by J. T. Edson
“Couldn’t be any worse than ole Doc’s fixings, and mine’s worse,” Waco replied. “We’ll be there about noon.”
The two Rangers made their tour of the town, visiting the stores, saloons and livery barn, and talking with people, but they saw no one whose face had become familiar to them on wanted posters. In one saloon they saw two of the men who’d been in the fight talking to a big, burly man who had the look of a prosperous rancher.
At noon they were back at the bank and found it closing for lunch. One deputy was inside with a shotgun on his knees. Waco and Doc waited until Monk gave the man orders to allow no one inside, then they walked along to the Eating House. Monk told them of the girl who owned it. She’d gone into a burning house to rescue two children and was badly burned. That was why the folk of the town and the visiting ranch crews gave her their custom, for the food was not good.
Despite poor food the Eating House was busy when the three men entered. Two waitresses in plain black dresses and clean white aprons moved amongst the tables, hurrying with orders. The tables themselves each had a clean cloth on them and the place looked far more clean and tidy than was usual in a cattle town.
Mary Olsen limped across to their table as the three men sat down. She was the young woman who’d spoken for the mean-looking man out there in the street. Looking at her, Waco wondered where the man was now.
The sheriff ordered three cowhand specials for them, remarking after the young woman walked towards the kitchen, that they might as well have this, as it was the lesser of the various evils old Wong perpetrated.
One of the waitresses brought the food. The cowhand special turned out to be thick son-of-a-bitch stew, made from the brains, sweetbreads and other choice portions from a calf, mixed with potatoes, onions, tomatoes and every other thing the cook could lay hand on, then cooked until, in range parlance, “You couldn’t tell what nothing in it was.”
The two young Texans sniffed like hound-dogs hit coon scent, then tucked into the food with all the strength of healthy young appetites to back them up. They found the food far better than they’d expected from the sheriff’s gloomy predictions and saw that the other customers were also eating with great relish.
A tall shape looked up at the side of the table and a deep voice growled, “I want a word with you, John.”
Looking up, the sheriff nodded a greeting and he swallowed a mouthful of the stew. “Thought you would, Joe.”
Waco and Doc studied the man. It was the same who’d been talking to the two cowhands in the saloon. They read the signs right, he was a prosperous rancher. A man who’d driven his way up through the cattle business by guts, drive and hard work.
“You run that mean-looking cuss out of town yet?” he asked.
“Nope, he’s still here as far as I know. Your boys started the trouble and I’ve got nothing against him.”
“I have. No gunslick burns down one of my hands and gets away with it,” Big Joe Crawford growled. “You just tell him that when you see him.”
“Mister,” Waco cut in, his soft drawled words bringing Crawford’s attention to him. “The man who matches lead with that dark man’s buying grief.”
“There’s folk say that about me, too, boy,” Crawford replied.
Waco could see there was no bluster about this big man. He would back up his crew right or wrong, giving them the same loyalty they gave him.
Suddenly a change came over Crawford’s face. His nostrils quivered and he looked down at the plate of stew in front of the sheriff. Pulling out a chair he sat down and bawled for one of the waitresses to come over. From the speed and the smile on her face Waco gathered that Crawford was an honored guest here.
“Lucy gal,” Crawford boomed. “Go get me one of those plates of stew. Ole Wong has surely improved.”
“Wong?” the girl replied, then she laughed. “We’ve got a new cook. Old Wong was too drunk to work this morning.”
“New cook!” Crawford slapped a hand on the table in exasperation. “Don’t I have the luck? A good cook comes to town and I let Miz Mary get him first.” He paused, eyeing the plate in front of the sheriff. “John, is that stew as good as it looks?”
“Better,” the sheriff replied. “What do you aim to do about that man?”
“I’ve passed my word. If he stays in town him and me’ll lock horns.”
The waitress returned , with the plate of stew and Crawford settled down to eat it. He forgot the mean-looking man and every other thing as he savored each tasty mouthful like a man in a dream. Crawford was a trencherman of note; he put three plates of stew away in short order, then settled down to eat a pile of flapjacks. Slapping his hands on his stomach he leaned back and regarded the other three.
“With a cook like this I’d die happy.”
“You’d die hawgfat,” Monk corrected.
“Can’t think of a better way to go.”
Mary Olsen watched her place filling as word was passed by the customers who had fed already, about the excellence of the food. She sent for another girl who occasionally helped out as a waitress and was kept busy at the cash desk until Lucy came to tell her more flour was needed in the kitchen.
“Take care of the desk,” Mary said to the girl. “I’ll go and fix it.”
Mary crossed the room, receiving compliments on the cooking and pushed open the door into the kitchen. It looked much cleaner and neater than when old Wong bumbled his half-drunk myopic way around.
At the stove Jack Targay glanced at the stew pot, then turned as Mary came up to him.
“They wanting to close you down yet, ma’am?” he asked.
“You stop being so bitter, Jack,” Mary replied. “Why, everyone is saying how good the food is.”
“They don’t know I’m the cook. You’ll soon hear them change their bellow when they do.”
