by J. T. Edson
“That’s Smith,” Doc remarked softly, pointing to the sullen man who was now staring at his empty glass.
Waco glanced at the man, noting his generally untidy dress did not go with the ornate, silver-mounted, ivory-butted Peacemaker which rode rather high in his holster.
The talk turned to the shooting and although most of the cowhands at the bar didn’t agree with Waco and Doc bringing Tench in, none of them appeared to think he was guilty of murder.
Waco took the gun from his waistband, showing it to the cowhands and saying, “This’s the gun Bill used. Any of you boys ever seen it afore?”
“Sure,” a man replied. “I saw him with it a few days back, just after he bought it; was real proud of it. One of them new-fangled double-shooting guns, ain’t it?”
“Sure,” Waco agreed.
“Don’t like them much,” another of the men put in.
“Or me,” Waco agreed, seeing his chance and getting the opening he’d been hoping for when he brought the gun along with him. “They get off their shots too fast for me.”
“Don’t see that,” the one who’d recognized the gun objected.
“Tell you though,” Waco ignored the question for the minute. “Mason and Bill Tench weren’t friends. Yet when Mason went out there to see Bill he wore a gunbelt but didn’t have a gun in the holster.”
Ackers and Pollan were at the bar now, at the far end. Pollan opened his mouth to say something, but Ackers shook his head. Smith was looking along at Waco with eyes that were fast becoming sober and scared.
“So Mason didn’t have a gun?” he growled.
“I don’t see how a man could get his shots off so fast,” the young cowhand put in, eager to learn about guns from an acknowledged master like Waco.
“Mind, one time when I was riding for Clay Allison,” Waco explained. “Ole Clay’s real good with a gun as you’ll likely all know. Well, this gunhand went after Clay and they drew. Clay’s real fast, but he can’t use two guns at the same time. Fact is, I ain’t seen but Dusty Fog who can. Well, ole Clay drew and shot left, then right a damned sight faster than I just said it. The first shot hit the gunny in the shoulder up high, just touched him and ripped through his coat, but it spun him right round and the other bullet caught the gunny in the middle of the back.”
Smith’s face was ashy pale. He stared at Waco and opened his mouth to say something, then lurched from the bar. He’d hardly taken more than a couple of steps when Waco spoke again.
“I thought the marshal took your gun from you, Smith,” he said. “That’s a real fine one you’re wearing.”
Smith came round, his hand going down to the gun-butt. Waco’s matched guns were out before the move was made. The right hand threw a bullet which just grazed Smith’s shoulder, spinning him, and on the tail of the bullet Waco’s shot tore Smith’s cheap woolsey hat off from behind.
“That’s how it happened out at Bill Tench’s place,” Waco told the crowd. “I knew Bill hadn’t shot Mason in the back as soon as I saw the hole in his coat. It carried powder burns but the wound at his shoulder didn’t. Not at the back anyhow. It did at the front. Then I knew what’d happened. I almost guessed at the rest of it when I saw the empty holster. When I heard Smith lost his gun the night before, I knew I was right. He took the gun, pushed it into his holster while Doc was watching me. Thought I’d likely kill Bill, or that Ackers and Pollan would get their revenge on him for licking them.”
“Thought it was strange, a man going to see an enemy wearing a gunbelt and no gun,” Doc admitted. “That’d be asking for trouble.”
“Sure,” Waco agreed. “I thought Smith might have thrown the gun away and was going back to make a search for it after I brought it in. Then when I saw that gun in Smith’s holster, I knew I needn’t bother. It’s one of the Artillery models, like mine, with a five and a-half inch barrel. Smith’s holster is made for the Civilian model, with the four and three-quarter inch barrel. So the gun rode high in the holster.”
“What you going to do with Smith, Ranger?” a man asked.
“Nothing we can do, much,” Waco replied. “It’s left to Bill Tench. Reckon that Smith’s going to set afoot again.”
Case Seven – Bill Wendee Likes an Edge
The town of Bellrope, Arizona Territory, was blessed with a long-haired, two-gun terror. Bill Wendee rode in one day, coming from the east, astride a fine-looking claybank with a fancy Cheyenne roll saddle inlaid with silver.
