Waco 4 Read online

  Waco did not come to Arizona with the intention of joining the Rangers. He caught a bullet helping the other members of the floating outfit handle a dangerous situation. iii The wound took longer to heal than was expected, and the others, with the exception of Doc Leroy, headed back for Texas. Then on their way home Waco and Doc took on as roundup hands at the Hashknife outfit. This was a temporary measure, to refill their depleted wallets. Captain Mosehan saw the way Waco and Doc pitched in on some rustler trouble and asked them to come with him when the governor of the Arizona Territory asked him to form the Rangers. Mosehan never found cause to regret his choice of men, and for the past two years they’d done much to help smash the lawlessness of the territory. iv

  ~*~

  After attending to his horse Waco headed for the jail, with Jed Franks carrying his saddle and asking eager questions that did not receive any answer. Waco entered the jail and sat at the desk, resting his head on his hands. Mosehan looked down at the young Texan and wondered if he might possibly be in any shape to handle the important task.

  Caudell came into the office and dropped a pair of handcuffs on the table by Waco’s elbow.

  “Did you have to bring them in like that?” he asked.

  “They wouldn’t have it any other way,” Waco replied.

  “I mean like that-on foot and—”

  “Mister,” growled Waco, lifting his face to look with sleep-dulled eyes at the sheriff. “They robbed a bank. Left three harmless folks dead in it. They left one of your deputies laying in the street with his brains on his face and no back to his head. I went after them alone because there wasn’t time or the men on hand to form a posse. Those five run their hosses until they started dropping under ’em. First they rode double, then three on one hoss, two on the other. When I caught up, they were all trying to fork the one remaining hoss. It got loose and hightailed in the fuss that followed. What the hell should I have done?” He paused, cold eyes never leaving Caudell’s face. “Set the three on the back of my old Dusty hoss and lead them in?”

  Mosehan laid a hand on Waco’s shoulder and pressed gently. “Ease off, boy. You didn’t pick the best time to come in.”

  “You sure didn’t,” agreed Caudell fervently. “With her at the hotel.”

  “She doesn’t come into it,” Mosehan barked. “The boy brought in three prisoners the only way he could and I’d face down the devil himself afore I’d let him call one of my men down for doing his duty.”

  Mosehan was sincere in his words. His organization owed no allegiance to the political factions of the territory. Some might be stout Republicans, others equally firm for the Democrat cause, but they forgot such things when taking the oath as Arizona Rangers. Mosehan’s words explained why the Rangers were such a loyal and tight-knit group, ready and willing to light down in hell and haul a shuck out of it in the face of the devil if Mosehan gave the word. They knew their leader stood behind them and would back every action, any method used in the execution of their duty, regardless of the consequences.

  “What I mean is the boy’s first to reach Albion,” Mosehan finished.

  Sheriff and Ranger Captain exchanged glances. Then Caudell looked down at Waco, who appeared to be almost falling asleep as he sat at the desk.

  “You can’t send him out on that chore, Bert.”

  “What chore’s that, Cap’n Bert?” Waco inquired.

  “It’s an urgent one, boy. Real important.”

  “When do I start?”

  There spoke the spirit of the Arizona Rangers, not asking what dangers the job might entail or even what the job was. Just one simple thing need be settled. “When do I start?”

  “There’s a bathhouse at the back of the barbershop,”

  Mosehan replied. “Let’s go down there. You can shave, get some of that dirt off, some clean clothes on, and we can talk while you’re doing it.”

  Reaching down, Mosehan opened the desk cupboard and pulled out a tarp-wrapped bedroll. On his way to Prescott for a conference called by the governor, Mosehan’s route had taken him through the small town of Dansfield. There he heard of the bank robbery and that one of his men had taken off after the gang. From the description Mosehan knew the man to be Waco and discovered the young Texan had left his bedroll in town to travel lighter. Knowing Waco would return any of the outlaws he might take to Albion, the county seat, instead of Dansfield, which possessed no facilities for holding dangerous prisoners, Mosehan brought the bedroll along.

  Now Mosehan felt pleased he had done so, for this other business came up and Waco would need the contents of his war bag, which lay in the roll.

  “There’s a clean shirt, underwear, socks, and a bandanna in my war bag,” Waco remarked, coming to his feet. “You’ll have to stand me a new pair of pants, I’m near on broke.”

  Mosehan grinned, opening the tarp, unrolling the sugans and blankets and taking out the war bag. He slung it onto his shoulder, gave Franks an order to make for the nearest store and buy some pants, then went with Waco toward the barbershop.

