Sagebrush Sleuth (A Waco Western #2)

by J. T. Edson

  “Waal, Cap’n Bert says for us to get back to Tucson,” Waco replied.

  “Sure, but he allus tells us to help the local law. This comes under the heading of helping the local law, keeping the sheriff here in office.” Doc answered. “We’d be real pleased to stay on here for a spell.”

  “Just until tomorrow, let the hosses rest up,” Waco pointed out.

  Hendricks agreed to this and dug out a sheaf of “wanted” posters, asking them if they’d like to check through and see if they could tie Wendee in with one. They accepted and set to work, looking through. Some were out of date, having been most effectively dealt with by the Rangers, and these they put on one side, for the owners were either dead or making hair-bridles in jail. The smiling face of Curly Bill Brocious looked up at them and Doc coughed, then covered it quickly, for he still felt rather guilty.

  The study of the photographs took them all of an hour, and they were just at the end of the pile when they heard the deep crack of a shotgun from somewhere near at hand. Coming to their feet they looked inquiringly at the sheriff, who smiled.

  “No trouble there. You come along with me and I’ll show you some sport.”

  They left the office and went round the back of the town. In the distance they could see a small knot of boys standing round something. Going closer, the thing turned into a kind of tripod with a heavy-weighted bar suspended from it, looking like the counter-weighted pole on a Mexican well. At the side of the tripod, which was mounted on an old buggy bottom, was a cranking handle and a couple of boys were turning it. The unweighted end of the bar was drawn down and a third boy put a round clay ball in a depression at the end of it. He stood back, nodded to another boy who stood holding a shotgun, then pulled a lever. The weighted end of the bar came crashing down and the clay ball sailed up into the air. The boy brought up his shotgun, swinging his body as he lined it, then fired. The ball burst in the air and the other boys cheered. Aimes stepped forward, holding out his hand. Before he passed over the gun, the boy broke it open and removed the empty case.

  “Say, what is that thing?” Waco asked.

  “A working model of an ancient Roman siege catapult,” Doc replied. “They used them before gunpowder was invented. The boys are using it like a clay pigeon trap thrower.”

  “It’s not easy, either,” Hendricks put in. “A whole lot of men round town saw Martin do it and thought it was. They learned different.”

  Aimes greeted the other men with a friendly smile. Here in his element he was transformed and his lack of inches far from apparent. He was obviously very proud of that siege engine and waved a hand to it.

  “The boys made it themselves in their vacation time. Handicrafts, mathematics, care in handling firearms and good sport, all in one lesson.”

  Waco could see several of the boys held shotguns, yet they were not fooling about with the weapons, all keeping them held under the arm, broken open and empty. One of the boys dashed up to Waco and asked eagerly: “How about hitting one of those balls with your Colt, Waco?”

  “Not me, boy. I can’t shoot that good, I’m not a Dusty Fog. Fact being I don’t reckon even ole Dusty could hit more than two out of three of them balls with a handgun.”

  “How about showing us with a shotgun?” another boy put it. “Mr. Aimes can hit them most every time.”

  Waco accepted the shotgun from the boy. He’d hunted quail with a shotgun and for sport in Texas, but not for almost a year. The boy loading the catapult pulled his lever and the ball hurled up into the air, flying at a fair speed and with a curious angling movement, almost like the flight of a bird. He brought up the gun, leading what he thought would be the correct distance and swinging with the shot as he fired. He knew as soon as he squeezed off the trigger that he had missed. The ball flew on, to yells of surprise from the boys.

  “No more for me,” he answered, as they asked him to try again. “I never was much use with a shotgun. I’ll have to get Mr. Aimes here to teach me how.”

  The boys all stared with renewed admiration at this admission from a man like Waco of the Rangers. He could not use a shotgun as well as their teacher and wanted Mr. Aimes to teach him a lesson or two.

  Another man came up. The sheriff turned and growled. “What do you want here, Wendee?”

  “Just come up to see what all the shooting was about,” the man answered, with a wary eye on Waco. Then he saw Aimes, in answer to the requests of his pupils, take up a shotgun. Wendee saw his chance to make his rival look a fool, and sneered, “Do you reckon that’s hard? There ain’t a thing to doing it.”

