by Edson, J. T.
When the Fuente brothers learned that Waxahachie Smith was investigating their criminal activities, they decided that drastic action was called for. As far as they were concerned, the best way to stop a Texas Ranger—short of killing him—was to have his trigger-fingers cut off!
That was a mistake. For Waxahachie Smith was not the kind of man to accept defeat.
Converting his Colt Peacemaker into a ‘slip gun’, and learning a whole new technique for drawing it, Smith acquired an even faster and more deadly skill. Then he went back to finish the job he’d started ...
NO FINGER ON THE TRIGGER
WAXAHACHIE SMITH 1
By J. T. Edson
First published by Transworld Publishers in 1985
Copyright © 1985, 2015 by J. T. Edson
First Smashwords Edition: May 2015
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
For everybody at Kilaguni Lodge, TSA VO WEST, Kenya
with thanks for excellent visits and mingi Tembo
(Tusker Beer) baridi sana.
Heri na baraka, yaku-yote!
Author’s Note
To save our ‘old hands’ repetition, but for the benefit of new readers, we have included certain information regarding the Old West about which we have frequently received requests for clarification in the form of an Appendix.
We realize that, in our present ‘permissive’ society, we could use the actual profanities employed by various people in the narrative. However, we do not concede a spurious desire to create realism is any excuse to do so.
Lastly, as we refuse to pander to the current ‘trendy’ usage of the metric system, except when referring to the caliber of certain firearms traditionally measured in millimeters—i.e. Walther P-38, 9mm—we will continue to employ miles, yards, feet, inches, stones, pounds and ounces, when quoting distances or weights.
J. T. EDSON
Chapter One – A Helluva Way to Go About a Chore
An ear-splitting crash of thunder suddenly rent the air directly overhead, spooking the big claybank gelding already made restless by sensing its rider’s lack of concentration!
Coming almost immediately after the sound, a blinding flash of lightning struck one of the scrubby cottonwoods by the side of the trail!
Showering sparks and charred timber in all directions, the trunk of the tree split from top to bottom!
Six foot two inches in height, the rider was as lean as a steer raised in the greasewood country and gave an impression of being just as whang leather tough. Tanned by long exposure to the elements, the clean shaven features framed by the neatly trimmed sideburns of his not long since barbered reddish-brown hair were too rugged to be termed handsome. However, while generally showing only such emotions as he wished to be seen, it was a face indicative of a strength of will and intelligence which some women found attractive and men either admired or resented.
Even without hearing him speak, to anybody possessed of range savvy, there could be little doubt as to the rider’s origins. The indications started with a low crowned, wide brimmed black hat of a shape as Texan in style as ‘Remember the Alamo!’ and the Lone Star Flag. Less indicative, unless one had known Marvin Eldridge ‘Doc’ Leroy in the days when the Wedge trail crew was one of many driving large herds of half-wild longhorn cattle to the railroad in Kansas, i was his loosely fitting and unfastened brown coat. Its right side was stitched back to leave clear access to the staghorn gripped butt of the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker revolver in the carefully designed and positioned holster at the right side of a wide black gunbelt. It was the rig of a man who either wanted to foster the belief that he was very fast with a gun, or was. The rightly rolled multicolored bandana knotted about his throat, the open necked blue flannel shirt and much-faded Levi’s pants, their legs turned back in deep cuffs—which could serve as a repository for nails or other small items when performing chores needing them—might have been worn by a cowhand in any cattle-raising State. However, his Wellington leg boots, ii with Kelly spurs on their heels, were decorated by the practically obligatory five-pointed star motif for a man born and making his living on the open range country between Oklahoma in the north, the Rio Grande to the south and New Mexico in the west. iii
Further ‘signs of origin’ were offered by the claybank gelding which the rider was sitting with the deft ease of one who spent much of his life in the saddle. Close to sixteen hands, the yellowish color resulted from a cross between a sorrel and a dun. Nevertheless, it had the lines of the great Mogollon strain and bore the brand of the ranch in Central Texas which the owner, a Scottish Highlander, Colin Farquharson, had made famous for breeding and selling horses of high quality. iv In excellent condition, while less suitable for the sudden bursts of rapidity and agility frequently required when working cattle, it was easily up to carrying his weight and the added burden of his belongings for a long distance at a good speed.
Low of horn and double girthed, the rider’s saddle was another indication of the Lone Star State. It was designed to meet the particular needs of cowhands who would be spending long hours a’fork it and intended to hang on to whatever they roped, be it steer, bull, horse or man. His war bag, carrying spare clothing and other portable items of property, was wrapped in his bedroll beneath a tarpaulin sheet and strapped to the cantle. A coiled lariat swung from the horn and, beneath his left leg, a Winchester Model of 1876 rifle rode with the butt pointing forward to facilitate easy withdrawal on dismounting. The rig was costly, perhaps more decorative than utilitarian with the carving gracing the leatherwork, made by a man famous for such things. A similar grade of workmanship showed in the wide two-eared bridle. It sported fancy stitched leatherwork and the shanks of the bit took the form of two plump, shapely feminine buttocks and legs.
