No Finger on the Trigger (A Waxahachie Smith Western Book One)

by Edson, J. T.

  ‘Well!’ Bradford Drexell growled, having left his plump and matronly looking wife in the doorway and advanced swiftly. He came to a halt between Smith and ‘Cousin Cyrus’, but did not address either of them. ‘What’s coming off here, Merle?’

  ‘I reckon Tule’s cousin’s been putting a touch too much strengthening juice in his punch, boss,’ replied the foreman of the B Bar D, to whom the question was directed. ‘He talked a mite out of turn to Miss Ransome and this gent set him to rights on it.’

  ‘Talked out of turn, huh?’ the rancher growled. Having noticed the flush on the girl’s olive skinned cheeks and the menacing attitude displayed by the men from the Rancho Mariposa as they stood in a rough crescent a short distance behind her, he concluded that whatever was said had been offensive to her. His gaze swung briefly to Smith, but the sergeant did not speak and, in fact, appeared to have lost interest in the affair. ‘Just how much of “a mite” was it, Merle?’

  ‘It was only the liquor talking, boss. Cousin Cyrus didn’t mean nothing by what he said,’ the still worried looking cowhand claimed, before the foreman could answer. His voice took on a tone close to pleading as he went on, ‘Did you, Cousin Cyrus?’

  ‘I allu—,’ the man began, his former teetering and suggestion of being drunk having disappeared. Glancing over his shoulder at the cowhands to his rear, he saw nothing to suggest they would support him further and, giving a shrug, he continued, ‘I reckon not.’

  ‘Then you’d best say you’re sorry to Ran—Miss Cordoba, should there be any need for it,’ Drexell stated. ‘And, seeing as you’re so all-fired fond of “strengthening juice”, you’ll likely want to be heading for some place where it’s more fitting than here to drink such.’

  ‘Sure, Cousin Cyrus,’ the cowhand supported, as a dark flush crept over the face of the man who had received what was clearly an order to leave the dance. ‘Let’s go over to Barney’s and you can tell me about the folks back to home over some of his good sipping whiskey.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, Tule,’ the foreman stated rather than offered, reading correctly what was meant by the slight jerk given by his employer’s head. ‘There’s a few things I want to talk over with Barney.’

  Letting out a non-committal grunt, ‘Cousin Cyrus’ swung around without obeying the first part of the instructions he had received or even looking at Ransome. Accompanied by Tule and with the foreman following close behind, he walked away showing none of the earlier signs suggestive of having become objectionable because of drink. As he went, what sounded like a mutually given sigh of relief arose from the onlookers. Then talk and other interrupted activities were resumed, but in a more subdued fashion.

  ‘I don’t know what was said, Miss Ran—Cordoba,’ Drexell said, having watched the trio until they had collected their revolvers and left the building. ‘But, seeing as how he was here along with my boys, I’ll apologize for him.’

  ‘No apology is necessary, Mr. Drexell,’ the girl replied, a touch of sorrow in her voice. Despite the way ‘Cousin Cyrus’ had behaved, she remembered how—although they had never been on as close terms as her family was with Besgrove—her Christian name would have sufficed and she would have been less formal when addressing the rancher prior to the animosity aroused by the cattle stealing. ‘I’m sure it was only the drink talking and he didn’t mean anything by his remarks.’

  ‘Happen he did,’ Drexell growled, without asking what the remarks had been. ‘He can haul his butt off the B Bar D pronto, no matter that he is Tule’s kin come a-visiting.’ Then, giving a short bow to Ransome, he turned his attention to the remainder of his crew and, nodding to where his wife was approaching, said with the quiet determination which they knew meant he would brook no refusal, ‘Don’t you bunch go “strengthening” your punch any more. Ma’s looking a mite peeked, so we’ll be pulling out soon.’

  ‘Keep our boys together and drinking the punch just the way it comes from the bowl, Halcón Gris,’ Ransome commanded, being aware that the Rancho Mariposa’s crew too had been indulging in the ‘strengthening’ of the otherwise innocuous brew and swinging around to look from one to another of them. She knew them too well to believe they would be willing to let the incident pass without seeking to take reprisals against the man who had treated her in such a disrespectful manner and she had no desire to let it be the cause of trouble between them and the cowhands from the B Bar D. Then, giving a well simulated yawn, she went on, ‘Anyways, I’m getting tired and reckon we’ll head for home after the next dance.’

