Waco 7: Hound Dog Man (A Waco Western)

by J. T. Edson

  Catching one of his bouncer’s eye, Zimmerman brought the man to his side. Without making his interest too obvious, the saloonkeeper indicated the two men.

  ‘Know them?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t know what they’re called now,’ the bouncer replied. ‘Back in the Dakotas the one with the moustache was Packer and the other Spice.’

  ‘Are they part of the Wild Bunch?’

  ‘Not so’s to call Butch Cassidy, Harvey Logan or Ben Kilpatrick by their first names. Those pair’re small time; hoss-holders and spare guns.’

  Not promising material to go against the man who killed Ike Skerrit, but ideal for Zimmerman’s purpose. He did not want important members of the Wild Bunch working for him. If things went wrong, the leading names of the loosely knit criminal fraternity known as the Wild Bunch had friends liable to require answers to how those things happened. While the super-organized gang – with secret oaths administered on joining, passwords, masterminded by Cassidy, Logan, Kilpatrick and a few others – did not exist outside the lurid paperback novels of the day, the Wild Bunch still packed some weight in Wyoming. Zimmerman certainly had no intention of antagonizing them; and, while the two men might occasionally be hired for menial work when members of the Wild Bunch performed a robbery, neither had such a close connection with any band as to claim its loyalty.

  ‘Get them into the office,’ he ordered.

  No expensive liquor and costly cigars came out when Packer and Spice entered the office. After introducing them, the bouncer withdrew and closed the door behind him. Zimmerman looked at the two men from head to foot and they studied him with equal care.

  ‘I didn’t see you drinking much out there,’ Zimmerman said.

  ‘We read the sign behind the bar,’ answered Packer, referring to a notice bluntly declaring that credit would not be given.

  ‘Would you be looking for work?’ the saloonkeeper asked.

  ‘Not if it’s heavy toting,’ Spice replied.

  ‘You don’t look the heavy toting kind,’ Zimmerman sniffed.

  ‘That’s the living truth, mister’ Me ‘n’ Packer’s some too delicate for it.’

  ‘This chore wouldn’t want some shooting done on it, nor nothing dangerous like that, now would it?’ Packer went on.

  ‘Would you object if it did?’

  ‘Can’t say as we would – happen the price’s right and you’re not choosey on how we go about it.’

  For a time Zimmerman did not speak. Doubts nagged at him, although he realized the extreme delicacy of his position. If he gave the wrong order, having the girl killed when Kale Schuster wanted her alive or vice versa, nobody would stop to consider that he merely acted for the best. Nor would his position be much better if he did nothing, or wired Schuster for advice. In either case, the girl might escape completely and bring recrimination down on the saloonkeeper’s head.

  Of course if he made the correct decision, Zimmerman would find Schuster willing to listen to a request and maybe agree to it. Zimmerman’s ambition was to move into a big town, so as to share in the greater profits a saloon offered in such an area. Gaining possession of such a place took more than money, which he had. Permission must be granted by the men who controlled the town; without it no saloonkeeper could open, or if he opened, show a profit. Having Schuster backing him, Zimmerman would be able to open anywhere and might even be allowed to set up in Cheyenne; with all the possibilities given by living in the State capital.

  Sucking in his breath, Zimmerman reached his decision. Every sign pointed to Schuster wanting the girl dead. If the worst came to the worst, Zimmerman figured he might claim that the dead Skerrit told him that Pauline must be killed. The fact that Zimmerman held Schuster’s letter requesting that every aid be granted to Skerrit would lend a ring of truth to the statement.

  ‘I want a killing done outside town and you can handle it any way you want,’ he told the waiting men.

  ‘Who is it,’ asked Spice, ‘and where?’

  ‘Now me, I’d say let’s hear how much we get first,’ interrupted the more practical Packer.

  ‘One hundred and fifty dollars each,’ offered Zimmerman, wanting to have the thing done for the lowest possible price.

  ‘For a killing?’ sniffed Packer.

  ‘Hell, there’ll be no risk to it. How does one-seventy-five each sound?’

  ‘All right, for openers – eh, Spice?’

  ‘Sure, Pack, we can always go up later.’

