Sagebrush Sleuth (A Waco Western #2)

by J. T. Edson

  “He’s as dead as I’ve ever seen,” said Doc. “Hit twice, shoulder and back.”

  “Twice?” Waco remembered hearing the two fast shots.

  “Sure, we heard two shots,” Doc answered as his partner swung down from his paint and walked towards the body.

  Waco bent down, glancing at the hole in the man’s jacket back. The blood had not yet soaked through on to the gray material. There were black powder marks round the edge of the hole. This was to be expected, for the two men were close together and a black powdered bullet threw a considerable amount of residue out.

  The other wound was high in the shoulder, merely a graze and a tearing of the jacket. Waco looked at the edges of the tear, noticing how it widened at the back. Then he noticed something more and raised the body slightly to look at the underside of the tear. Then with his curiosity satisfied he straightened up and turned to Doc.

  “Where-at’s the other hand?”

  “Headed for town to tell the marshal,” Doc replied. “I didn’t see any reason to hold him here and he wasn’t the sort I’d want to stand talking to.”

  “The gambling man armed?”

  “Nope, though he’s got a gunbelt and holster with him. No gun though.” Doc had not disturbed the body any, except to check that there was nothing he could do to help.

  Waco’s eyebrows drew closer together. There was a puzzled glint in his eyes, for he smelled something bad in this entire business. He could see that he might be wrong and this would not prove to be the open and shut case he’d first imagined.

  “All right, friend, tell it,” he snapped.

  The young man, still sitting his horse, looked badly shaken by Doc’s news. He swung down, looking at the still form on the ground, then told his story.

  “I’m Bill Tench, this’s my spread here. I bought it a few months back with money I’d saved working for ole Texas John. The other feller was Joey Smith, he’s my segundo and hand, ain’t got but the one yet. This here was Ben Mason, he runs the game in Hannibal. A couple of weeks back he skinned Joey out of a month’s pay, so I got a bunch of my pards and we went round there. I took Mason and his two gunmen on and whupped all three of them. That caused some bad blood between me and Mason and I told him to keep well clear of me out here. Then this morning he comes out and tells me Joey lost his share of the spread in the game last night.”

  “Had he?” Doc inquired.

  “I own this place, just me. Joey came along with me when him and Texas John had a falling out. I took him on to work for me but he wasn’t my partner. That’s what I told Mason. He called me a liar and made like he was going for his gun. That was when I pulled on him.”

  “Why’d you run?” Waco asked.

  “Damned if I know. Johnny yelled the law was coming and that Mason wasn’t toting a gun. Then I saw you two coming and lit out.”

  “Why?”

  “Man wasn’t wearing a gun,” Doc reminded his partner. “Sure, that was what Joey told me. I saw the gunbelt and figured he must be, that was why I drew on him.”

  “Why run out, then?” Waco carried on doggedly.

  “Friend, I’ve been punching cattle down Cochise County way, riding for ole John Slaughter. I know what sort of a break a cowhand can expect from lawmen like the Earps. With them I’d have been real lucky to get asked to halt before they gunned me down. Then when I saw you wasn’t wearing a badge and that I’d kill that ole Sam Moss and still not tire your paint I quit. I reckon I must have spooked at first, never killed me a man before.”

  Doc watched his partner, for he knew Waco better than almost any other man and could see something was worrying the young Texan. Waco was going over everything he’d seen and heard, working on it like a dog worrying at a bone. Doc knew better than ask what was on Waco’s mind and waited to hear what was said next.

  “Doc, you and Bill here best load the body on to a hoss and we’ll take it to town with us. Reckon the local law’d best handle this.”

  While Doc and Tench did as they were asked, Waco stayed where he was, not offering to go and help them. Instead he took the Smith and Wesson from the holster and turned it over in his hands, comparing it with the balance of his own matched Colt guns. Ignoring the two he broke the revolver, lifting out all the shells. Only two had been fired and he dropped all of them, fired and loaded, into his pocket. Then he closed the gun again, gripped the butt and hefted it. The balance was different from the Colt Peacemaker, nor did the handle point so naturally. He guessed that on a draw the gun would tend to send its charge high.

