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  The man was tall, wide-shouldered, powerful-looking. His face was youthful, but his eyes were not.

  They seemed to reflect years of hard living and hard riding, years in which he had looked death in the face too often, but had always come out standing when the gunsmoke cleared.

  No, the man they called Waco didn’t like a man to be trifled with. Even if you overlooked the fact that he was a Ranger in the troubled Territory of Arizona.

  WACO 3: ARIZONA RANGER

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Transworld Publishers in 1968

  Copyright © 1982, 2017 by J. T. Edson

  First Smashwords Edition: February 2017

  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: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Table of Contents

  Case One – Roan Marrettt’s Son

  Case Two – The Apache Kid

  Case Three – A Man Called Drango Dune

  Case Four - Set One, Catch One

  Case Five – Buffalo Soldier

  Case Six – The Bail Jumpers

  Case Seven – Gasby’s Conquests

  Case Eight – One of Dusty’s Guns

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  Case One – Roan Marrett’s Son

  The cow town of Mangus, Arizona, lay half asleep under the heat of the noonday sun. Along its main and only street there was no sign of life. Just another wind and sun-dried little range town this. No great man was ever born here and no leader of the people could look back to it and call Mangus home.

  That did not mean things never happened in Mangus. They did. Like the night three weeks back, when four men broke into the Cattleman’s Bank, blew open the safe and left with its contents. They disappeared without a trace and the combined efforts of the County Sheriff’s office, Pinkertons and the local citizens could find no sign of the escaping quartet. This in spite of the fact that the country had been well scoured by posses, looking on all the favorite owl-hoot trails.

  A week after the robbery came the second big happening. Marty Candle, owner of the Candle Hotel, killed a tough Texas man called Roan Marrett. The full facts of the affair were not known, local interest being more in the recovery of the bank money. Rumor had it that Marrett and Candle quarreled in a big stake poker game and the Texan died of a case of slow. He was found lying on the floor of the back room, a hole in his chest and his gun in his hand; cards and money scattered around him. The sole witnesses to the affair were a gambler named Fancy and two toughs who were known to work for Marty Candle, so their testimony might have been tinged with personal bias. The matter died a death for although Marrett had been staying in Mangus for three or more months, he had never made any close friends. Even if Marrett did have friends in Mangus it was doubtful if there would be any serious investigation, for Marty Candle was not the sort of man to countenance lightly too close a scrutiny of his affairs.

  Sonny Sneddon, the wizened old owner of the leather shop, carried on much as usual, except that each day now he left his place of business around noon and walked along to where he could see the Tucson trail. There he sat for an hour or so, watching for a man he did not know. A man who might not even come.

  Sonny was an old Arizona settler who had been in the country for almost fifty years, the last fifteen here in Mangus. In that time his eyes grew only a little less keen, and were still keen enough to pick up the rider who came into view over a distant rise in the trail. They were also keen enough even at that distance to make out the color of the horse. It was a big roan. Roan horses were not common around here and this was the first Sonny had seen since the livery barn sold Marrett’s big roan stallion.

  The man was riding his horse with a certain, familiar, easy grace. That was obvious even though he was still too far away to be recognizable. Then Sonny Sneddon recalled the way Roan Marrett sat a horse: for all his size he’d been a light rider, easy in the saddle.

  But Roan Marrett was dead.

  The horse was approaching at a mile-eating lope which brought its rider into better view at every stride. Sonny watched him all the time, studying him with the careful attention of a man with nothing useful to do with his time. He was tall, wide-shouldered, tapering to a slim waist, lithe and powerful looking. The low-crowned, wide-brimmed, Texas-style J. B. Stetson hat threw a shadow which hid his face as effectively as any mask. Around his throat, tight rolled in a riot of color, the bandana hung its long ends over the dark green shirt almost to the waistband of the Levis trousers. The cuffs of the Levis were turned back, hanging loose outside his boots. Around his waist was a brown, hand-carved buscadero gunbelt, the sun glinting dully on the blued backstraps of the matched brace of stag-horn handled Colt Artillery Peacemakers in the holsters.