  Waco took a couple of shells from the box a youngster held, broke open the shotgun and slipped them into the breech, then handed the weapon to Wendee. “Here, let us see how you do it, if it’s so easy.”

  With a sneer on his face, Wendee stood next to Aimes. The sneer died as the ball hurled into the air and he tried to get a line on it. Both barrels roared out fast, missing completely. Then with a smooth turn of his body, Aimes brought up his own gun and squeezed off the shot. The ball burst in the air and the dust floated down.

  Wendee scowled and turned towards the other men. “I wasn’t set,” he growled.

  “You keep that gun pointed out there away from folks,” a boy yelled. “Only a fool points a gun towards anybody.”

  Waco laughed and slapped Aimes on the shoulder. “You’ve got them trained the right way, boy. Give it another try. I’d surely like to see the Bill Show hand here hit one.”

  Three more times Wendee tried and failed to connect lead with one of those fast-flying balls. Each time after the ball went on untouched Aimes would turn with that same fluid move and fire. Each time Wendee’s mortification increased as the ball shattered and dust drifted off in the wind. He finally turned, handed the shotgun to one of the boys and stamped away, his face red as he heard the laughter of the youngsters he hoped to impress.

  “That’s a real angry man there,” Hendricks remarked. “He’ll bear watching. What do you think, Waco?”

  “He’s all paw and beller,” Waco replied. “Reminds me a whole lot of Wyatt Earp. Likes to be the center of attraction, but no good unless he’s got all the edges and the other side isn’t too tough.”

  “Was I you, I’d surely tell him his cinch was frayed around town,” Doc put in. “He’ll make trouble sooner or later if you don’t.”

  ~*~

  The church hall where the dance was to be held was crowded on the night of the dance, the room presenting a gay appearance as the cowhands, not quiet dressers at any time, came to town in their low-neck clothes, ready to spend a night having fun enough to make up for the long hours of work on the range.

  Hendricks’ deputies disarmed each man at the door, checking his guns in along with his hat. This was a simple precaution, not because they were proddy killers, but because the cowhand was likely to fire off his gun into the air when he got excited, and the church hall was only just re-roofed.

  Waco and Doc arrived, dressed in their good clothes, washed and shaved, smelling of bay rum and looking tidied up after a much-needed visit to the town barber. Both wore their guns and no one thought anything of that. They were just as wild and reckless as any of these sons of the saddle, but they had their position in the Arizona Rangers to consider and would never think of discharging their guns just for fun.

  All went well for a time, the cowhands coming and going between the dance floor and the saloon, yet none of them getting over-drunk. There were not enough ladies to partner everyone, so several men wore white bandanas tied round one arm to indicate they were “ladies” in any square dance. Sometimes, when the evening wore on, the dancing would get a little wild, and if the gentlemen forgot themselves the “ladies” were well capable of taking care of themselves.

  Waco and Doc were moving amongst the crowd, relaxing and taking it easy for the first time since the Rangers started. They were the guests of honor, and several women who at other times would have regarded them with the same tolerance and di
strust as the other cowhands, now were polite and friendly.

  Around ten o’clock the cowhands were starting to whoop things up, and more staid of the ladies started to leave. The younger women, flushed and happy looking, were staying on. It was then that Waco saw Wendee.

  The man had just come in through the door and stood there, rocking slightly in his high heels, looking around him. The deputies were now away from the door and having a bite to eat, and so no one was there to take Wendee’s gunbelt from him. He crossed the room, making for where Connie and Aimes sat talking.

  “Howdy, schoolmarm,” he greeted drunkenly, swaying over them. “Why ain’t you with the other ole women? Don’t all them rough boys scare you?”

  “You’re drunk,” Aimes replied softly.

  “Sure I’m drunk. A man likes to get drunk once in a while, but you wouldn’t know about that. You ain’t a man, just a sniveling li’l rat who hides behind a two-gun killer with a badge. All you’re good for is to teach kids that gunmen are no good.”

