Sagebrush Sleuth (A Waco Western #2)

by J. T. Edson

  Waco’s right hand came up, pushing the fist aside with some contempt, then his left drove like a sledgehammer full into Harcourt’s stomach. The big man gasped in agony and doubled over, dropping to his knees.

  “One!” Waco said softly.

  The crowd broke up. They knew that the Texan was getting riled and that painful as it must have been for Harcourt, the storekeeper had got off lightly to what the next man would get.

  Ryan and Waco watched the crowd dispersing, the big Irishman grinning as he saw his wife carried into their tent by her two friends. Then they glanced at the saloon crowd who were helping the blonde away.

  “You the town law, then, friend?” Waco asked, glancing at the man’s gunless sides.

  “Sure. The Harcourts were part of the bunch who elected me. Folks wanted to get a regular lawman, but they reckoned I’d come cheaper. They wanted to stop every bit of fun in the town, but I wasn’t going to have that. Like today, Harcourt lost some money gambling and went home crying about it. So damned if his wife didn’t stir up the folks. I thought we’d have us a full scale war, but my wife steps in. Trouble is she’s an O’Toole and Miz Libby’s a Hogan, and if you come from the old country you’d know what that means. Anyways, they got to fighting and before you could say knife the folks clean forgot about wrecking the saloon and was all sat back to watch the fight. I reckon Miz Libby knew they would and that’s why she threw out the challenge, her being such a fine lady.”

  Waco could see that the Pinkerton man was wrong. Paddy Ryan might appear slow, but he had a quick mind and could see and think things out for himself. Then he grinned as he thought of how the fine lady had looked when she came through the wall of the tent.

  A man rode towards them, a tall, handsome man wearing a white shirt, gray trousers tucked into riding boots and with a Merwin Hulbert gun in a shoulder holster under his right arm. The picture on the wanted poster had not been good, but for all that, Waco recognized him as being the man the Pinkerton Agency wanted, the man who was within two weeks of the Statute of Limitations wiping the slate clean for him.

  Halting his big dun horse he looked first at the rip in the side of the tent, then turned his gaze on Ryan and Waco.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Ryan explained, and the man who was now called Ace Turing laughed. He did not appear too worried by either the fight or what caused it, and seemed to take the same line as had Ryan. That the two women took what to them appeared to be the best way to avert more serious trouble.

  “Hope they’re not hurt too bad,” Turing remarked.

  “Divil a bit,” Ryan replied. “Maybe a couple of black eyes between ’em and a whole lot of bruises, but nothing more serious. This here’s a Ranger.”

  Turing swung down from his horse, holding out his hand to Waco. The grip was strong and firm, a man’s grip. The way Turing met Waco’s eyes told the young Ranger that there was no suspicion of his mission here in Canvastown.

  “Like to see you, Mr. Turing,” he said.

  “The name’s Ace to friends,” Turing answered. “Come into my office.”

  They entered the canvas-built saloon, pausing just inside to look it over and see how much damage the two women caused in their fight. Apart from a broken chair and a couple of tables which had been overturned, but were now standing again, there was nothing to show that a first-class battle raged here a short time before.

  “How’s Libby, Mae?” Turing asked one of the girls.

  “Resting. She’s sore all over, but she’ll be all right.”

  Turing laughed, then pointed to a door in the canvas side of the building opposite the holed wall. Opening this he waved Waco to enter the office first and followed, closing the door behind him. He walked by Waco, who stood with his shoulder against the jamb of the door and turned at his desk, remarking he hadn’t caught the young Ranger’s name.

  “Waco.” Taking out the poster and the warrant as he said it, the young Texan stepped forward and put them on the desk. Then he stood up with his right hand near the butt of his gun.

  Looking down at the poster Turing shook his head, then slowly looked away up into Waco’s eyes.

  “Well?”

  “I have to take you in. The Pinkertons want you. They sent me up here and if I don’t take you back they’ll likely send some bounty hunter after you. With me you’ll get to Tucson alive.”