  That belt and the way the guns hung just right to a reaching hand was significant. So was the dress and riding style of the stranger. That was how Roan Marrett dressed; that was how he wore his guns.

  Now the horse came alongside the porch where Sonny sat; halting, the rider looked down at the old-timer. He was, as Sonny guessed, young. His face was handsome, tanned by the elements, the eyes blue as the June sky after a storm. They were eyes which looked right straight at a man, meeting his levelly and without any hint of flinching. The face showed strength of will, intelligence and determination, the mouth with tiny grin quirks at the corners. It was a man’s face. Such a face as had Roan Marrett.

  Lifting his left leg the young man hooked it over the low horn of his double clinched saddle and lounged there. The saddle was well-made and showed signs of much careful use. Strapped to the horn was a sixty foot Indian hair rope; to the cantle his bedroll with the warbag inside. Under the left stirrup was a saddleboot and in it a rifle. That rifle told a man things, happen he knew the West. It was a new model Winchester Centennial and not the usual weapon a cowhand carried; they preferred the lighter .44.40 Winchester model of ’73. Only outlaws or lawmen went for the extra range of the .45.75 model of ’76.

  Then Sonny’s eyes went to the boots and he felt the hair, scant as it was, on the back of his neck rising. He’d been living with Apaches for long enough to have absorbed much of their beliefs in ghosts and spirits. What he was seeing now made him believe in them. This young man was not only dressed and rode like Roan Marrett but on his expensive, high heeled boots was worked the same sort of star motif as Roan Marrett’s showed.

  Reaching up, the young man took out a sack of Bull Durham from his pocket with one hand, the other pushing the hat back. His hair, like Marrett’s, was blond, curly. Rolling a smoke with fingers that appeared to see, he showed off the same dexterity as had Roan Marrett. Then with the smoke manufactured he spoke, his voice a soft, easy Texan drawl.

  ‘There here the thriving township of Mangus, Colonel?’

  ‘Yep, she be,’ Sonny answered, feeling an icy hand pressed on his spine. It was almost as though Roan Marrett himself sat there.

  ‘Right peaceful looking town, man’d say,’ the Texan, for Texan he was, went on, his voice deceptively soft as the first whisper of a Texas blue northern storm. ‘Where’d a man stay, happen he was staying?’

  ‘Hotel down there, Marty Candle’s place.’ Sonny watched the Texan
as he said the name but could read nothing on that face. ‘Be the best hotel in town ’cept there ain’t but the one.’

  ‘Man’d likely stay on there then,’ the Texan was almost talking to himself, his eyes studying the street ahead of him. ‘Sure. Be you looking for somebody down there?’

  ‘Depends on if there’s anybody down there I know. Now don’t it?’

  The leg uncoiled from the saddlehorn and the roan started forward again before Sonny could carry on the conversation. He decided to take a chance, playing on his advancing years, to step beyond the fringe of frontier politeness and pry into a stranger’s private concern. ‘Didn’t catch your name, friend.’

  ‘Likely,’ the Texan looked back, his face showing neither anger nor any other emotion at this breach of etiquette. ‘See, friend. I never throwed it.’

  Sonny watched the departing back of the rider and snorted, remembering the mocking, half-polite tone Roan Marrett used when talking with him in his saddle shop. The old-timer shifted his cud of Double Strength Chewing Tobacco in his mouth and at a fair distance drowned a lizard which chanced to look out at him. With his kind action performed Sonny rose, stumped off round the side of the house and headed for the back of the hotel.

  Two men sat on the rail of the hotel’s coral, idly looking at the horses. They turned as they heard the footsteps and looked Sonny over with neither friendship nor welcome. One of the pair was a shortish dandy wearing a gunbelt with matched Remingtons butt forward in his holsters. The other was a big, untidy-looking, unshaven man with a Colt 1860 Army revolver shoved into his waistband.