  Aimes’s face flushed red and he rose, turning to Connie to apologize. It was a bad mistake, for Wendee smashed both fists down on the back of Aimes’s neck, knocking the small man down. With a snarl of triumph, Wendee lunged in, drawing back his foot. Before the kick could be launched, a hand gripped Wendee by the collar and he was hurled backwards, his feet fighting to hold on the waxed floor. He hit the floor hard and looked up at Waco, who stood facing him.

  “I ain’t stacking against no professional gun,” he mumbled.

  “Get that gunbelt off and I’ll shed mine,” Waco replied.

  This was a situation which held some appeal to Wendee, for he was as tall almost as the Ranger, and heavier. He also knew something of the art of dirty fighting, and once into the fight he reckoned he would have enough of the edge to let him half kill the Texan.

  Slowly he removed his gunbelt and tossed it behind him, but the bowie knife was still sheathed at his back. He watched the crowd forcing back to make a circle around the dance floor and knew all of them would want to see him beaten. He watched Waco remove the buscadero gunbelt and pass it back to Doc who was looking on with amused tolerance and certainly without any worry over the result.

  Sheriff Hendricks was about to intervene, but he knew that it was too late. He hoped the young Ranger knew what he was doing.

  Waco did know. From his good friend, Mark Counter, accredited one of the finest fist fighters alive, Waco had received much and valuable instruction in the art of rough-house brawling. It was a talent he rarely exercised, for there was little fist fighting done in the West. A man with a gun strapped to his side was not going to waste time settling an argument with such primitive things as bare hands.

  The two men faced each other. Waco moving lightly on the balls of his feet like a stalking cat.

  “Knife!” a cowboy yelled.

  Wendee lunged in, the saw-edged bowie knife ripping round at Waco’s stomach. A woman screamed and Waco jerked back avoiding the slash. Across the floor Hendricks dropped his hand to his gun butt, but Doc Leroy’s grip on his sleeve held him. Doc was watching everything with the same air of amused tolerance he’d shown at the start of the fight.

  “Know something?” he said to the sheriff. “Ole Wendee shouldn’t have done that. Now he’s gone and riled the boy.”

  Backwards across the floor Waco went, balancing well on the slippery surface and avoiding the ripping cuts of the knife with the grace of a ballet dancer. He was driven right back until his supporters started to yell a warning that he was in danger of being driven into the refreshment table.

  The table was half-emptied of food, but a full jug of lemonade stood in the center. It was this Waco caught up, swinging his arm round in a looping throw which sent the liquid flying at Wendee.

  The terror yelled as homemade lemonade splashed into his face, blinding him. He staggered back and Waco followed him, a Justin boot lashing up to catch the knife hand. Pain made Wendee release his hold of the blade and it slid across the floor. Turning, wiping the lemonade from his eyes, Wendee hurled after the knife, his hand clawing for the hilt of the weapon. He almost made it. Waco followed him up, lifting one foot high and bringing the rowel of his Kelly spur ripping across the back of Wendee’s hand. The terror howled again, forgot his knife and clawed wildly, trying to get hold of Waco’s leg. The young Texan bent, caught a double handful of fancy buckskin shirt and hauled Wendee to his feet, then hit him. It was a beautiful blow, thrown with all the weight of his body behind it. Wendee went backwards, hit the wall and stood there, his nose pouring blood. He got his foot up as Waco came after him, and although pain was making his head spin, pushed hard.

  Waco went backwards, he lost his foothold and went down, and before he could rise Wendee was hurling at him, leaping into the air, meaning to come down full on him with both feet. Waco rolled aside, the other’s boots smashing on to the floor just behind him. Then he twisted and gripped Wendee’s ankle with one hand, put the other on his knee and pushed hard. Wendee staggered backwards across the floor, once more fighting to keep his balance. He smashed into the lemonade table and it broke under his weight, depositing him in a heap on the floor.

  Coming up, Waco went after Wendee, his face a hard, savage fighting mask now. He dragged the dazed man to his feet, let loose and smashed him full in the stomach with a right, then brought up a left which flung Wendee into the wall.

  “Enough!” Wendee croaked.