The possession of such a man as Wendee did not cause any great rejoicing in the quiet little county seat, even though he made a fine figure of a man as he strode around amongst the more quietly dressed fellows. Six foot tall he stood, although the shining, high-heeled boots with the great Spanish-style spurs made him look even taller, and the high-crowned, snow-white Stetson hat added more inches to his stature. He was wide of shoulder and his carriage was graceful, while his shoulder-long hair and sweeping moustache reminded the older men who knew him, of Wild Bill Hickok, the late, though not lamented Kansas lawman. He wore a fancy buckskin shirt and the long flowing, sky-blue bandana hung almost to the waist of it, where the wide Sioux wamptim belt supported his skintight gray trousers. The trousers were so tight they could hardly have been comfortable and were tucked without a crease into the boots. Around his waist was a shining black gunbelt supporting matched pearl-handled, nickel-plated Colt Cavalry Peacemakers. From his back, in a cunningly devised sheath, was a bowie knife with a saw edge.
Who he was and where he came from no man in this town asked him. That was never done in the old West, for a man was free to come and go where he pleased. There were rumors about him, varying from the mocking that he was a rich dude who’d fallen in love with a girl in Buffalo Bill Cody’s show and now come west to try and find her again, to the suspicious, which had Sheriff Daniel Hendricks going through his “wanted” posters trying to decide which men would look like this with the aid of long hair and a moustache.
For his part, Wendee stayed at the Hotel, paid his account regularly and apart from pistol-whipping a cowboy who made fun of him, caused no trouble at all. He might have lived out the rest of his days there, accepted, if not respected, if love had not come his way.
At least, love might be the term for what he felt for Connie Hendricks, the pretty red-haired daughter of the sheriff. He’d seen her on her way to school, where she helped Martin Aimes, the teacher. Whatever his feelings might have been towards her, there was no doubt about how she felt where he was concerned. With the range-bred woman’s distrust of such a fancy-looking dresser she never gave him any encouragement whatsoever, preferring Martin Aimes, the small, soft-spoken school-teacher.
Whatever the reason, it brought Wendee to hate Aimes, and this morning to set out meaning to humiliate his rival in front of the pupils of the school.
Martin Aimes stood before the main doors of the little white-painted schoolhouse, which was the pride and joy of the county. In his hand he held a bell and swung it to attract the attention and hurry the lagging feet of the pupils who were now streaming towards him. He breathed deeply and looked around; this was a good place for a man to live. The town was not a rowdy cattle metropolis and was getting more and more like an Eastern county seat all the time. He was a small man, good looking in a quiet way, dressed in a neat store suit and bareheaded. The boys here liked, respected and listened to what he taught them.
Connie Hendricks stood just behind Aimes, her eyes on him. Neither of them paid any attention to anything other than the children who were going into the classrooms beyond them. Only the older boys were left to come in now, and the swinging bell ceased its clatter as they trooped towards the school. For a time Wendee stood watching the young teacher, then drew his right-hand Colt. Here was his chance to make a grandstand play for these boys.
The crash of the shot rang loud and the bell was torn from Aimes’s hand, hitting the ground. Wendee ambled forward, the gun still smoking in his hand, a wolfish leer on his face.
“How
was that for shooting?” he asked the boys, then before they could answer him, turned to Aimes. “Instead of telling them such foolishness as you do, why don’t you teach them something useful, like how to shoot?” He whirled the Colt on his finger, pin wheeling it before the admiring looks of the boys. “They don’t need to know fool stuff like reading and writing, schoolmarm, just how to use a gun. Watch this, boys!”
The gun settled in Wendee’s palm and crashed again. Dirt erupted between Aimes’s feet, but he did not move. Wendee, hoping to make the teacher leap in fright, lined and fired again, sending another bullet even nearer.