  Although he made no attempt to join in the conversation, Smith considered the supposition he had formulated upon learning the hired guns were being persuaded to remain in Flamingo could be correct. The incident suggested that, as he had envisaged, the dance had been used in an attempt to provoke open hostility between the crews of the local ranches. However, he was too experienced a peace officer to draw the obvious conclusion that Drexell was responsible. In fact, he felt there were indications which implied this was not the case. From what had been said, the potential trouble-maker was not a member of the B Bar D crew but merely visiting a kinsman who happened to work there. Certainly, despite the way he was dressed, ‘Cousin Cyrus’ did not have hands indicative of his having worked with cattle. What was more, although his gunbelt was of no better quality than those of his companions, the bulge under the left side of his jacket indicated he had a short-barreled revolver concealed there and the sergeant had hoped to be given an excuse to discover in what kind of rig it was carried. Smith knew it was a favorite ploy of gun fighters—even some who were on the side of law and order—to wear a weapon in plain view, but to have a second which could be produced unexpectedly from concealment. xxix Unfortunately, the intervention of the rancher had come before the examination could be performed.

  On looking from one crew to the other, Smith could see the decisions to take an earlier than usual departure were not meeting with approval. He sensed that, in their attempts to avoid trouble, Ransome and Drexell were building up rather than reducing the animosity which the incident had aroused. He believed he could persuade the girl to delay her departure while they were dancing and hoped to have the opportunity to try to dissuade the rancher after the music ended.

  The sergeant did not have a chance to carry out his intention. Even as he was about to step forward and ask Ransome for a dance, there was an interruption. On the rostrum, the leader of the band was about to signal for the other musicians to play. However, at the sight of some new arrivals, he suspended the movement.

  Although wearing a brown suit of the latest Eastern style, instead of his more usual Western attire, it was not Sir John Besgrove who caused the reaction. Nor, despite clearly being twins, were the pair of red haired young cowhands bringing up the rear of his party responsible. Realizing who it was by the rancher’s side, the leader was sufficiently impressed to refrain from starting the music. What was more, if the low exclamations which swept around the room were any indication, the recognition was widespread.

  Five foot eight in height, with immaculately coiffure black hair topping a regally beautiful well bronzed—yet far from leathery skinned—face, the woman who had caused the reaction would have stood out in any company. Although in her early forties, such were the magnificent curves of her close to ‘hourglass’ figure, she contrived to make the plain yet clearly expensive black two-piece travelling costume and mauve blouse she had on seem as revealing as the most daring evening gown. Her expression and demeanor suggested she was a person with whom it would be most inadvisable to take liberties or trifle.

  ‘Ah, Ransome, Emily, Drexell,’ Besgrove said, escorting his companion to where the girl was still standing close to the rancher and his wife. ‘I’m delighted to find you all here. May I present my cousin, Freddie Fog.’

  Chapter Ten – His Name Is Smith

  ‘Well, Mister Claybone!’ Teodoro Fuentes said in English with no trace of an accent, looking at the man who entered the dining-room of the house
which he frequently visited when in Flamingo, shortly after midnight. His voice was cold, even disdainful, as he continued without sitting down on the comfortable chair from which he had risen when the other came in, ‘I hear you didn’t achieve anything at the dance.’

  Even to a casual observer, it would have been obvious who wielded the authoritative power at the Rancho Miraflores!

  And why!

  Despite being some ten years older, with receding close cropped black hair, Teodoro had a strong resemblance to the build and obviously pure aristocratic Castilian features of his sibling. However, his face had none of the unhealthy pallor and suggestion of debauchery shown by Javier. Instead, it was set in lines indicative of a harshly unyielding and unforgiving nature which would never be tempered by mercy and he exuded an aura of an almost fanatical intensity. Expensive and of excellent cut, his haciendero’s attire was somber black and completely unadorned by even a single strand of gold or silver filigree. He had on an excellently designed and manufactured black gunbelt which was polished until given a close to mirror-like gloss. It was a rig which, provided its wearer was competent in such matters, would allow an extremely fast withdrawal of the rosewood handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in the cross draw holster on its left side.