  The owner of the business house that ran the baths, being one of the many people who regarded the Arizona Rangers with some esteem, was more than willing to bring hot water and fresh towels. He waited until Waco stripped off the dirty clothing then took up the boots and hat, promising they’d be returned better than new by the time he was done with his bath.

  Mosehan drew up a chair, watching Waco’s muscular young frame sink into the hot water to the accompaniment of a delighted gasp as the heat bit into him.

  “The stage leaves at half-past ten, boy. I want you on it.”

  “I’ll make it,” promised Waco.

  “You likely saw the Apaches sitting around on the way in?”

  “Why sure, Chiricahuas from the San Ramos reservation, I’d say. Which same I’ve been through Albion three times and seen Apaches every single time.”

  “Yeah, Apaches aren’t anything unusual here,” Mosehan drawled. “Only we’re likely to see more of them than we want unless you find out what’s needed on that stage today. Just start in to using that fancy dude soap, it’ll make you smell nice in the company.”

  Waco grinned then began to lather his arms. The grin died as he caught the meaning of the words. Waco had seen Apache war when, with Dusty Fog, he helped defend the town of Baptist’s Hollow from the warrior horde of Lobo Colorado. v Yet the San Ramos reservation never gave trouble, for the man who ran it knew Apaches and dealt fairly with them.

  “I don’t get you, Cap’n Bert.”

  “Did you ever hear about Mangus Colorado’s medicine?”

  “Why sure. ’Bout as much as any white man has. It’s hid out under guard on the San Ramos reservation someplace, isn’t it?”

  “It was hid there someplace.”

  “You mean it’s gone?” asked Waco, sitting up erect.

  “That’s just what I mean. One out of six people could have taken it and all six are on the stage this morning.”

  “What was it they, or he, took?”

  “Like I said,” Mosehan replied. “Mangus Colorado’s medicine, but what that is I don’t know. The man who told me doesn’t know. He’s a squaw man, lived with the Chiricahuas most all his grown life, but he’s still white and they’ve never let him see the medicine. I’m certain he didn’t take it, so that leaves the six on the stage.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Cody Yarrow, he’s one of Sieber’s Apache Scouts. Going on furlough and was on the reservation seeing some friends. He knows Apache and speaks their language, could know where the medicine was hid. Frank Wilson, gambler, tinhorn or I miss my guess. Was out at the San Ramos fort, used to go riding each morning on the reservation and played poker, or took money from the soldiers at night. Julie Clover, a pretty fair singer. Went out to the fort to sing in the sutler’s place. The Reverend Samuel Hodges, he’s been on the reservation for a month, trying to convert the Apaches, pulled out sudden, like all the others. Then there’s Mrs. Bertha Ford and her niece. You k
now who she is?”

  “I know,” answered Waco. “Read one of her stories in the Prescott News Herald. “Is Your Son a Legalized Killer?” it was called. All about how a bunch of peaceful Apaches got themselves wiped out by cavalry, artillery, and Gatling guns at Baptist’s Hollow when they came into church. Lord, I was never so sickened in all my life.”

  “I’ve seen some of her stuff,” Mosehan replied. “But don’t sell her short, boy. She’s got some influence back east. She could still be the one; a trip like the one she’s just finished costs plenty and she might need the money. A thing like Mangus Colorado’s medicine’d bring in good money from some eastern collector or tent showman.”

  “Haul them in and search them,” Waco suggested.

  “You reckon I’d’ve passed that one up, happen I thought it would help?” the Ranger captain grunted. “We don’t know for sure what we’re after. There’s no word leaked out about this so far, and happen we start searching, there’ll be questions asked. If folks heard, they’d start screaming for the cavalry to move in and that’d bring things to the boiling point, all right.”

  Waco ducked his head under the water, came up, and began to soap his blond hair. He thought over what Mosehan told him so far and saw the wisdom in the words. He knew how quickly people spooked when they thought Apache trouble was about to start. Indian fever, fear of attack, loomed large in the thoughts of any town near an Apache reservation. If once word got out that the Apaches had lost an article of value to them, some fool would start screaming that the army did something. In a tense situation such as this, one spark might cause an explosion and the braves take off in a full-scale uprising. Then the other bad hats would put on the paint and once more the bitter, bloody struggle to subdue the Apaches would fall upon the land.

  Ducking his head under the water, Waco washed the suds from his hair and looked at his boss on emerging.

  “So you want me on the stage, learning what I can and seeing if I can get back the medicine?”

  “Sure,” Mosehan agreed.

  “It might not be one of them.”

  “It might not. But I reckon the Apaches have a better than fair idea who’s got it. I made the rounds with Brick Caudell last night and saw their scouts. They covered two hotels and the livery barns. Thing is the passengers of the stage were all in one or the other hotel the Apaches watched.”