Two riders were coming slowly towards the party outside the school, but none noticed them, all eyes were on Aimes and Wendee. The taller of the pair reached down, unstrapping the rope from his saddle horn, then sent his huge paint stallion forward fast. With a quick swing and whirl that built up a loop, he sent it up to the right, overhead and shooting out in a perfectly done hooley-ann throw, dropping neatly over Wendee’s shoulders and down. When the noose was level with the terror’s elbows, the paint stopped and wrenched it tight. Wendee gave a startled yell as the rope came tight, pinning his arms, slamming them to his sides. He almost lost his grip of the gun and was only just in time to prevent dropping the hammer and having the heavy bullet down his leg. He lost his balance and was smashed down on to his back, with his legs waving feebly in the air. Snarling with rage he worked the rope loose and tried to get his left-hand gun out, for the right lay where it fell, some distance from him. The Colt was just out when the big horse lunged back again, dragging Wendee backwards and causing him to lose the second gun.
The rope loosened and Wendee worked his arms free, whirling as soon as he was loose and reaching for his bowie knife.
The rider of the paint, a tall, wide-shouldered, handsome blond Texan boy, threw a long leg over the saddle horn and dropped lightly to the ground, the big horse never making a move to leave him.
“Don’t try it, hombre,” his soft drawling voice giving a flat warning. “Ain’t but the Ysabel Kid can lick a good gun with a knife. And mister, you aren’t the Ysabel Kid at all.”
Wendee studied the young man, not noticing the second rider who sat back in his saddle watching everything with sardonic eyes. The young Texan wore range clothes and that buscadero gunbelt had been made by a master at his trade, while the matched, staghorn-handled Colt Artillery Peacemaker hung just right for a very fast withdrawal. Wendee noticed the relaxed-looking pose, the stance of a really fast man, the air of a master of the noble art of triggernometry.
Coming up erect, his face red with humiliation, hearing the giggles of the very boys he’d hoped to impress, Wendee clenched his fists and snarled, “All right, come on, cow-nurse.”
“Ranger, not cow-nurse, friend.” The Texan’s voice was mocking. “The name’s Waco. You’re dressed like a man, pick them up and use them like one.”
Wendee started to bend over for the guns. Then the name hit him like a club and brought to an end any ideas he might have had of shooting it out. Since the Ranger organization was brought into being, that name, Waco, was known throughout the territory as an exponent of the noble art of fast gunplay. It was a name to speak of in the same breath as other Texan masters of the quick-trigger art. A name which ranked alongside Dusty Fog, Mark Counter, Wes Hardin, or any of the other top Texas boys whose names stood for fast work with a gun.
In other words, it was a name which spelled fight, and in any fight Bill Wendee liked to have a considerable edge over his opponent. In any kind of gunplay with a man like Waco there was no edge at all, unless ...
“Shucks, I was only funning, Ranger. I don’t want no trouble at all.”
The Ranger gave his full attention to coiling the long rope, ignoring Wendee. The latter bent over and picked up one of his fallen guns, easing the hammer back under his thumb, carefully to try and avoid the warning click as the weapon came to full cock. Yet, for all his caution, there was a click. It came from a direction Wendee wasn’t looking. He looked up and met the cold mocking, eyes of a pallid, studious-looking young man a’fork a big black horse. Another Texan by his dress, although he wore a coat, the right side of which was stitched back to leave clear access to his holster.
Wendee held down a curse as he realized this would be Waco’s partner, Doc Leroy, and mild and studious though he looked, he too was one of the really fast men with a gun.
“What the—?” Wendee began.
“Just saving your life, friend,” Doc replied, and nodded to Waco. “Look!”
Wendee looked and paled under his tan, for his move would have been a failure. Waco stood there with his matched guns in his hands, both lined full on the center of the fancy buckskin shirt. The guns made a whirling turn that made Wendee’s pin wheel look like the bumbling of an amateur, then ended up back in leather again.
A boy laughed aloud and Wendee snarled. “A man don’t stand no chance against you Rangers, you allus works in twos.”
Waco spoke over his shoulder, his eyes staying on Wendee. “Doc, you just take this ole dusty hoss of mine along to the sheriff’s office and wait for me there.”
“I’ll do just that, boy,” Doc replied, riding forward and reaching for the paint’s reins. He led the horse along the street, coiling Waco’s rope as he went and never even looking back.
Waco allowed Doc to get well clear of him before he spoke He saw that the small man, the pretty girl and all the boys were watching him.