  ‘Are you sure you weren’t followed here?’ inquired one of the other two occupants in the room—both of whom had also stood up and remained on their feet—before the rancher could be answered.

  The question was put, in tones redolent of something close to alarm, by the man of obvious Hispanic origins who owned the property. However, despite the luxurious nature of his surroundings and being dressed expensively and in good taste—although some people would have considered the number and size of the rings he wore on all his pudgy fingers was excessively ostentatious—he was just as clearly from a stratum further down the social scale than that of Fuentes. Of medium height, in his late forties, thickset, albeit running to fat, he would have been recognized by practically everybody in Flamingo as Don Jose Lorenzo Rabena. Despite the honorific which now preceded his name, there were rumors that he had made his fortune from border smuggling and even less savory activities, but nothing had been proven. Nor were assertions that he now owned, or at least controlled, a variety of business any better substantiated. What was known was that he operated a bank patronized mainly by members of his own race and was spoken of as a leading member of the Chicano community.

  ‘Were you?’ the rancher demanded, when the newcomer refrained from supplying the information.

  ‘Of course I wasn’t!’ stated the man who had been called ‘Cousin Cyrus’, but whose real name was Moses Claybone, not troubling to hide his resentment at it being thought that he would overlook such a basic precaution. ‘Do you reckon I was born yesterday?’

  ‘I’d been told you were good,’ Fuentes answered, darting an accusatory glance at the other white man who was present before returning it to the newcomer. ‘But you didn’t manage to do anything at the dance.’

  ‘I’d got everything going along the way I wanted until that god-damned gunny of Cordoba’s cut in!’ Claybone objected sullenly, having a genuine antipathy towards Mexicans in spite of his current employer being of that race.

  ‘That knobhead, Tule, had accepted me’s one of his kin from up Texarkana way and I figured I could easily stir up some fuss.’

  ‘But you didn’t “stir up some fuss”, as you put it!’ Fuentes pointed out.

  ‘Like I said, Cordoba’s gunny cut in,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ answered. ‘And he hadn’t handed over his gun when he come in like the cowhands from all the spreads.’

  ‘Neither had you,’ the rancher growled. ‘At least, not the one you’re still wearing under your left arm.’

  ‘I’d got it,’ Claybone conceded, although he had believed his habit of carrying a concealed weapon had escaped the notice of his employer. ‘Only I reckoned’s he knew I had and, way he took out Bert Wormsley, I wasn’t figuring to stack up against him when he was ready to copper my bet unless I’d got an edge. I might’ve done something, seeing’s how I’d got those yahoos from the B Bar D ready to back me, but Drexell come in and stopped me cold.’

  ‘How?’ Rabena asked.

  ‘He as good as told me to get out,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ admitted, but only after he had waited until Fuentes showed signs of impatience over his refusal to respond to the other Hispanic.

  ‘And you went?’ the rancher stated rather than inquired.

  ‘Way things’d turned out,’ the would be trouble-causer replied, his earlier bonhomie having been replaced by a surly expression. ‘There wasn’t nothing else I could’ve done. Drexell’s crowd showed they was going to do what he told ’ems. Happen I’d gone against him, not even that yahoo I slickered into thinking I was kin would’ve stood by me.’

  There was justification for the tone of bitterness in Claybone’s voice!

  As the would-be trouble-causer had claimed, up until the intervention of Cordoba’s gunny’, the scheme upon which he was engaged had been progressing smoothly. Arriving at the B Bar D ranch house at noon, having been supplied with the requisite information when hired, he had led Tule to believe he was a distant relation from North Texas and was invited to accompany the contingent attending the dance. It was his intention to provoke an incident leading to violence before Bradford Drexell, who had been diverted to the International Hotel by a fake message from a prominent cattle-buyer, rejoined the party. Having employed what a later generation would call ‘ethnic’ jokes of a derogatory kind to stir up animosity amongst the groups from the Rancho Mariposa and Union Jack, he had waited until seeing the deputy in charge of the deposited weapons was decoyed away as he had been assured would happen. Fortune had appeared to be favoring him. Realizing even Cordoba’s segundo—who had kept the rest from showing their resentment for his jokes—would not remain passive if the girl was treated with disrespect, he had taken advantage of her approaching to do so. Unfortunately, ‘John Smith’ had stepped in and the appearance of their employer had prevented ‘Cousin Cyrus’ from persuading the men he was with to start trouble.