  Unfortunately, just saying “enough” wasn’t good enough for Waco. He was, as Doc predicted, riled. So riled that it took three of Hendrick’s deputies to pull him from Wendee to prevent murder being done. Even so, he’d altered the shape of Wendee’s face more than somewhat before they got him prised off. The three men held Waco, who was breathing hard, his eyes still angry, hating this man who was a bully and a coward and who did not even fight well when the time came to meet a man who was his equal in size and weight.

  Wendee got to his feet, his face bloody and bruised where the Texan’s hardened fists had smashed home. He spat out a smashed tooth and muttered:

  “You tell the schoolmarm I’ll be looking for him. He can’t hide behind the Ranger all the ...”

  The three men holding Waco were strong. They’d handled drunken cowhands before with no trouble. He tore free of their hands like they were the little, puny restraints of a newborn babe. Wendee saw him coming in, but was too dazed and slow to make a move.

  Like Mark Counter taught him, Waco shot out his clenched fist, throwing it with every ounce of strength behind it. The crack of it driving into Wendee’s jaw sounded like two king-sized billiard balls striking together. Wendee looked as if he was running backwards across the room. The crowd scattered to allow him free passage, and all saw that his nose appeared to be spread over most of his face.

  A cowhand walked out of the room after Wendee, watched with admiration the way Wendee went down the two steps and landed flat on his back. Turning, the cowhand returned to the dance floor and grinned, “Simmer down, Ranger,” he said. “Ole Wendee’s all tuckered out and sleeping.”

  Waco lowered his hands, relaxing. His breathing was hard but it slowed and the savage anger left his eyes. The three deputies who were waiting with some trepidation to try and grab him again if it was necessary, looked relieved. They would sooner have tangled with a cornered mountain cat than go against Waco when he was in that sort of mood.

  Doc turned his attention to where Aimes was getting to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. Then glancing at Hendricks he remarked:

  “I told you he’d gone and riled the boy, pulling a knife in a fair fight.” Then to Aimes, “Relax now and set down. Don’t you have no more sense than turn your back on a polecat like Wendee?”

  “I heard what he just said,” Aimes replied angrily. “And I don’t want any man to fight my battles.”

  “Why not?” Waco asked, coming up and shaking his left hand, working the fingers in an effort to get the numbness out of them. “You pay yo
ur taxes like a good citizen and out of them taxes I get my pay to handle toughs like Wendee. It’s as easy as all get out.”

  “No it isn’t,” Aimes replied, his face flushed and angry. “Twice Wendee started to pick on me, and twice you have had to cut in and save me.”

  “Why sure, so don’t you go letting your taxes lapse none. I need the money.”

  The band started up again and the dance started once more, the guests not intending to spoil their evening because a drunk got something he needed badly. Hendricks came across the room and said, “I’ve told two of my boys to take Wendee to the hotel. Tomorrow I’m telling him to move on again.”

  Doc turned to Waco and shook his head sadly. “You’ve surely got a mean temper when you’re riled, boy. Knowing me don’t seem to improve you none, either.”

  “It surely don’t,” Waco agreed, then looked for Aimes. “You forget him, Martin. He’ll be gone soon.”

  Aimes did not reply, but turned and walked from the room. Connie followed him out, but before Waco or Doc could decide on any course of action, they were brought into a square dance and were soon having fun, forgetting the whole incident.

  ~*~

  “Now that was a fair dance,” Doc said cheerfully.

  “Sure, near on as good as one of Ole Devil’s Christmas Turkey Shoot Balls.”

  Doc looked at his young friend, knowing how he felt about Dusty Fog and the other members of the floating outfit of Ole Devil Hardin’s great OD Connected spread in the Rio Hondo.

  “When are you going back to them?” he asked.

  “Not until Cap’n Bert resigns from the Rangers,” Waco replied. “I don’t cotton to this law wrangling, but I’ll stay on as long as Cap’n Bert’s the boss.”

  They were seated on the bunks of a cell in the Bellrope jail. In the next cell a couple of drunken cowhands were sleeping noisily. The doors of both cells were open for Waco and Doc were not prisoners, and the two cowhands free to go when they awoke.