  “Two more weeks and I’d have been clear.” Turing’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. “That’s all I wanted. Do you know, Waco, I didn’t even know there was anything wrong with that check until the teller started yelling for the law. Then I panicked. I’ve never done another crooked thing in my life.”

  “Sure, this is one of the times I’d rather not be wearing a law badge. We’ll pull out tomorrow morning, if that’ll give you enough time to settle your affairs up.”

  “Tomorrow’ll be fine.” Turing looked the young man over, liking what he saw. “If you were one of the Earps I’d offer you a bribe to miss me for two weeks. I rode about for the Army and could disappear for a couple of weeks or more. But I know bribery would be no use with you. Make yourself at home, I’ll be ready to go with you tomorrow.”

  Waco turned and opened the door. He drew back slightly as he studied a man coming into the saloon. The man was tall, wide-shouldered and good-looking, his face reckless and gay in expression. From head to foot he was a range country dandy, his clothes the height of cowhand fashion. The shirt was open at the neck and through the V a mass of curly black hair could be seen. He swept off his hat, caught a girl by the waist and kissed her, then shook back his head. His hair was black, short and curly.

  “Howdy Curly!” Waco said softly, coming from the door behind his cocked right-hand gun.

  Curly Bill Brocious released the girl. She staggered to one side out of the line of fire. The handsome young man stood still, his hands just clear of his matched ivory-butted Colts. He was fast, very fast, but against a man like Waco he knew better than to try anything.

  “Howdy, Waco.” The voice and face were still cheerful and friendly. “You still with the Rangers?”

  “Sure, that means I’ve got to take you in. The Army’s a mite riled about those horses you took from their dealers.”

  “Figgered they might be.”

  The saloon crowd was tense and watchful, for they knew that Curly Bill Brocious was not the sort of man to submit tamely to arrest. He was Johnny Ringo’s partner and co-leader of the Rustlers, who made their headquarters in the town of Galeyville, near Tombstone.

  “Lift your hands, slow like, Bill,” Waco ordered.

  “I’m having me some bad luck,” Brocious replied, not making a move to obey the order. “First Torredos and Hernandez team up and are out there. I saw them and cut round this way to keep clear of them. Then my hoss went lame. Now this.”

  “You lifting your hands?”

  “Sorry boy.”

  Waco saw Doc Leroy enter the saloon and stand behind Curly Bill. Even at that distance Waco could see the strain on his partner’s face. Strain or not, Doc took in the situation and acted with speed. His right hand made a flicker and the ivory-handled Colt was in it. Brocious stiffened as he heard the click of the hammer coming back and he knew he was boxed in.

  “Freeze solid, Curly,” Doc warned, then to Waco, “Call it a truce, boy.”

  “What do you mean?” Waco asked, crossing the room to disarm Brocious.

  There was a deadly seriousness about Doc now which brought Waco to a halt without disarming the outlaw.

  “Nobody’s leaving this town for a spell. That kid I just looked at has typhoid.”

  “Typhoid?” Waco and Brocious repeated the last word, keeping their voices down.

  There was an uneasiness in both men now. They were brave enough in the face of danger, armed men meant nothing to them. But typhoid was something again.

  “Call it peace for a spell, Bill!” Doc suggested urgently.

  “I’ve got nothing to lose,” B
rocious replied and spread his hands palm out in the sign of peace.

  Doc and Waco holstered their guns. They knew the rustler would never break his word. Brocious never even made a move. He looked at Doc and waited to hear what was wanted of him.

  Before Doc could say anything there was a commotion in the street and the Harcourts came in heading a deputation of townsfolk again.

  “What is it with that child, mister?” Mrs. Harcourt asked. “Is it typhoid?”

  “Typhoid?” A gambler came to his feet, panic written on his usually expressionless face. “I’m getting out of here.”

  The panic hit the others, saloon and townsfolk alike. The crowd which had come surging in, passing by Doc, started to make for the door, but froze as that slim and deadly young man moved. One minute he stood there with empty hands, then almost before the eye could follow the move his gun was out and making an arc of the crowd.