  Frowning, Waco looked down at the gun, for he knew guns well. In his life he’d handled a great many firearms of all kinds, though mostly they were single action and needed cocking before they could be fired. With the new model Smith and Wesson a pull on the trigger took back the hammer automatically. This would make the Smith and Wesson slightly faster to fire than the Peacemaker. It was something Waco didn’t like.

  He snapped the trigger twice, fast, then repeated the movement. Doc and Tench were finished loading the body now and they stood watching him. Both knew that it was more than idle curiosity which compelled Waco to handle the gun in this manner. He went to the corral, trying to read from the signs on the ground more of what was worrying him, but there was no chance of doing so, for the soil was far too hard here.

  “When you all finished playing sheriffs and robbers we’re waiting,” Doc said sarcastically as he watched Waco clicking the gun again.

  “Sure.” Waco went to his paint and swung into the saddle, then shoved the Smith and Wesson back into the holster. He offered no explanation for his actions, but just jerked his head and said, “Let’s go.”

  ~*~

  Hannibal City was getting set for a night of revelry, the sun sinking down behind the hills warning the businessmen that soon the hands would be coming in from the spreads and Hannibal would boom again. In fact, some of the hands were already in town, at the bar of the First, Last and Only Chance saloon.

  The name city was rather grandiloquent, for the twenty or so houses which made up the metropolis of Hannibal. The street was not overcrowded, for the houses were spaced well apart, not on any snobbish motive but because there was plenty of room to build. The three shops, the marshal’s office and jail were the sole reason for the town being here, the local ranches supplying most of the custom which came their way.

  A small bunch of loungers outside the saloon rose as Waco and Doc rode in with Tench and leading the horse with a blanket covered shape thrown over the saddle. Even smaller was the bunch who came off the porch and followed them towards the small building which housed the undertaker.

  A small, fat, cheerful-looking man stepped from the building, which was also a store. He glanced at Tench, then at the still shape, and with no show of emotion said. “Bring him in here, please. You can lay him on the bench. I started to make a box when I heard Mason rode out there this morning. Figgered I’d need it one way or another.”

  “Take off his coat, friend,” Waco put in. “I’m a Ranger and I want that coat for evidence.”

  The town marshal came in while the coat was being removed. He was a small, tough-looking old-timer with a long, flowing moustache and quick, bright eyes. From his clothes he was not rich and that meant he was probably honest. He nodded a greeting, watched Waco sling the coat over his arm, then asked, “You are two Rangers?”

  “Why, sure,” Waco agreed.

  “Best come down the office then.” The marshal’s tones were reserved, neither friendly nor antagonistic. His eyes were more friendly when he turned to Bill Tench. “Come on, boy.”

  It was a small office, not even as large or comfortable as Captain Mosehan’s spartan establishment in Tucson. It was only one room attached to the jail, which looked strong enough to hold in a very weak, one-armed midget.

  “The name’s Ted Hanks,” the marshal said as soon as they entered and took the rickety chairs to sit at the desk. “Real pleased you brought Bill in alive.”

&n
bsp; Doc stamped hard on Waco’s foot, stopping the young man’s angry words, and growled, “We allus try to bring them in alive. Captain Mosehan likes it that way.”

  “No offence,” Hanks grunted, noting the anger in the faces of the two Texans. “So you pair are Rangers. You look like you can handle it all right.”

  “We try.”

  Hanks turned his attention to Bill Tench and shook his head sadly. “So it come to this, did it, Bill?”

  Tench shook his head worriedly. He still looked dazed and wondered what Waco wanted the coat for. It must be evidence against him and that meant these two soft talking, friendly-acting men did not believe him at all.

  “I don’t know what went wrong,” he answered. “All I know is Mason come out to my place and told me he’d won Joey’s share. Then when I said Joey wasn’t a partner he called me a liar and reached down. I drew on him because I thought he was armed.”

  “That figgers,” Hanks agreed.