  ‘Howdy, Doug, Red,’ Sonny greeted. ‘Feller a feller said’d come air here.’

  Doug Brown scowled and replied. ‘You allus talk like your brain’s hanging inside out.’

  ‘This feller looks real like a feller you knowed,’ Sonny had this habit of making a mystery out of plain speech. ‘Thought you’d like to look him over.’

  ‘Why?’ Red Connel grunted the word out.

  Sonny ejected a stream of tobacco at one of the horses. ‘Might interest ye. He’s real tall, wide shouldered, blond. Totes a matched brace in a buscadero gunbelt. Got him one of them new homed, double girthed Texas rigs. Talks real soft.’ Pausing, Sonny allowed the words to sink in. ‘He’s afork a big roan boss.’

  The change in the other two was noticeable as the words ran on. At the last five words they both jumped down from the rail, looking hard at Sonny.

  ‘You mean–!’ Brown asked.

  ‘Yeah, he’s a Texan.’

  Connel and Brown looked at each other: there was something in their eyes that might have been fear. They were recalling how Roan Marrett boasted of a son. A boy even more skilled with a gun than Marrett; a son who would be joining him soon.

  ‘What’re you getting at, you ole goat?’ Brown asked, not wanting to hear the answer he was expecting.

  ‘Mind me a powerful lot of ole Roan Marrett.’

  ‘Marrett!’ Connel spat the word out as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. ‘We’d best take us a look, Doug.’

  The Texan brought his horse to a halt in front of the Candle Hotel and swung down from the saddle. On his ride through the street he looked ahead all the time, apparently interested in nothing but where he was going. For all of that he was aware his appearance was causing a stir among the few loungers he’d passed. The general reaction was to glance at him, then look harder, eyes going from his big roan horse to him, the faces showing startled expressions. For his part his face showed no sign of even noticing that he was attracting attention. He tossed the reins over the hitching rail, leaning his shoulder against the jamb and waiting for his eyes to grow used to the cool, badly lit interior.

  The desk clerk suddenly became aware that the door was blocked and looked up, his attention being to request the blocker to come in or go out. He saw the tall, lounging shape, then gulped and made a signal to the dandified gambling man who was standing just inside the gaming-room, watching a couple of cowhands playing vingt-un with a disinterested girl dealer. The gambler caught the signal and turned to look towards the door. He stiffened and the glass fell from his hand, splintering at his feet on the floor.

  The clerk’s eyes went back to the man at the door and felt almost relief that Fancy, the gambler, could see it too. All too often Roan Marrett had entered the hotel, stopping like that to allow his eyes to get used to the change of light. For a moment the desk clerk thought he was seeing a ghost, but the Texan was very much alive as he crossed the room and halted at the desk, hardly glancing at Fancy who’d come across to the desk and was lounging there.

  Leaning on the desk the Texan glanced down at the register and asked: ‘Anyone in room seventeen?’

  The clerk rammed his pen hard into the inkpot and swore softly as the nib broke. Then he opened his mouth and shut it again. Room Seventeen had been occupied by Roan Marrett and even now was still empty.

  ‘No,’ the clerk realized his voice sounded squeaky but managed to control his tones to go on, ‘was you expecting someone to be there?’

  ‘Man can never tell, Colonel. Had a friend one time who always reckoned seventeen was his lucky number. Came this way, tall jigger, toted a brace of guns and wouldn’t ride nothing but a roan hoss. Allowed that was lucky for him, too. You ever see him round here at all?’

  Again the clerk opened his mouth and shut it again, not wishing to give the wrong answer. Roan Marrett was always boasting seventeen was his lucky number and how his roan stallion brought him luck. However, Candle did not like people discussing Roan Marrett. He would take an even stronger dislike to anyone discussing Marrett with this soft-talking Texas man.

  It was then Fancy decided he’d best help out before the fool clerk blabbed out too much.