  ‘I want you to go after a wagon that’s headed out on the Desborough trail and learn if there’s a gal with it.’

  ‘And if there is?’ asked Packer.

  ‘Kill her,’ said Zimmerman, taking the plunge.

  ‘She traveling alone?’ Packer inquired mildly.

  ‘There’ll be a man along.’

  ‘He’ll not go for us killing the gal,’ Spice pointed out.

  ‘Then you’ll have to kill him too,’ Zimmerman explained.

  ‘On the Desborough trail?’ asked Packer, still suspiciously mild-voiced.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ the saloonkeeper agreed.

  Packer and Spice exchanged glances, then turned towards the door. ‘See you, mister,’ Spice said.

  ‘You mean you won’t do it?’ yelped Zimmerman.

  ‘For a lousy one-seventy-five each – when the man’s Scobie Dale? Mister, me ‘n’ Spice may be close to the blanket, but we’re not stupid.’

  ‘We saw the fuss in the bar and heard what the Wells Fargo man told Dale,’ Spice continued.

  ‘Two hundred each,’ Zimmerman yelped as the men started to walk slowly towards the door. ‘Kale Schuster’s behind this. He wants it done.’

  Even as he spoke, Zimmerman found himself wishing he had thought to mention Schuster before raising the price. Only the top names of the Wild Bunch might take chance on ignoring such an important man’s wishes and the pair in the office did not belong in that class. Turning, they came back to the desk.

  ‘Two hundred apiece,’ Packer agreed. ‘A bottle of whiskey and some rifle bullets. We’re both out and’re going to need them to handle Dale’s dogs.’

  ‘Which is a shame as the store’s closed up for the night,’ Spice continued.

  There’s a box behind the bar,’ Zimmerman growled. ‘You can have them and a small bottle of whiskey. When you’ve done the job, you can have another.’

  ‘You toss money around like a man with no arms,’ Packer sneered. ‘Only we work like your sign behind the bar.’

  ‘Work best on a full stomach, which same neither of us’s the money to get right now,’ Spice went on. ‘So we’d surely admire to have more’n loving words afore we ride out.’

  ‘All right, you’ve a deal,’ said Zimmerman. ‘Fifty dollars down and the rest when you bring me Dale’s guns and the girl’s clothes. What you do with the bodies is your affair.’

  ‘Bring you all the gal’s clothes?’ Packer asked.

  ‘Sounds like it’ll be fun,’ Spice grinned, ‘It’s a pity we’ll have to kill her afore we lay hands on her.’

  ‘How about if the gal’s not with Dale?’ Packer inquired, throwing a warning scowl at his frivolous partner. ‘The hound dog man gets on real good with Butch Cassidy.’

  ‘Leave him be unless the girl’s there,’ Zimmerman confirmed. ‘Come back and let me know. That girl’s got to be found.’

  ‘We’ll see to it,’ promised Packer. ‘Make sure you let Mr. Schuster know how we helped.’

  Like the saloonkeeper, Packer was aware of the rosy future which lay ahead of any man fortunate enough to come under Kale Schuster’s patronage.

  Leading the way from his office, Zimmerman took the men to the counter and told the bartender to tend to their needs. After accepting the small bottle of whiskey, box of rifle bullets and money, Packer walked from the saloon with Spice on his heels.

  The tall blond cowhand finished his drink and started to shove back his chair. Being aware that he carried a well-filled wallet, the girl seated at hi
s table protested.

  ‘You’re not going, are you?’ she asked. ‘I’ve room at my place—’

  ‘Now there’s a thought,’ he grinned. ‘Only I want to go for a meal first. I – sleep – better on a full stomach.’

  ‘All right,’ smiled the girl. ‘But you come back now, after you’re fed and ready to – sleep.’

  Six – A Bad Time to Give Birth

  Some three hours out from Braddock, shortly after midnight, Scobie Dale brought the wagon to a halt in a large clearing and upon the banks of a wide stream. Caution dictated that he selected such a place and not only because of the girl’s presence. Meat-hunting had seriously depleted the wild animal life, especially so close to a large town, reducing the numbers of deer, elk and Shiras moose to such an extent that the predatory creatures such as grizzly and black bears, cougar, wolverine and wolves turned to horses or cattle for an alternative food supply. More than one man lost his horses to prowling predators through failing to take suitable precautions.