  In the west a man never used the word liar, unless he was ready, willing and able to reach down for his gun real fast and back his words with hot lead. Waco could see that if this ever came to a trial a good lawyer would make much of this statement. Then he heard what Hanks said next.

  “That’s not the way Joey Smith’s been telling it around town.”

  “How’s Smith telling it?” Waco asked, all attention again.

  “Allows Bill waited until Mason turned to walk away, then shot him in the back.”

  Tench lurched forward, his hands clenched so hard the knuckles showed white. “Why would he say that?” he asked. “Mason was facing me when he made his move. I don’t know how the bullet got into his back.”

  “Not the way Smith’s telling it, boy. He’s telled me and near on every other man in town you hit Mason in the back. Started trying to stir up some bad feeling, but none of the cowhands round here are going to do nothing foolish. They know you and they like you. There’s only Mason boys who might try and start something.”

  “But he’s lying in his teeth,” Tench yelled. “I tell—”

  Hanks was looking down at the jacket, his attention on the hole in the middle of the back.

  “I thought that all along, Bill. But that hole looks real bad and there’s some it won’t please to think you didn’t shoot Mason down in cold blood. I warned you against that drunken no-good all along. Any man Texas John sets afoot and fires ain’t wuth his keeping. Smith never took to you saving your money when he was off drinking and bucking the tiger, and he didn’t take to you buying that spread. I knew there’d be trouble when you took him on. Even had to take his gun off him last night when he came in to town and started raising hell.”

  Before Hanks could go on further with what he was saying, the door of his office crashed back and two big, burly men swaggered in. They had all the appearance of a prime pair of range bullies and their low-tied guns showed much use.

  “You got Tench?” the taller of the pair growled. “Good, now we’ll take him off your hands and save the county the cost of a trial.”

  “That’s right,” the second went on, eyeing Hanks. “So you just turn him over to us nice and peaceable, Ted, and there won’t be no trouble at all.”

  Hanks scowled and started to get to his feet, but before he could it was Waco who spoke up.

  “He’s our prisoner.”

  The two hard-cases studied the two Texans, who were now on their feet. Then the taller of them spat on the floor.

  “We still wants him.”

  Waco and Doc moved forward so they stood between the two men and Tench. They stood there with that relaxed-looking stance which was a sign they were more than ready to handle things.

  “Then reckon you’ll just have to try and take him,” Doc drawled gently.

  “These boy badges are some lippy, Mr. Ackers,” the taller man sneered.

  “Lippy as muley cows, Mr. Pollan,” Ackers agreed. “Do we show them how it’s done by us?”

  Saying these words Ackers made his move, dropping his hand hip-wise just slightly ahead of Pollan.

  Waco and Doc’s action was even faster and showed that they were completely unaware of the honor Ackers and Pollan were doing them in showing how it was done. The end product was that they stood unalarmed, unshown, unafraid and behind their cocked and lined Colt guns.

  Ackers and Pollan stood very still.

  For a moment the two Rangers stood with their guns out, letting their control of the situation sink into the hard and not usually receptive heads of Mr. Ackers and Mr. Pollan. Then the guns whirled back into leather with the same prestidigial skill they made their appearance.

  “You all still wanting our prisoner?” Doc inquired mildly.

  “If you do say the word and carry right on,” Waco agreed. “If you don’t you’ll find the door right where you left it. Reckon it opens as easy from this side as the other.”

  Pollan studied Ackers and Ackers reviewed Pollan, reading indecision in each other’s face. Neither was willing to make any hostile demonstration against the two Texans and see if they were as accurate as they were fast. They turned to go out of the door, but Pollan decided speech was called for and looked back over his shoulder to make the said speech.

  “Folks round here won’t like this. No matter what Hanks tells you they’ll want to see this killer hang.”

  “Folks don’t allus get what they deserve.” Waco reminded him.

  “Else I’d be President of the Confederate States of America and riding in a coach,” Doc finished for his partner. “But I reckon that some place in this wicked world there’s someone who wants to see you pair more than we do.”