Mary looked at the dark man and shook her head. When Wong was found dead drunk and Targay offered to lend a hand she allowed him out of kindness, not wanting to hurt his feelings. It took her just five minutes to realize that in Targay she had found a first-rate cook. She offered to give him a permanent job, not out of any feeling of pity, but because he was the sort of cook she needed. All too well she knew the poor quality of Wong’s work and that business could not hold up unless a change was made.
“They won’t. Not even Joe Crawford. I’ll have a talk to him as soon as I get a chance. He’ll listen to me.” Mary remembered why she’d come in. “Jack, Old Wong left a sack of flour at my house instead of bringing it down here. Do you think you could come with me and carry it back?”
“Sure,” Targay removed his apron and crossed to take his gunbelt down from near the door.
Before Mary could object to taking a gun along a waitress came in, her face flushed with exertion. “Jack, they’re eating everything I put in front of them out there. Have you any more flapjacks cooked?”
Targay waved to the stove, “Only that pile there. I can’t make any more until I get the flour. There’s a stew in that pot, don’t push it any further on the stove. That order of steak is ready and the coffee’s in the pot. I’ll be back as soon as I can with the flour.”
Mary and Targay walked together along the back street towards her house. They, or rather, he, talked as they walked. Talked as only a lonely man can talk when he finds a sympathetic ear. She learned why he was so bitter in that short walk. Every time he took a riding chore someone would start trouble with him and always he was blamed for it. Rather than kill someone he’d given up job after job, always drifting and trying to find somewhere to settle down. He admitted that at times, driven by hunger, he’d taken on chores where a gun was the chief asset, but he never held such a job for longer than he needed.
Mary looked at the dark face, it wasn’t handsome and the bitter lines made it worse. Yet it was not a vicious face and the man himself was quite gentle. She’d seen the way he handled his horse and the way he treated herself and the girls. More than ever she knew she must see Joe Crawford and prev
ent his causing trouble for Targay and give the dark man his chance in this town.
They were nearing her house now and she pointed to three horses standing at the picket fence.
“I wonder who they belong to,” she said.
Targay looked at the horses, too, noticing that they were not tied but stood with the rein thrown over the hitching rail outside the fence. That was a trick few men took time to train a horse to do, not even a useful trick for the average man.
It was then Targay saw where they were. At the back of the bank. Those three horses were fastened outlaw style, standing loose, ready for a rapid departure from town. The pattern fell into place and his Indian blood stirred uneasily as it sensed trouble in the air.
“Get into the house, Miss Mary, Pronto!”
Almost as he finished speaking, there was a dull booming roar from the inside of the bank and the windows shattered open with concussion of an explosion. Targay pushed the girl behind him and brought the old Army Colt out ready.
The door at the rear of the bank opened, Dancer and his two men came out, each carrying a large wheat sack in one hand and a gun in the other. Even as they started forward another man staggered out and fell into the street. Mary recognized him as one of Monk’s deputies.
Then the three men saw Targay standing between them and their horses.
“Move, ugly man!” Dancer hissed.
“Drop it, all of you!” Targay ordered, his gun lifting fast.
The three outlaws skidded to a halt, guns coming up but faster than they could move, Targay was into action. The old gun bucked, throwing a bullet into the man at Dancer’s right. The young outlaw screamed and spun round as the shattering impact of the bullet ripped through him. His scream put off the other two and their first shots went wild, throwing up geysers of dirt to the side of Targay as he fired again. The man at Dancer’s left went over backwards, a bullet in the chest. It was then Dancer’s hand fanned across, driving back the hammer and sending shots out fast.
Fanning could be done and done accurately, but it took a master gun hand to do it, and Dancer was no master. With only one shot left he had not put a bullet near to Targay. All he had done was cause Targay to miss with a shot. Targay lined and let the hammer drop. A dull click rewarded his efforts, the cap in the nipple of his last loaded chamber failed to fire.
Dancer looked at the man, then at the horses. They’d stood still for the explosion in the bank, but the shooting spooked them. Two were running now, but by some chance the third was caught up and could not get free. That was his only chance of escape, for he could hear shouts and knew that soon men would arrive to investigate the shooting.
“All right, ugly man,” Dancer moved round slowly until he could see Mary shielded behind the big man. “Move or I’ll drop the woman.”
Had he tried for the rest of his life Dancer couldn’t have found a worse thing to say. Targay gave a snarl that sounded like that of a hungry grizzly bear looking at a fat sheep. He moved with the speed only a Comanche could attain. The useless revolver left his hand, hurled hard straight at Dancer’s face and he followed it with a bound that would have made a cougar green with envy.
Dancer saw the two-and-a-half pound revolver hurling at his handsome face and jerked up his arm. Then a heavy body crashed into him, a hand gripped his wrist and crushed it. The revolver went off, sending the bullet into the air. Then he was on his back, with a powerful knee rammed into his chest and two hands locked at his throat choking him. He was like a baby in that grip.
Targay’s face was dark with anger as he smashed Dancer’s head against the ground, all the time snarling: “Try and hurt Miz Mary will you!”
Mary saw men running round the side of the bank and gasped out, “Let him loose, Jack. Stop it!”