  Not Scobie. Out in the center of a large clearing, even if the predator came with the wind blowing towards it, the pack would locate its presence and give the alarm long before it reached the horses.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked the girl as he picked up his Colt Lightning and jumped from the box.

  ‘You’d spoil them fancy duds,’ Scobie replied,

  ‘I’ll fix that if I can find my bag.’

  ‘Here’s a match. You’ll find a lantern hanging up inside.’

  Climbing back into the wagon, Pauline rasped the match on the side and lit the lantern. For the first time she found a chance to look over Scobie’s traveling home and liked what she saw. She liked the neat orderliness of the interior, finding it far different from what she expected. Designed for the swift, comfortable transportation for sick and wounded men over road-less country, the Ricker ambulance offered a fair amount of room inside. Scobie had removed the double tier of beds which would carry eight wounded, replacing them with a single bunk fixed to the right wall. Four large chests were nailed to the other wall, her traveling bag on one of them. At either side of the front stood a sack of the ‘dog cakes’ produced some thirty years before by Englishman James Spratt and now marketed all over the United States. A yellow oilskin ‘fish’, two buckskin jackets and another heavy coat hung from the canopy supports. By the tailgate lay Scobie’s Cheyenne roll saddle, with the leader flange extending over to the rear of the cantle-board in the manner designed by Frank Meanea in the early 1870s. The bitch curled up on a mattress of burlap and straw by the bunk, watching the girl and gently beating her tail on the floor.

  ‘Land sakes, Vixen,’ the girl said as she opened her bag. ‘I never thought I’d need these things again.’

  Looking at the items of clothing taken out, Pauline wondered why she had kept them. Maybe as reminder of the life she left, should she ever tire of working in saloons. Under the present conditions she felt mighty grateful that she did not yield to the impulse and discard the garments of her pre-saloon days. Stripping off all her saloon clothes, she donned the other items. After repacking her bag, she threw another comforting word to the bitch, swung on to the wagon box and dropped to the ground,

  Working on the team, Scobie threw a glance towards the girl. Then he jerked around, right hand twisting about the butt of the Remington.

  ‘Well dog-my-cats!’ he gasped, releasing the pistol. ‘Aren’t you the one for handing a man a fright.’

  ‘I never wore anything else while I was growing up,’ Pauline replied, just a touch self-consciously.

  Although the man’s shirt and Levis pants had fitted reasonably well when she last wore them, eighteen months in a saloon had caused her to fill out and add inches to certain places so that the clothes now felt a mite snug. However, the change appeared to have made a vast improvement, if Scobie’s admiring glances were anything to go on.

  ‘When I said “fright” I called it wrong,’ he told hen ‘Yes, sir, there’s nothing more sure than that.’

  Pauline smiled at the words. Somehow his comment neither embarrassed nor annoyed her. Accepting it as a compliment, she looked around for some work to do. She wriggled her bare toes on the grass, taking pleasure in the sensation. Even after a year and a half, her feet still felt cramped and pinched in shoes, for she never owned a pair until starting work in a saloon,

  ‘Now what work can I do?’ she asked.

  ‘Make a tire first. There’s enough wood in the possum belly to get it going. I’ll tote some more in when I’ve tended to the horses and hounds.’

  Producing wood from the rawhide container nailed to the underside of the wagon bed, known as a possum belly after the female opossum’s marsupial pouch, Pauline found that her old skill at fire lighting had not deserted her. Scobie had attended to the team horses and started work on the zebra dun by the time she stood back satisfied with her work.

  ‘Where’s the coffee pot?’ she asked.

  ‘In the first box from the back of the wagon,’ Scobie replied’ ‘If you want any food—’

  ‘I’m not hungry, but I’ll cook something for you.’

  ‘Fed before I came to the saloon. Coffee’s in the second box.’