“All right, bill-show hand. I’m alone now and not backed by anyone.”
Wendee studied the young Texan for a moment, knowing that all he had to do was drop his hand, grip the butt of his Colt, lift it while his thumb eased back the hammer, line it and fire. That was all. Just make a real fast draw. But he knew that the fastest speed would be of no use, for Waco was far faster.
So with this thought in mind Wendee ignored the implication that he was a fugitive from one of the Wild West shows which were run by men like Buffalo Bill Cody and toured the East.
“No call to get all riled up, Ranger,” he said placatingly. “I was only funning with the schoolmarm there.”
Waco’s hand moved, the twin guns coming out and throwing a shot each. Dust spurts rose between Wendee’s feet and he yelled, then leapt into the air. Dropping his guns back into leather, Waco looked the other man over in disgust and snapped out a request for Wendee to depart for other parts.
There was hatred and anger on Wendee’s face as he turned and walked away. For one moment he thought of whirling round and settling the matter with roaring guns. Sanity and prudence held his hand, for he knew that if he tried it would die before his turn was made.
Aimes tried to get the attention of the boys and herd them into the school, but for once they were more interested in something other than his style of learning. He could tell from the excited way they were watching the Rangers that there would be trouble in getting them to concentrate on work after this.
“Thank you, Ranger,” he said, remembering he owed this smiling young Texan something. “I, er—I—that is—”
“Right pleased to be of help,” Waco said. “Your job and mine gets the same sometimes. You try and put sense into these buttons. I have to do it with older men.”
Aimes realized that the boys were listening to every word and knew, instinctively, his prestige had gone up slightly by the famous young Ranger saying their work ran parallel at times. However, he wanted them in the school and working, not standing outside watching a young man whose fame lay mostly in his skill with a gun.
“All right, boys. Inside all of you. Come on, move. We have some work to do before you get a chance to use the catapult.”
There was a rush for the door at the words. Waco watched them go and grinned at the teacher. “Real dangerous things, catapults. You’ll likely have their mothers round after you, teaching them things like that.”
“You’d better come along and protect me, then,” Aimes’s voice was bitter.
&nb
sp; “Listen, Ranger!” Connie stepped forward, her blue eyes flashing anger at the tall young Texan who she thought was belittling Martin Aimes. “Martin isn’t afraid of that mouthy no-good. He is—”
“Ma’am any man who stands still and lets two bullets hit between his feet is all right in my tally book,” Waco interrupted, with a grin on his face that made her think he was only as old as the boys just going into class.
Connie appeared mollified by the fact that the Ranger saw more to Martin Aimes than just a small, mild man who allowed a bully to shoot at him. She caught Aimes’s eye and he smiled at her, then turned to Waco.
“Thanks again, Ranger. I’d better go and start the class.”
~*~
Doc was seated at the desk in the sheriff’s office when Waco came in. Hendricks, the sheriff was seated at the other side. He rose with a smile of welcome, a big, powerful-looking man, dressed well and with thinning red hair.
“Wendee cashed in yet?” he asked.
“Nope, he scared me off,” Waco replied, looking at the letter which lay in front of Doc. “Tolerable fierce hombre he is. Orders, Doc?”
“From Cap’n Bert hisself. That nasty ole Cap’n allows we’ve took long enough looking for the Apache Kid and for us to head back to Tucson as fast as we can. He says if we haven’t found the Kid yet, he’ll send out a real good team to try.”
“Now that hurts,” Waco replied. “If I hadn’t drawed on last month’s pay and next month’s. I’d sure quit.”
“Says the Army’s real pleased that you got Hernandez and Torredos, and they aren’t riled at us for helping ole Curly Bill get away any more.”
Hendricks looked the two young men over, liking what he saw. Their reputation was well known to him and he’d left them to handle Wendee instead of going along himself when he saw what the bully was doing. He was pleased he did leave Waco to handle things, for his views on Bill Wendee were not flattering and he was satisfied now that they were correct.
“You pair can stay the night here, anyhow,” he said. “The Ladies’ Civic Reform Committee have a dance on, and they’d surely have me out of office if they think I let you two slip by without visiting them.”