  “Nobody’s leaving for a piece, except my partner and one man.”

  “Why them?” Harcourt appeared to have most of his wife’s qualities and his voice was cracked. “Why should they go?”

  “I want medical aid from Fort Lawrence.”

  The gambler’s nerve was beginning to crack. He yelled, “Rush him, there’s only one man there and he won’t shoot.”

  “Yes, rush him,” Harcourt yelled, “He’s only one—”

  “Two!” Waco’s matched guns were out and he covered the crowd.

  “Three,” Ace Turing came from his office, blocking the panic from there.

  “I counts four,” Brocious put in, his guns in his hands, watching a man who was eyeing the torn wall. “Saw typhoid once, back in New Mexico. Some damned fool got spooked and ran. Carried it through three counties.”

  More people were crowding into the saloon now, listening to what was said and showing signs of panic, yet knowing those four men would not hesitate to kill anyone who tried to run.

  Ryan and his wife came in. She still looked shaky and her left eye was swollen and nearly shut, but her face was grim and determined. She limped forward and glared at the scared- looking crowd, then asked:

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Typhoid,” Waco replied.

  “Friend, you and Curly take four men you can trust not to run or spook,” Doc put in before Waco could say another word. “Then I want every horse, mule and burro in camp corralled under my guard. I want either Curly Bill or you riding herd with two of the men on the corral day and night.” Ryan pointed out three men and Brocious called to a dark quiet man who was in the crowd. The six men headed for the door when a scared-looking man yelled:

  “Nobody’s going to take my hoss!”

  Brocious turned, a mocking smile on his face. “We’ll put that on your tombstone. Happen you try and take the hoss back.”

  ~*~

  Libby stood at the door of her quarters. She was wearing a housecoat over her underclothes and her right eye was blackened, but otherwise she looked all right. Moving forward, she flashed a look at Mary Ryan, a look more of friendly greeting than anything.

  “What can we do to help, friend?” she asked Doc.

  “Those folks want to be living in something better than a tent. That place across the street’d be fine.”

  “It’s yours, though it needs cleaning up first,” Libby answered, then turned to the girls. “Come on, all of you, there’s work to be done.”

  “And who’ll do it, might I ask!” Mary Ryan put in, a bunch of poorly dressed women gathering around her. “Sure, you floozies never did any scrubbing except when you were in jail.”

  “We can try,” Libby answered. “A pack of frowsy old hens like you can’t go in there. It’s a saloon.”

  “An O’Toole can go anywhere a Hogan can,” Mary spat back. “And work twice as good as any painted hussy. Come on girls, let’s show these dance hall biddies what hard work means.”

  The dance hall women and the Ryan bunch headed for the door, eyes glinting with anger and determination to show the other side how to work. Then the other women, all better dressed than the Ryan bunch followed. Only Mrs. Harcourt remained and Libby gave her a look of disgust, then ignored her.

  “Good for Mary,” she said smiling at Doc. “We’ll get that place cleaned out for you, Joe,” this to her swamper, “Get some water heating, hurry it.”

  Doc watched the women go and turned to see that their attitude was shaming some of the men for their previous panic. He had no time to waste though and gave his orders.

  “I want a man who knows his way to Fort Lawrence. Waco’s never worked this way before and I don’t want any delays in him getting there. That means I want a man who can ride.”

  “Ace there rode dispatch for the army,” the bardog called. “And he’s the best man a’fork a hoss in this town, bar none.”

  There was some rumble of agreement amongst the men at this, although Harcourt and certain others did not appear to be any too happy with the arrangement.

  “I’ve got a couple of Apache relay teams, Doc,” Turing remarked. “That paint of Waco’s looks to have been worked hard.”

  “All right, go and get them saddled ready,” Doc answered. “You and Waco’ll go.”

  “Why them?” Harcourt howled, panic in his tones. “Why should they go and we have to stay here?”

  “We’re getting out of here!” Mrs. Harcourt almost screamed out the words.

  “No, you’re not, ma’am. Old Curly Bill would shoot down any man who tried to get a hoss from the corral,” Waco warned.