  ‘Sounds like you mean Roan Marrett, friend,’ he said. ‘You know him well?’

  ‘Don’t know how you mean, well,’ the Texan answered. ‘I’ll take the room, Colonel. Take my hoss to the livery barn first, then bring my gear in.’

  The clerk looked as a ten-dollar gold piece dropped on to the desk by the side of his hand. By the time he could force himself to look up, the Texan was walking towards the door.

  ‘You never signed the register, mister,’ he said.

  ‘You name it,’ the Texan said over his shoulder and went outside.

  On the porch he stopped, hands brushing the butts of his matched guns. Two men, one tall and one short, were examining his horse, walking round the big roan and looking it over. The Texan knew the roan was a fine horse and yet it was not enough to attract such attention.

  Connel and Brown circled the horse, glancing at and trying to read the brand but they were not cowhands and did not know what that burned-on scar meant. They studied the rope and the double girthed rig, then Connel glanced at the hotel porch: the way he stiffened brought Brown’s attention in the same direction. They saw a pair of high-heeled, star decorated boots with Kelly spurs on them and looked up at six foot two of Texan cowhand. He stood the same way that Marrett would have stood in the same circumstances, hands near the butts of the guns, tense and yet relaxed.

  Brown decided he should say something. Jerking his thumb towards the roan he said, ‘Fine looking hoss, friend. Right unusual rope you’ve got on your saddlehorn.’

  The Texan did not even glance at the eight-plait rope strapped to his saddlehorn. ‘Took it off a Comanche dawg soldier on the Ole Train.’

  Two faces, pallid under their tan, looked at each other, neither speaking as the Texan walked by them, taking up the reins and swung into the saddle, riding on towards the livery barn.

  In a hushed, strangled voice Connel gasped, ‘That’s what Roan Marrett always said about his rope.’

  ‘Yeah and it looked just like that one,’ Brown agreed. ‘We’d best see the boss.’

  They both entered the hotel and found Fancy still standing at the bar and looking very thoughtful. He turned as they entered and the hope which started to kindle inside him died as he looked
at their faces.

  ‘You see him, Fancy?’ Brown asked.

  ‘I saw him,’ Fancy was still more shaken now. He’d been hoping against hope that Brown and Connel would scoff at the idea of this being Roan Marrett’s son. ‘I reckon Marty will want to know about this. Come on.’

  They went to the door marked ‘Private’ at the side of the desk. Fancy knocked and walked in. Marty Candle looked up, pushing the pretty blonde girl from his knee as he looked at the scared faces of the three men. He jerked his head and the girl, smoothing down her dress, walked out, passing Fancy, Brown and Connel.

  ‘What the hell, Fancy?’ Candle growled. The girl was new here and the best looker he’d ever hired. He was a sensual man and enjoyed the privileges his hiring of girls gave him; now his pleasure was postponed.

  The gambler licked his lips, then answered, ‘He’s here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Roan Marrett’s son. Just like Marrett said he would.’

  Candle came to his feet, six foot odd of bone and muscles, dressed in the height of frontier gambling fashion of frilly bosomed white shirt, string bow tie, black Prince Albert coat and tight-legged grey trousers with shining pointed toed shoes.

  ‘Marrett’s son?’ he growled, looking from one to the other of them. ‘Are you sure it is him.’

  ‘Sure enough,’ Fancy answered for the other two. ‘He acted real cagey at the desk, wouldn’t give no name. But he asked if there was anybody in room seventeen. He even described Marrett and asked if we’d seen him.’

  ‘He’s tall and blond, just like Marrett, got him one of them buscadero gunbelts just like Marrett’s,’ Brown went on.

  Connel reached for the bottle on the table and with a hand that shook slightly, poured out a generous drink into one of the glasses and sank it at one gulp.

  ‘He rides one of them double rigged saddles, just like Marrett’s. He’s afork a roan and even got one of them Comanche ropes.’

  ‘Reckon he knows about that?’ Fancy asked, pointing to the safe in the corner of the office.