Mr. Dingley,” Monk said as the banker turned to go back into his office.

  “I’m rather busy this morning, sheriff. By the way, have you run that mean-looking man out of town?”

  “Not yet. These are two Rangers from Tucson and they want to see us both.”

  Dingley looked Waco and Doc over with some distaste, but before he could either object or agree they were walking by him into the office. He followed, his face turning red and pompous. Then he, like the sheriff, got an uneasy suspicion of why these two young men might be in town. Both could have made a guess, even though both hoped it would be wrong.

  Having no choice but to accept them as visitors, Dingley waved them and the sheriff into the hard-looking chairs which faced the big, clear-topped desk.

  “Now.” Dingley sat back in his chair, the picture of a man with no monetary cares and at peace with the world, “why haven’t you run that man out of town, John?”

  “Can’t, he’s not done anything wrong. The JC boys started the fight and he finished it.”

  “We don’t want his sort in Mecate.” The banker’s chest puffed out as he delivered the judgment. “What we need is more presentable young men like Mr. Dancer. A fine, sterling young lad that. He deposited three thousand dollars with us and he means to buy the old Sullivan ranch. That is—”

  “Mister,” Waco’s voice cut through and silenced the flow of praise for Dancer and the old Sullivan place. “You’re holding twenty thousand dollars of Army money in your safe, over and above what you have of your own.”

  The result of his words was highly satisfactory to Waco and Doc. The banker’s face lost all its color and he came up from his chair as if he’d sat on a red hot branding iron. Monk bit clean through the end of his cigar and it fell to the floor at his feet, then sat there allowing the match to burn down to his fingers without noticing it.

  “That was supposed to be a secret,” he finally growled, for although he suspected the Rangers might be here in connection with the money, he did not expect them to know how much was concerned.

  The banker’s mouth dropped so far open that only his chest stopped it from bouncing on his backbone.

  “You shouldn’t have known anything about it,” he gasped. Monk swore softly as the match burnt his fingers. He put it out and tossed the end into the ashtray on the table. “That’s right,” he agreed, “there was only three of us knew about it. Mr. Dingley, the Army Paymaster and me.”

  “Took with the feller who got to know and told, the feller he told, who told the hombre who told Cap’n Mosehan, who told us two, makes a whole powerful slew of folks who’ve heard about it,” Doc Leroy put in cheerfully. “See, the Cap’n he heard there was going to be this hit against the bank and sent us along to help out.”

  “When will the raid happen?” There was some slight relief in the banker’s tone.

  “If it comes at all it’ll be before you pay the money back tomorrow,” Waco answered, watching the other two men.

  Again he scored a hit. The sheriff and the banker both stared at Waco, for Monk had not known when the money was to be paid back and Dingley had only received the information in code half-an-hour before. Doc was also taken by surprise, but could see his partner’s guess, for they had not been given the delivery date by Mosehan.

  “I only found that out today,” Dingley gasped. “How did you know when the money was to be handed over?”

  “Why was the money held here instead of at the fort?” Waco ignored the question and asked one of his own.

  “The cattle and horse traders are going to gather here as a central point. It keeps the buyers clear of any trouble and saves them taking the money round the ranges looking for the herds.” Monk answered, for Dingley was looking dazed at finding his plans all gone wrong. “I’ll have my deputies guarding the bank all day. There’s only tw
o of them in town today, the rest of them are out.”

  “Been many new faces around town?” Doc inquired.

  “A few, they come and go. Young Dancer and his hands have only been here for a week or so.”

  “You can’t suspect him, John,” the banker interrupted. “Why he deposited three thousand dollars in the bank. A most estimable young man in every respect. You can’t really suspect him, can you, Ranger?”

  “Me?” Doc replied, for it was to him the question had been addressed. “I don’t suspect anybody. I leave that up to Waco here.”

  “Wait.” Dingley raised his hand, his face growing with inspiration. “That mean-looking man, he must be one of them.”

  “Why?” Waco snapped. “Because he looks part Injun?”

  “The very look of the man—” Dingley began, puffing out his cheeks.

  “Did you ever see Jesse James or Cole Younger?”

  “Is he one of them?” the banker yelped.

  “Nope, but I saw ole Dingus and Cole both when they were in Texas that time. They’re just ordinary-looking folks, man’d walk right by them in the street and not think a thing about them.”

  “Sure,” Doc went on when Waco finished. “Take ole Sam Bass. Nice a young feller as a man could ask to meet. Just goes to prove you can’t judge a man by how he looks. Meanest looking cuss I ever came across was a top hand called Kiowa. But he wouldn’t do a dishonest thing no-how.”

  “This isn’t a lone hand chore. It’ll take at least two men to do it. All the money in that safe will take some toting,” Waco remarked. He went to the window and looked across the small street to a line of neat looking houses. “Who lives over there?”

  “One’s mine. The next to it belongs to Miss Olsen from the Eating House. That’s the two right opposite.”

  “Should be all right then,” Waco turned and set his hat right, walking to the door. “You leave your deputies here, Sheriff, Doc and I’ll take a walk round town and see if there’s anybody we know.”

  “Sure.” Monk was beginning to warm to these two young men from Texas. He could see they’d be of the greatest use if the attempt on the bank happened. “I’d ask you to eat with me, come noon, but the wife’s away for a few days and I’m using the Eating House. Since Mary got her leg burned saving those kids she hasn’t been able to do the cooking and her old Chinese cook ain’t wuth a cuss. Still, if you’d like to come along and chance it you’re welcome to.”