Waco 7

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Sure, and got spooked when they saw you and remembered you from there, not knowing what you wanted.’

  ‘Or who I might be,’ finished Flax, standing up. ‘I bet they’re sure wondering about that.’

  For the tenth time in the past hour Elmhurt turned in his saddle and studied their back trail. As on each other occasion, he gave the same report.

  ‘No sign of him.’

  ‘I’m not surprised after the way I hit him,’ Norah answered, handling the buckboard’s reins with quiet competence. ‘There’s the Desborough trail ahead. Once on it we can make up some of the time we lost going towards Braddock.’

  After leaving the Witch Creek relay station, Norah had insisted that they went in the opposite direction to Desborough and found a place upon which her party would leave little or no sign of their departure before starting to swing back in a half-circle that kept them out of Caffery’s buildings. She felt that the Texan would waste time in visiting Braddock first, should he come after them either for revenge or some other reason.

  ‘Who do you think he was?’ Loxton asked. ‘The Texan, I mean.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ purred Norah. ‘I thought you might mean him.’

  ‘Who was he?’ her brother insisted.

  ‘How would I know?’ she snapped. ‘He’d nothing on him to say.’

  ‘Could be a longrider,’ Laverick suggested. ‘You don’t often see a cowhand that handy with a gun, wearing a rig like he does, or toting over a hundred dollars in cash.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Norah admitted. ‘But he could be a peace officer—’

  ‘Without a badge?’ her brother put in.

  ‘If he’s working undercover he wouldn’t have one,’ she replied.

  ‘Might be a Pink-eye,’ Elmhurt said.

  ‘He might, although Pinkertons don’t hire many Texans. Not knowing who he is was the reason I stopped you robbing him. I can talk my way out of knocking down a man I thought was trying to rob you, but not if you’d emptied his wallet.’

  Elmhurt sniffed as he recalled the girl’s angry objections to his attempt at robbery. Once she explained her reasons, he could see that she acted for the best. Wanting to change the subject, he asked.

  ‘Do you reckon the gal’s with Scobie Dale?’

  ‘From what you told me, the saloonkeeper did,’ Norah replied.

  ‘We don’t know he sent those two longriders after the girl and Dale,’ her brother protested.

  ‘If it comes to that,’ Norah replied, ‘we don’t even know that it’s worth our while trying to find her.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I know what I said!’ Norah interrupted her brother, seeing the interest which showed on the faces of their two companions. Neither Elmhurt nor Laverick knew why they sought out the girl and she did not intend them to find out. ‘Mr. Laverick told us that Zimmerman gave the two men money and rifle shells. If they were going after Scobie Dale, they wouldn’t want to get too close. With luck well get the answers in Desborough.’

  ‘Maybe me and Jack ought to push on ahead,’ Laverick suggested.

  ‘And what?’ asked Norah.

  ‘Get to Desborough, see if the gal’s with Dale—’

  ‘Then make a hash of it as you did with that Texan?’ sniffed Norah. ‘We’ll go up together. That way I’ll know all the time what’s happening.’

  She would also, although she did not mention it, be in a position to prevent her employees from trying to make use of the information she obtained. While admitting that the two men proved useful on occasion, she did not trust them too far.

  ‘Shall we try to catch up with Dale on the trail?’ Loxton asked.

  ‘He’s a good start on us, but if we should, we’ll see what we can do,’ his sister answered. ‘The longer he goes without trouble, the less likely he is to expect it. So we’ll not rush after him.’

  At about the same time as Norah stated her views to her companions, the bartender in Zimmerman’s Liberty Bell stood looking at a quartet of men who entered the saloon.

  Two of the four wore range clothes, with low-hanging, tied down holsters carrying Colts which rode just right for the hands that never strayed far from the butts. Medium-sized, broad-shouldered, one of the pair looked to be middle-aged and might have been an ordinary working cowhand apart from that significant gunbelt. The second stood taller, wore dandy clothes which cost more than any honest cowhand could afford. Handsome, his face held an arrogance and truculence that told a story to eyes which knew Western men. Studying the two, the bartender concluded that if their faces had not been on ‘wanted’ posters it would be because of lack of proof rather than strict adherence to the law.