Although somebody from the East might have believed the rider was a cowhand, such as frequently appeared in photographs or illustrations on the pages of newspapers and magazines east of the Mississippi River, the same would not apply of the person who was better versed with the ways of the West in general and Texas in particular. The most obvious evidence to the contrary for one cognizant of the facts was his footwear. While sharp toed, the heels were low and better suited to walking than working for long hours in the saddle. His hands were obviously hard and strong. However, the palms were smooth and lacking the calluses acquired by frequently having to hang on to a rope against the pull being applied by a powerful and recalcitrant animal.
Jerked by the sound and sight from his reverie, which had been so deep it had prevented him from noticing the threatening signs in the sky, the next thing the rider was aware of was the bony crest of the plunging terrified horse. Rising too swiftly to be avoided completely, although he instinctively began to turn his head, he was caught with a stunning blow on the side of his face. Bright lights seemed to be erupting inside his skull and, his equilibrium destroyed, he was dumped unceremoniously on the hard packed ground. Landing awkwardly, with a bone jarring thump which drove the breath from his bo
dy, pure instinct sent him rolling clear of the rearing claybank’s steel-shod hooves and, inadvertently, towards the crumbling edge of the arroyo. Freed of human restraint, regardless of its training to halt and stand ‘ground hitched’ and the liberated split-end reins having failed to do so by dangling from the bridle, the panic-stricken gelding took off at a high speed.
‘This’s a helluva way to go about a chore!’ the Texan thought bitterly, as he felt the ground giving way beneath him, but was powerless to prevent himself from toppling over the edge of the arroyo.
The gradient was sufficiently steep and littered with rocks to prevent any such further sentiments!
Already taking a painful battering as he was tumbling over and over uncontrollably, a large rocky outcrop suddenly filled the dislodged rider’s vision and a mind-numbing agony robbed him of all coherent thought as he crashed into it. His anguish was short-lived. Something struck his head a glancing blow and he was once more briefly aware of a dazzling coruscation of multi-colored lights before he lost consciousness. His momentum took him all the way to the bottom. Sprawled on his back, with arms out flung, he was insensible to the shower of dirt and stones which had accompanied his inadvertent descent.
The thunder continued to rumble menacingly overhead!
Then torrential rain which the gathering black clouds, ignored by the Texan in his reverie, had heralded, began to fall!
When consciousness of a kind returned, feeling as if an army of little men with hammers were hard at work inside his skull with the sole intention of splitting it open, the Texan slowly raised his left hand to make an investigation. Touching his head, it encountered something wet and tackily sticky. Lowering it, he grimaced at the almost congealed blood smearing its palm and fingers. The movement caused him to move his other limbs and discover, as far as he could ascertain from doing so, that all were in working order. However, the throbbing ache from his left side was a cause of greater concern for him. It made even shallow breathing painfully difficult. Hugging at the ribs with his right hand, he tried to sit up.
The storm had moved on, taking the rain with it, but the Texan was in no condition to appropriate the change in the weather. Still soaked to the skin, he shivered uncontrollably in the chilly wind which was blowing. For all that, finding he neither knew what had happened nor who he was, he tried to marshal his battered wits. Disoriented and hurting, despite sensing that to move might add to whatever injuries he had suffered, he could not resist an involuntary attempt to sit up so as to seek out the answer to the first point.
Yielding to the impulse, the Texan quickly discovered, was a mistake. Waves of fresh pain washed over him. Nevertheless, although unable to hold back the involuntary groan which passed between his tightly clenched teeth, he per-served with the attempt to obtain a sitting position. This merely aggravated the situation. His vision blurred and, as he shook his head to try to clear it, he immediately regretted the action. Nausea engulfed him and he was violently sick. The retching spasms left him weaker and trembling, this time for perspiration. For all that, after a few seconds, the roaring inside his skull subsided and he was able to take stock of his surroundings.
What the Texan saw did not exactly fill him with enthusiasm. The further wall of the arroyo rose like a sheer cliff and trying to climb it even if he was in the best of health would have been a very difficult proposition. Nor, while less close to the perpendicular, was he going to find the other side easy to surmount. However, by walking or crawling, he must do something to get out of the strength-sapping glare of the sun. Already the bottom of the dried up water course was shimmering in the heat, mocking him and adding to his growing realization that he was terribly thirsty.
With the thought throbbing through his mind, the Texan found his eyes were focusing on a small pool of water some yards to his left!
Just beyond it, a black patch was beginning to form at the bottom of the sheer wall!
Shade and water!
Lifesavers to a man in the Texan’s condition!
Hugging his aching ribs with his right arm, the injured man raised himself into a kneeling position. From there, he attempted to stand. The effort brought him out in a cold sweat, soaking his still clammily damp shirt until it clung to him like a second skin. Nevertheless, gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand. On attaining an upright posture, he found his vision was once again blurring. His world began to spin crazily around him. Hastily closing his eyes, he almost fell. The sensation passed, but it was some seconds before he compelled himself to force apart the gummy lids so as to take a cautious squint about him.