  “Doc, being so polite and well brought up, don’t like to say this.” Waco’s mocking tones were charged with menace. “But we’re quick sick of the sight of both of you. Now if you’ve got a play, make her. If not, fade.”

  “All right, we’re going,” Ackers growled, opening the door. “But folks won’t like it when they hear.”

  “We mourns for them before and afters,” Waco answered. “Drift!”

  The door closed far more gently than it opened for Mr. Ackers and Mr. Pollan. Hanks looked at the door for a moment, then at the two Rangers. There was a new respect in his eyes now and he wiped his face with a bandana, then remarked: “I never saw Ackers and Pollan back down that easy afore.”

  “Them the gambler’s two hired guns?” Doc asked, and when Hanks nodded, went on, “I never yet saw two guns so keen to back up a dead man. Thought they’d be headed out looking for a new boss now the pay stops.”

  Waco went to the window and watched the two men enter the saloon. “Anything to that lynch talk?” he asked.

  “Nope, not for Bill here there ain’t,” Hanks replied. “Ackers and Pollan just thought they might be able to bluff me into handing over Bill.”

  “You scare ’bout as easy as Waco here.” Doc drawled. “And you seen him just now. He’s a bundle of nerves.”

  “What was you saying about Smith’s gun?” Waco asked suddenly.

  “Took it off him last night,” Hanks replied and lifted a worn Colt Civilian Peacemaker from the drawer of his desk. “He was howling for war and all set to get hisself killed by Mason’s guns.”

  Waco picked up the Smith and Wesson gun from the table and stuck it in his waistband. “Let’s go get us a meal, Doc,” he suggested.

  “All right, boy.” Doc was used to his partner by now. “I feel a mite gut-shrunk myself. Say, where’s that hombre Smith at?”

  “Down to the saloon, been there all day holding the bar up,” Hanks replied.

  “Bueno.” Waco jerked a thumb towards the jacket on the table. “Take care of that, although I don’t reckon we’ll need it any.”

  “Sure. How about Bill here?”

  “Best let him stay a spell. See you.”

  The saloon was busy as Waco and Doc pushed open the batwing doors and went through, halting to look around. The cowhands at the tables and the bar were all noisy and seemed hap
py enough. There was none of the hard drinking or the sullen, brooding silence that usually went with a lynch mob. One man alone at the bar did not appear to be part of the happy groups around. He was a sullenly handsome young cowhand, his clothes worn and dirty, his boots run over at the heels and his face unshaven. He stood there looking down moodily at the empty glass in his hand. The bardog caught the inquiring look this man gave and with a contemptuous gesture picked up the bottle, then hammered home the cork with the heel of his hand in a sign that the man’s credit was nonexistent.

  Waco saw this byplay, then observed Ackers and Pollan standing by the door of the backroom and watching them. Apparently the two gunmen had made good use of their time and were outside a couple of strong snorts of brave maker. They advanced across the room. Pollan was the nearest and he asked in a loud voice, “What the hell are you after here?”

  “Neither you or your partner,” Waco replied.

  Pollan considered his reputation in the town, then he considered that guns were not the answer to the question. He could see the cowhands were watching him, waiting to see what he intended to do. Considering this, he made his move, a hard swung punch. The result was no more satisfactory than his previous attempt.

  There are two ways of performing the flying mare throw of wrestling. The gentle way is to lever the arm down so the joint is able to bend while the throw is being made. The other way was how Waco did it. His head moved aside and his hands came up to catch the wrist, twist it so the elbow joint was on his shoulder. Then he levered hard. Pollan appeared to be taking wings, he had to go or break his arm.

  Lunging forward, Ackers was about to help his friend who just lit down with a bone-jarring thud. A slim, pallid-faced, studious shape was in front of Pollan and a soft, Texas voice asked. “You wanting something, friend?”

  “Nope, nothing at all,” Ackers replied, halting, his proposed course of operation holding no attraction for him now.

  Waco and Doc strolled on to the bar, knowing all eyes were on them. A man rose and greeted them. He was an old acquaintance from their cowhand days and introduced them to his friends at the bar.