  The third member of the party was a tall, gaunt Indian. Lank black hair trailed from under his battered UJS. Cavalry campaign hat, hanging around a scarred, vicious face. He wore cast-off white man’s clothing, filthy and ill-fitting, with a long-bladed Green River knife in a fancy Sioux sheath at his belt, and had moccasins on his feet. Even before the Indian reached the bar, he gave the bartender a whiff of stale sweat and general dirt that warned the other not to get too close.

  Although clearly with the other three, in fact giving the impression that he led them, the fourth newcomer did not have the look of a hardcase range country man. Five foot nine inches at most, he possessed a width to his shoulders that hinted at strength. A costly white Stetson sat on his head, yet his face did not show the usual open-air man’s tan. He wore a town suit, vest, frilly-bosomed shirt and bow tie – and a gunbelt with a pearl-handled Colt Lightning double-action revolver butt forward for a cross-draw at his left side. Unless the bartender missed his guess, that belt and Colt were far from being decorations.

  ‘Four whiskeys,’ ordered the young man, trail-dirty and showing signs of hard traveling as did his companions.

  ‘I can’t serve no In—’ the bartender began.

  ‘Joey Stinks here’s no Injun, bardog,’ the young man interrupted. ‘I’m telling you so.’

  Which meant, as the bartender well knew, that any objections would be treated as calling the speaker a liar. Casting a glance to where a sawn-off ten-gauge rested on the shelf beneath the counter, the bartender wondered at his chances of reaching it. Then he saw the mocking grin on the young man’s lips and knew what he faced. That young cuss wanted him to make a move so as to be able to draw and shoot. Like many of his kind, he craved the prized name of killer and did not care how he came by it.

  ‘Let it ride, Kid,’ ordered the smallest man and, to the bartender’s surprise, the young jasper obeyed. Then the speaker looked at the bartender. ‘Put up the four drinks and then go tell your boss I’m here.’

  ‘Zimmerman’s in the office,’ the bartender replied, pouring out the drinks and tipping a more generous measure than usual into each glass as he found a quartet of disconcertingly cold eyes watching his every move.

  ‘Then go get him,’ the young man said. ‘Mr. Schuster don’t like to be kept waiting for the hired help.’

  ‘Don’t rush yourself, Ned,’ the other Westerner went on. ‘Any time in the next ten seconds’ll do.’

  The bartender did not need the added advice. As soon as he heard the name of the small man, he started to move. People who crossed Kale Schuster had a way of running into bad luck. Besides, Zimmerman left strict orders regarding the arrival of Schuster.

  ‘I’ll go tell him, Mr. Schuster,’ he said.

  ‘Leave the bottle,’ the young man called.

  ‘Put it back behind the bar,’ Schuster corrected as the bartender hesitated. He looked at the young man and went on, ‘That one drink’ll do you, Tonopah. And don’t let Joey Stinks have any more, we may need him.’

  Hearing the name, the bartender felt a wave of relief run over him. Kid Tonopah bore a name as a proddy killer, the kind who made trouble just as an excuse to throw down on a man. That other hardcase would be Jack Sage, rumor had it he and Tonopah worked together. Yet such was the power of Kale Schuster that Tonopah, lookin
g just a mite surly, did not repeat his demand for the bottle to be left behind.

  Never had the bartender seen his employer show such agitation as he did on hearing that Kale Schuster waited to see him. Telling his bartender to fetch Schuster in, Zimmerman spent the waiting time taking out his best whiskey bottle and cigars.

  ‘I wasn’t sure how soon you’d be here, Mr. Schuster,’ Zimmerman said as the other entered. ‘If I’d known I—’

  ‘Could have put out banners with BRADDOCK WELCOMES KALE SCHUSTER on them,’ the other replied dryly.

  Despite his awe at coming face to face with the almost legendary Kale Schuster, Zimmerman felt just a shade of an anticlimax at finding the other to be so short a man. Not that the saloonkeeper aimed to put the thought into words. Any man who could wield such power over Wyoming’s criminal element must be something real special in the danger line. Brute strength might rule such men for a time, but it took more than that to last as long as Schuster had. A brilliant mind, unscrupulous nature, complete disregard for human life and some considerable courage enabled Kale Schuster to dominate the law-breaking scene. Let Butch Cassidy, the murderous Harvey Logan, Ben Kilpatrick and other Wild Bunch leaders make newspaper headlines, behind them – making more money than all of them put together and for much less risk – was Kale Schuster. Small wonder that Zimmerman treated the man with such respect.