Hurt and suffering though he was, the first actions of the Texan on opening his eyes again would have had considerable significance for anybody who knew the West. Despite swaying on his spread apart feet and showing every movement required an effort of will power to accomplish, he reached with his right hand towards his right hip and rubbed away the accumulated mud from the holster and the Colt Peacemaker which was still in it. Why this should have happened was easily explained. Sewn inside the top of the holster, a narrow strip of softer leather extended into the rear end of the revolver’s frame so that the hammer rested against it and the firing pin passed through a small hole punched in it. The tension of the mainspring against the uncocked hammer kept the pin in the hole and prevented the weapon from being dislodged even by the violent motions to which it had been subjected.
Closing his fingers about the staghorn handle, still acting on instinctive rather than conscious guidance, the Texan eased back the hammer until the withdrawal of the firing pin from the strap liberated the weapon and took it out. Clearly acting by instinct rather than conscious guidance, he brought over his left hand to help clean the hammer, trigger area and cylinder sufficiently for the mechanism to be operative. With the precaution taken, he returned and secured the revolver.
With the task completed, the man started to move forward. Placing each foot cautiously, to counter the effects of the swaying to which his whole being seemed affected, he watched the patch of shade growing larger and more inviting. At the same instant, he became aware of a dull rumbling sound which seemed to be emanating from within his skull. Suddenly, he found himself suffering a sense of grim foreboding which caused him to hesitate instead of going any closer. He was unable to decide what the cause might be, but he could not fight it off.
Vital seconds passed before the Texan realized that the faint roaring noise, steadily increasing in volume, was not originating from inside his pounding head!
Flash flood!
The two words screamed through the Texan’s mind!
Despite a complete lack of recollection with regards to who he was and how he had come to be in such a desperate predicament, the Texan appreciated the full extent of the danger. Only the foolish, or ignorant, would camp in the bottom of an arroyo. It was not unusual for heavy rains, sometimes falling miles away, to send a thundering wall of water and debris along the bed of the river which had long since dried up.
Born and raised in the range country, the Texan was neither foolish nor ignorant. Nor, he felt certain, had he been merely camping overnight down there. Instinctively, an appreciation of the potentially dangerous condition caused him to turn his back upon the welcome patch of shade at the foot of the sheer face and make on wobbling legs towards the somewhat more easily climbable slope. His tormented lungs felt as though they were on fire as he retraced his reeling steps and started to scrabble on hands and knees —almost by the tips of his fingers and the sharp toes of his boots—up the rock-strewn incline, but he did not dare to pause and catch his breath.
The distant roaring was growing louder by the second and the Texan concluded he was going to need every ounce of Texas luck to survive!
As his fingers were grasping the corner of a protruding rock, the Texan heard another sound much closer. Again it was one he recognized, freezing the blood in his veins and stopping him dead in his tracks. It also suggested in no uncertain fashion that, bad as the situation
had been so far—unless, which he doubted was likely, his ears were playing tricks upon him—there could be far worse to come. Looking towards the source of the latest cause of concern, he found that his hearing was functioning correctly.
Under less trying conditions, the Texan might have considered the Eastern diamondback rattlesnake lying coiled on the rock and basking in the sun a pretty fine specimen of its kind. Illogically under the circumstances, although he could not bring to mind who he was, he recollected what he had been told by a schoolteacher about such creatures.
Members of the Crotalidae, ‘pit-viper’ family, the more common name, ‘rattlesnake’, referred to the sound produced by movements of modified horny scales at the tip of the tail. The buzzing served as a warning to possible predators, or even harmless creatures sufficiently large to damage the snake by stepping upon it inadvertently. However, the rattle was completely innocuous—even beneficial—when compared with its other qualities. Not the least dangerous of these were the fangs, which could be anything up to three-quarters of an inch long and were capable of pumping a lethal dose of poison into much larger quarry than one hurting and slow moving human being. What was more, as the mouth could be opened a good one hundred and eighty degrees, they were just as effective if used to stab instead of needing to deliver the bite required by most other kinds of venomous reptiles and, because of their length, the poison could be injected deep into the victim’s bloodstream. If that was not sufficient, unlike snakes such as cobras—which could only launch an attack downwards and were comparatively slow and clumsy—the S-shaped coiling posture of the rattlesnake allowed it to strike with great speed and accuracy in any direction, including straight up.
Startled by the Texan’s sudden and unannounced appearance, that particular rattlesnake was likely to use its fangs any moment now!
Looking at the reptile and listening to the rumbling roar, the Texan rapidly reached the conclusion that he was in one hell of a tight spot. It was going to be a mighty close thing as to which would get him first, the flash flood or the poison squirting reptile on the rock. Either way, he was sure of one thing. He did not want to die in such a God-forsaken place. The trouble being, he could not rightly figure out how he could avoid it. It would either be a slow and agonizing death from the snake’s venom, or quicker by drowning. Nor could he decide which way to go would be worse. There was only one small consolation he could draw from the situation. Glancing upwards, he saw two turkey vultures were spiraling overhead. Should the snake get him, he was sure to slip back into the floodwater and make the circling pair work a whole heap harder before they could start stripping the flesh from his bones.