Slowly the big hands relaxed and Targay got to his feet, looking at the two Texans who’d spoken up for him that morning. Waco and Doc halted, holstering their guns and looking round.
“All right, friend, we’ll take care of things now,” Waco said, grinning wryly at Targay. “And thanks.”
Other men were crowding round now, talking loudly.
“You called it right, Waco. There was a hit.”
Targay got to his feet seeing accusing looks on the faces of some of the men in the crowd. Then Mary was before him, her face showing the contempt she felt for these men who were ready to accuse Jack Targay just because of his looks.
“Yes!” her voice lashed at the men, making them writhe. “The bank was robbed and Jack Targay stopped the men who did it. He stopped three of them.”
The banker came puffing up, having run for a greater distance than he’d found necessary in many a year. He stopped and his reddened face went almost purple as he saw the bags.
“A fine thing,” he gasped out. “A fine thing. Two Rangers and the County Sheriff’s office and I still get robbed.” He glared at Dancer, then up at Targay. “I owe you my deepest thanks, sir.”
Monk looked at the two Rangers, then at his deputy, who was being attended to by the town doctor. For a moment he was silent, then he said: “We surely missed out this time.”
Waco’s grin was a trifle weak as he replied, “You’re the one who needs to worry. Come election time we’ll be long gone from here.”
The crowd was growing fast and Waco saw that men who’d been wanting Targay run out of town were now slapping him on the back like he was a rich uncle.
Then Crawford and his two men forced their way through the crowd. The big rancher glanced down at the two wounded outlaws and brought his gaze to rest on the mean-looking man.
“You the man who gunned down my hand?” he asked.
Targay let out his breath in a sigh. He knew the sort of man Crawford was. The rancher might be grateful to him for stopping the bank robbery but it would not stop him trying to avenge the shooting of one of his men. This would be the end of all Targay’s hopes, his actions might have let him settle down here but he would not kill a man like Crawford to do so.
“Mister, this town ain’t big enough for me and a gunslick who downs one of my hands,” Crawford growled, hand hovering the butt of his gun. “I’ll give you—”
Lucy came running up, pushing in between the two men and looking at Targay.
“Jack, please hurry with the flour. We’re running short of everything and Joe Crawford wants some more of your flapjacks when he gets back.”
Crawford’s face changed, the cold, hard anger going out of it. He stared first at the girl, then at the flour stains on Targay’s trousers. Then he looked at Mary Olsen and gasped: “You mean … you mean … ?”
Mary chuckled, she knew the danger was passed now and a new life was open to Jack Targay.
“Yes, Joe. Meet Jack Targay, my new cook.”
Crawford spun round to face his hands, the anger he’d shown Targay now sent on to them doubled.
“What the hell are you bunch doing?” he roared. “Coming into town and getting booze-blind, then causing trouble for hard-working folks. You just wait till I get you back to the spread. I’ll have you on the blister end of a shovel for so long you’ll have to learn to ride afresh when I let you finish.” He turned to Jack Targay, face beaming with admiration and friendship. “I’m real sorry I called you down like that, friend. Say, about them flapjacks … ?”
“I’ll have them for you soon as I get the flour from Miz Mary’s to the kitchen.”
“Hank, Billy. Get that sack and tote it down for Jack here. We can’t have the best damned cook in the territory straining hisself doing things like that.”
The crowd started to disperse now. Dingley glared at the three lawmen, his face still red with anger.
“I’ll see this is reported to Captain Mosehan,” he snapped.
“When you write to him,” Waco’s voice was hard under the drawl, “see you tell him it was you let Dancer know when the money was being handed on. And that he had to pull the raid today.”
“Me?” Dingley looked as if he would have a strok
e. “How dare you imply—”
“Not in so many words you didn’t. But you told him. Why do you think he acted so eager to buy that beat-up old ranch when he could pick up a decent place for the same price? He knew you’d be so damned willing to sell it to him that you’d take him out to look it over any day except one. The day you handed the money back to the Army. Cap’n Mosehan didn’t tell us what day the money was handed over, he didn’t get told it. I guessed it from what you told Dancer.”
“Talked to my deputy, he says that you’d pointed Dancer out and told him what a real nice feller Dancer was. Then when Dancer come and said you’d sent him to wait for you the deputy let him in.”
Dingely didn’t wait to hear any more, he turned and stamped away after the others. Catching up with Targay he slapped the man on the back and offered him a cigar.
Monk walked off to attend to the prisoners and Waco listened to Doc humming a tune as they watched the men walking with Targay arid talking with him. Then Waco recognized the tune, he’d heard the Ysabel Kid croon it as he rode circle on a sleeping herd of cattle:
“Now a mean-looking man is lonely,
A mean-looking man has no friends,
When there’s trouble in town and he’s around,
They all blame a mean-looking man.”
“Who’s going to tell Cap’n Bert?” Doc asked.
“Whichever of us, we’ll still be hoorawed for a month over this,” Waco replied. “You know something, Doc?” he jerked his hand to the men walking with Targay back to the Eating House. “They don’t think that mean-looking man’s so mean any more.”
Case Four – Jase Holmes’ Killer