  ‘About that telegraph message you sent me—’ Schuster began, taking the offered seat, drink and cigar.

  ‘I-I didn’t know how else to put it,’ Zimmerman gasped.

  ‘You did it real well,’ Schuster informed him and sipped at the drink. ‘How did it happen?’

  Feeling relief at knowing he earned Schuster’s approbation, Zimmerman went through the details of the previous night’s happenings from Skerrit’s arrival to sending the two longriders after Scobie Dale’s wagon. With less eagerness, he explained that the men had not yet returned.

  ‘Maybe they didn’t have a chance to catch up or something,’ Schuster said mildly. ‘Were they reliable?’

  ‘The best I could get,’ answered Zimmerman evasively. ‘Which could mean anything,’ purred Schuster, losing some of the mildness. ‘Do you think Dale took the girl to Desborough with him?’

  ‘Everything pointed to her being with him just afore he shot Skerrit.’

  ‘Has the town been searched?’

  ‘I’ve had my men asking around.’

  ‘What’s the marshal here like?’

  ‘He’s safe. Do you want to see him?’

  ‘Sure. He can go along with my men to make the search look legal. If she’s still in town, I want her finding.’

  ‘What did she do?’ asked Zimmerman before he could stop himself.

  A bleak, unpleasant smile came to Schuster’s face as he looked at his host. ‘Now you don’t really want an answer to that, do you, Mr. Zimmerman?’

  Suddenly Zimmerman found himself completely disinterested in the reason for his guest wanting Pauline’s death. Rising to his feet, he told Schuster he would send for the marshal and went to do so.

  Night had fallen and a thorough search of the town failed to produce Pauline. In the Liberty Bell, Schuster, Kid Tonopah and Jack Sage sat around the absent owner’s desk and Joey Stinks squat on his haunches in the corner of the room.

  ‘She’s left town, that’s for sure,’ Schuster announced. ‘I thought that those longriders hadn’t come back because they learned she wasn’t with Dale.’

  ‘Want for me to go fetch her back?’ asked Tonopah.

  ‘No. We’ll wait until the rest of the men catch up with us first,’ Schuster answered. ‘Say though, Dale’s headed for Desborough.’

  ‘So?’ grunted the young killer, having drunk just enough to be truculent.

  ‘Marshal Tex Rudbeck runs the law there.’

  ‘No one-hoss town’s tin star worries me,’ Tonopah declared.

  ‘Well he does me,’ Schuster replied.

  ‘Then you must scare awful easy,’ sneered Tonopah.

  ‘I may,’ admitted Schuster. ‘But never when all I’m dealing with is a cheap half-drunk yahoo with a gun where his brains should be.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Tonopah asked.

  ‘You figure it out – or ask a man to do it for you.’

  Tonopah’s lips drew back in a snarl and he started to thrust away his chair ready to come to his feet. Half-drunk, his normally mean temper tended to be real touchy and he disliked taking orders from a short-grown dude. Half out of the chair, he froze and stared in amazement into the barrel of Schuster’s revolver. Yet the other had not moved from his seat. Tonopah suddenly realized that Schuster’s cross-draw rig possessed a big advantage over the buscadero gunbelt which pointed its gun butt to the rear and hung low on the thigh; it allowed the weapon to be drawn with equal ease and speed even when seated.

  Then, with a sudden shock, Tonopah saw that the Colt’s hammer crept back as Schuster’s finger depressed the trigger. Moving another fraction of an inch, the hammer would reach its farthest rearward point and then snap forward again to drive the striker against the primer and fire the powder charge. While Schuster’s Lightning might be only .38 in caliber, it looked a whole lot bigger to Tonopah at that moment.

  ‘Easy, boss!’ Sage said quietly, but earnestly. ‘He’s only a fool kid.’