  After lowering the tailgate, Pauline climbed on the step and into the wagon. The first box proved to contain cooking utensils, eight dog-feed bowls and a large sack full of meat. Taking out the coffee pot, she lowered the lid and opened the second box, finding it stocked with canned goods, a couple of parfleche bags of pemmican and other foods. Curiosity made her glance into the other two chests, the third holding clothing and the fourth a Sharps buffalo rifle, ten-gauge shotgun, Winchester Model ’73 carbine, securely resting in racks on the sides, boxes of ammunition, a small keg of black powder, a couple of blocks of lead and re-loading equipment.

  With female curiosity satisfied, the girl took coffee, pot and a couple of tin cups out of the wagon.

  ‘Can you lift Vixen down?’ she requested. ‘She looks like she’s ready to go for a slow walk, only we don’t know each other well enough for me to chance handling her yet.’

  ‘I’ll tend to her,’ Scobie answered.

  After lifting the bitch to the ground, he watched her amble slowly along on Pauline’s heels towards the stream. When Vixen halted to perform the proposed ‘going’, one of the Plott hounds loped over; a boisterous youngster acting in a manner most unsuitable to the bitch’s current delicate condition.

  ‘Get out of it!’ Pauline yelled at the Plott. ‘Skat!’

  A low growl rumbled in the big Plott’s throat, its seventy-five pound frame tensing slightly. Next instant it skipped hurriedly aside as the coffee pot flew at it from the girl’s hand.

  ‘You heard me!’ Pauline warned. ‘The next’ll hit you on your fool head!’

  Scobie watched the by-play with a grin coming to his face. Whatever the girl might be, she sure enough knew how to handle dogs. Which was just as well happen she aimed to ride with him as far as Desborough. He did not want to spend the entire trip wet-nursing a scared female who howled for help every time one of the hound pack went near her.

  On returning from the stream, Pauline set the pot on the fire. By that time Scobie had fixed the zebra dun’s nosebag on and returned to the wagon. Helping Vixen back inside, he opened the first box and took out the feed tins. Once again the girl came to volunteer her services and he asked her to put about a pound of the ‘dog-cake’ into each tin. Opening the meat sack, he scooped out around two pounds of raw flesh into each bowl and the girl mixed it with the ‘dog-cake’ from the sacks.

  ‘I usually put in some green stuff,’ Scobie remarked. ‘But I ran out.’

  ‘There’s some squaw-cabbage down by the stream,’ Pauline replied. ‘Shall I go fetch some for you?’

  ‘We’ll gather it comes morning,’ Scobie replied.

  Again he found himself wondering at the calm competence the girl showed. In his experience, the average saloon girl knew practically nothing about outside life and he cou
ld not remember meeting one before capable of recognizing squaw-cabbage on a dark night.

  Taking the feed bowls out, Scobie placed them down some distance away from the wagon and close to the stream, keeping them far enough apart to prevent quarreling among the dogs. Not until he gave the word did the pack advance, but on arriving at its bowl, each dog began to eat with the gusto which told of good health.

  As became the pack’s strike dog, Strike was permitted to have his food close to the fire. Pauline brewed coffee and was just about to pour it out when the Rottweiler lifted his head and looked in the direction from which they came. A low growl sounded from the Rottweiler and immediately Scobie reached for his gun, eyes following the direction of the dog’s stare.

  ‘Best get into the wagon and hide,’ he told the girl. ‘That’s Strike’s man-growl. Take your coffee with you.’

  Obediently the girl rose and carried her cup of coffee to the rear of the wagon. She climbed inside and Scobie closed the tailgate behind her.

  ‘I’ll put the lantern out,’ she said.

  ‘Smart thinking,’ Scobie agreed. ‘I don’t know who’s coming, but we’d best take no chances until we learn.’

  Returning to the fire as the girl doused the lantern’s light, Scobie laid his hand on Strike’s neck.

  ‘I hear ’em, old pal,’ he said. ‘Leave be, though.’

  Following its orders, the Rottweiler started to eat once more; but its general attitude told him that its keen ears followed the stealthy approach of the unseen men. Farther away, the rest of the pack failed to catch the sounds and so continued to eat undisturbed.

  Any doubts Scobie might have felt about the reason for the visit ended as the men came to a halt still hidden and did not make their presence known. For almost ten minutes they remained concealed, but the dog’s attitude proved they were still on hand. At last Scobie felt that he should make a move.