  ‘They’re loyal to Drexell, that’s for sure,’ Doctor Otto Grantz supported, it having been on his recommendation that Claybone was hired. Under different conditions he would not have tried to excuse his nominee, but he had an ulterior motive for wanting to avoid having the elder of the Fuentes brothers begin to doubt his judgment. ‘I’d say you played it the only way you could under the circumstances.’

  Big, heavily built, there was nothing of the friendly small town medical practitioner about the latest speaker. In fact, he did not have an appearance calculated to fill patients with the belief that he would be kindly and understanding. Beneath his plastered down blond hair, which reeked of bay rum, his sallow features were less than pleasant and a thick moustache stained with nicotine did nothing to soften their lines. Furthermore, having a slight Germanic accent, his voice was too harsh to produce a soothing ‘bedside manner’. As a result of his physical shortcomings, while he had proved to be competent in all aspects of his profession and far more up to date in his knowledge, he had failed to build up the liking which his predecessor had established all through Bonham County. Nevertheless, his dark brown suit and white silk shirt were of a quality which indicated he either had independent means or earned a very good income in spite of his unprepossessing demeanor.

  ‘I did!’ Claybone asserted, cold challenge in his manner. ‘There wasn’t a chance of me trying anything else. I might’ve done something with that damned fools’s took me for one of his kin, but Drexell wig-wagged for his foreman to come with us when we headed for the saloon. It was soon plain I couldn’t get either of ’em liquored up enough to do anything.’

  ‘How did you get away from them?’ Fuentes wanted to know.

  ‘Said I felt like some she-male company and aimed to go to the cat-house for it,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ explained. ‘The cow-nurse allowed he didn’t have enough money to go with me, so I
told him’s how I’d see him back at the spread. Fact being, he looked like he was more pleased than sorry to see me leave. There was one thing, though ... ’

  ‘What was it?’ the rancher was compelled to ask as Claybone showed no sign of continuing until somebody raised the subject.

  ‘Cordoba’s gunny was watching when I left the saloon,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ obliged, in the manner of one conferring a favor. ‘He followed me to the cat-house, but I ducked out the back way and made damned sure he didn’t shag me here. Well, I’ve come and now I’ll take my money and head back there.’

  ‘Your money?’ Fuentes asked, placing his hands behind his back in a posture he frequently adopted. ‘And what money would that be?’

  ‘The pay you owe me,’ Claybone supplied, his manner charged with menace.

  T said you’d be paid when your work was finished,’ the rancher pointed out, a spot of darker color coming to each of his swarthy cheeks. It was a warning to anybody who knew him well that his never too even temper was approaching the point where it erupted dangerously. ‘And, from what you’ve told me, you’ve done nothing to earn it.’

  ‘I did all I could,’ Claybone asserted. ‘It wasn’t my doing’s Drexell didn’t stick around the hotel like he should’ve.’

  ‘That still doesn’t entitle you to !’ Fuentes began, but was not allowed to continue with, ‘the full amount’.

  ‘I allus get paid, greaser,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ snarled, starting to ease open the near side of his jacket with his left hand and move the right in that direction. ‘So you can haul out the dinero and—!’

  While speaking, Claybone was watching the rancher’s posture. In his considered opinion, it was not a position to make the best use of the potential for speed offered by the well made cross draw rig. What was more, believing all Mexicans to fight with knives rather than revolvers, he doubted whether Fuentes had the ability to bring out the Colt with any speed regardless of the gunbelt’s excellent design. Satisfied upon those points and just as convinced he had nothing to fear from the other two men present, he was going to draw his concealed gun and insist upon receiving the money he had been promised even though he had failed to complete the task he was given.