  “Curly Bill Brocious guarding the horses,” Mrs. Harcourt snarled. “He’ll take the best of them and light out the first chance he has.”

  “No he won’t, ma’am,” Waco put in softly. “I trust ole Curly. But you or every other man and woman in this town’d best listen to me now. If you run I’ll hunt you down, me and every friend I have. No matter where you go we’ll find you and when we do, be it man or woman, we’ll hang them.”

  “The reason I’m sending two men is that way they’ve a better chance of getting through,” Doc explained. “They’ll be riding a relay team and that takes a hossman. I don’t just mean a man who can sit on a hoss and let it do all the work.”

  “What danger is there out there that isn’t in town?” Mrs. Harcourt moaned. She was scared of the typhoid, more scared than she’d ever been in her life before.

  “Curly Bill told us Hernandez and Torredos have joined together and are working this ways,” Doc answered. “Now I want all you men out there working hard. First, I want so many men, under our friend from behind the bar, to start filling in every backhouse hole and digging fresh pits. I want you, mister,” indicating a tall, hard-faced man, “to take ten men and get that stream at the back of town unblocked. Dump all the rubbish you get out of the stream in one of the backhouse holes, pour kerosene over it, burn it and then fill in the hole. Then I want one man who can handle a paintbrush to make some signs to go round town. Who can handle it?” A man stepped forward. “Make it read ‘Typhoid. Keep out’, good and big. All right, gents, get to it.”

  By the time Waco turned his paint and Doc’s black loose and stored their gear in the Ryan tent, the men were working and from the saloon came the sound of scrubbing as the women removed the mud and dirt from the wooden floor of Turing’s saloon.

  Studying the two Apache relay strings, Waco liked what he saw. They were small, wiry animals, yet powerful and with all the heart in the world. It was this kind of horse which ran the grain-fed cavalry horses ragged in the Indian campaigns, covering ground at a speed and for times which no cavalry horse could attempt to equal. The relay, three horses each, were trained to stick together. A man rode one and the other two would keep alongside it. Riding them alternately a man could cover ground far faster and for far longer than with just one horse.

  The two teams were saddled and Turing was checking the saddles over. Waco joined him and found they were lightweight saddles and would not be as comfortable as his own Texas kak. Howev
er, when they got moving he would not have the time to change saddles every time he wanted to get a’fork a different horse. There was no saddle boot on any of the saddles, so Waco could not take his rifle along. Every ounce of weight could count and the rifle would be of no use to him this time. He retained his gunbelt and guns, for he knew the weapons might be of use to him.

  Riding to the saloon door Waco and Turing waited for Doc to come out. He handed them two packages of food and a letter.

  “Give this to the post surgeon, boy,” he said. “Good luck.”

  Waco gripped his partner’s hand so hard that Doc winced. “Same to you, amigo. We’ll get there as quick as we can.”

  “I don’t need telling that,” Doc answered, but he spoke to the rapidly departing backs of the two men and turned to go back into the saloon.

  Inside, the women were all on their hands and knees, scrubbing hard. Libby Hogan and Mary Ryan worked side by side, sweat pouring down their faces and their aching, bruised bodies protesting as they forced themselves to work harder than all the other women.

  “You two go see that all the drinking water is boiled before anybody takes any of it,” he suggested.

  9*

  “Let O’Toole here go, she needs an easy job,” Libby gritted through her teeth.

  “Both of you,” Doc snapped before Mary could bring about the answer which rose.

  They got to their feet and limped from the room side by side. Doc followed them and made a round of the town to see that all he’d ordered was being done.

  ~*~

  Turing and Waco rode across the range country, travelling at a good speed and holding their horses to a pace which would best conserve their energies. There was a wagon trail to the Fort, but it wound around and was far from being the best going for a horse. Changing their mounts at frequent intervals they rode on and at nightfall Turing estimated they’d covered over a third of the journey. Waco twisted in the saddle, trying to get more comfortable, then he looked at Turing. “Can you find your way in the dark?”

  “Sure.”