  For what seemed like several minutes to Tonopah, Schuster gave no sign of having heard the words. During that time the young killer looked death in the face and found the sensation unpleasant. He read Schuster’s desire to complete the depression of the trigger and fought down an inclination to plead for mercy. At last the finger relaxed and the hammer sank slowly down once more to rest harmlessly in the pre-cocking position. Then, with the same flickering speed that it appeared, the gun went back into leather .

  ‘Like I was saying,’ Schuster remarked as if a man’s life had not hung in the balance for some thirty seconds. ‘Not every problem can be solved with a bullet. Rudbeck’s honest and very popular in his town. You could kill the marshal here and nobody would give a damn. Cut down a popular man like Rudbeck and the scream will go up so loud that the Governor will hear it.’

  ‘I thought we’d protection up there,’ Sage put in.

  ‘We have – to a certain extent,’ agreed Schuster. ‘Only one thing every politician learns is when to sing low and keep quiet. Until that girl’s dead is one of those times.’

  Up until that moment none of the party but Schuster had any idea of why they hunted for Pauline Pitt. Even with the little he had just heard, Sage had no idea what brought about the interest in an obscure little saloon-girl. He also did not intend to press for further information.

  ‘What’ll we do then, boss?’ Sage asked.

  ‘Follow Dale to Desborough.’

  ‘And take him on the trail?’

  ‘I think not. Sure we might be able to lay for him, but he has those dogs with him and it won’t be easy to pick a place where they can’t locate us first. But if he gets to Desborough without trouble, he might just start to think he’s got everybody fooled and get over-confident. Over-confidence can get a man killed.’

  While saying the last words, Schuster looked mockingly at Kid Tonopah, but the young killer chose to ignore the hint. Instead he said, ‘It’s only one man and a gal. Why not send Joey Stinks here after them. He could sneak up—’

  ‘And get killed before he came within fifty yards,’ interrupted Schuster. ‘I can smell him from here. Those dogs would do it before he came within fifty yards even if the wind blew towards him. No, I reckon we’ll do things my way.’

  ‘What way’ll that be,’ asked Tonopah, then altered his truculent tone and added, ‘boss?’

  ‘Right now I wouldn’t know,’ Schuster admitted. ‘I don’t make long distance plans. So we’ll wait for the rest of the men to catch up with us, then follow on Dale’s tracks. If the girl’s with him, Joey Stinks ought to be able to find some sign of her. After that we can decide what to do.’

 
Sitting up on the bed of a room at the Witch Creek relay station, Flax Fannon peered disbelievingly at the night-blackened window. Apparently the effects of the blow had taken more shaking off than he expected, for he slept deeply instead of merely napping for a short time. However, he felt much improved and left the room to walk downstairs.

  ‘That you, Flax?’ Caffery called from the telegraph room.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Come on in.’

  On entering the room, Flax found the agent seated at the desk with a sheet of paper and the cipher-disk before him.

  ‘Is that from Waco?’ Flax asked.

  ‘Sure is. How do you feel?’

  ‘Better. What’s Waco say?’

  ‘Try reading it,’ Caffery grunted and offered the sheet of paper.

  ‘Flax,’ the young man read. ‘Am headed for Desborough. Meet me there. Waco.’

  ‘I’ll do just that,’ Flax said.

  ‘Hope you’ve got a good slicker along,’ Caffery remarked as he locked away the cipher-disk and then burned the message. ‘Cause it’s going to rain and hard.’

  ‘Good,’ grinned Flax, That’ll make the grass grow, the flowers bloom and the rivers run. It’ll also wash out Scobie’s trail and make sure that nobody who hasn’t been there already finds out what happened in that clearing.’

  ‘I’ll get you a meal afore you leave,’ Caffery said. What do you aim to go and do first?’

  ‘Head into Braddock and see if that gal and her bunch are there.’

  ‘And if they are?’

  ‘I’ve not made up my mind on that yet,’ Flax answered. ‘But most likely I’ll just leave them until after I’ve met up with Waco.’ He grinned. ‘Anyways, I don’t reckon I’ll find them there. Don’t ask me why, but I think they’ve gone to Desborough.’

  ‘Must be an interesting place,’ said Caffery dryly, ‘the number of folks headed for it.’

  Which, considering the old agent did not know of Schuster’s presence in Braddock and interest in Desborough, was a mighty shrewd observation.