  “Looks like you’re right-for once.”

  Mosehan grinned. “You’ve three days to the New Mexico line. I want the medicine found and fetched back before they cross the line. I’d don’t reckon any of them know you.”

  “Cody Yarrow might,” Waco answered. “But he won’t let on who I am.”

  “He’s a suspect, boy. Might be the one who took it. You’ll have to go real careful all the time.”

  “Aren’t I always?” Waco grinned.

  “Nope!”

  “Couldn’t you talk with the chief of the reservation, find out what we’re after?” Waco inquired.

  “If I could I’d be out there doing it now. You know how closemouthed they get about their religion.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re not going to get much sleep, boy. If you get any afore the stage pulls out.”

  “I’ll get some on it,” drawled Waco, finishing his bath and climbing out to take the towel Mosehan offered. “I likely won’t do anything afore we hit Ma Randle’s place tonight.”

  Jed Franks entered at that moment with four pairs of Levi’s trousers over his arm. “I didn’t know your size, amigo,” he said with a grin. “So the storekeeper told me to bring these and let you pick the right ones.”

  Mosehan accepted the trousers and asked Franks to make for the jail to arrange a meal to be ready when Waco returned from his bath. Waco selected the best-fitting trousers and pulled them on over his underpants. He turned back the cuffs in the approved cowhand style then straightened up and prepared to shave the three-day growth of whiskers from his face.

  Waco looked, even if he did not feel, refreshed and alert when he walked into the sheriff’s office and sat at the desk to eat the meal Jed Franks brought in. The young clerk knew the gravity of the situation and showed he knew what a man might need to handle it. The gunbelt lay on the desk and Jed opened a box of .45 bullets to refill the empty loops. Waco, his mouth full of eggs and bacon, nodded his thanks. The Stetson on the table and Waco’s boots showed that the owner of the bathhouse kept his promise. That hat looked like new and the boots bore a shine reserved for special occasions when Waco himself had the shining to do.

  While Waco sat eating he saw the stage brought around to the front of the office, pulled by two horses and left ready for the heavy baggage to be loaded on top and the regular team harnessed. The driver climbed on top and started to load the bags thrown to him by the guard.

  “Take care of my rifle and ole Dusty hoss,” Waco said to Mosehan, pulling his plate to one side and getting to his feet. “Where’d you want me to report in?”

  “Catch the first stage back here,” Mosehan replied. “I’ll leave that paint crowbait in the civic pound. Here’s your stage-line ticket, don’t lose it.”

  “I’ll surely try not to, Pappy,” drawled Waco, sounding like a son answering his doting and worrying parent. “Reckon I’ll head across there right now.”

  “The stage don’t leave for almost an hour,” Mosehan pointed out.

  “Which same’s why I’m going now. I can get some sleep afore it starts.”

  Waco took up his bedroll, rewrapped and ready for him, the box of bullets put inside by Jed who did the rolling. Mosehan handed Waco his rifle, remarking that he would leave the saddle on the sheriff’s burro out back. The young Texan nodded, slung the bedroll across his shoulder, looked at the rifle, and tossed it to Mosehan.

  “I’m not likely to need it,” he remarked, and walked from the room.

  “Is he as good as I’ve heard?” Caudell inquired, watching Waco stride to the stagecoach.

  “He’s likely the best man I’ve got, up to and including my sergeant,” Mosehan replied. “And if any man can get back the medicine, he’ll do it.”

  The driver caught Waco’s bedroll, opened his mouth to growl an angry comment, saw the tired look about the young Texan, and closed his mouth again. After a hard night’s celebration in a saloon the driver was in an irascible mood but he was cautious with it. He did not know who Waco might be, but knew full well what he was.

  The same irascible mood had led the driver to place his coach right close to the hitching rail so his passengers would be forced to walk around into the street before they could enter. Waco found some satisfaction in the arrangement, for it meant he could take a corner seat and remain undisturbed by people pushing past him as they entered. So Waco took a seat with his back to the team and at the far side against the window. He settled down, drew his hat over his eyes, and went to sleep.

  Mosehan crossed the street with a package of food Waco had forgotten but the Texan was asleep before he reached the coach, so he passed it up to the driver, who accepted it with an eagerness at odds with his sullen behavior earlier.

  “He one of your boys, Cap’n?”

  “He sure is,” Mosehan agreed. “You stay where you are, friend, and let him sleep his sleep.”

  The driver grinned. He’d placed his coach in this position out of sheer orneriness but it looked as if the head of the Arizona Rangers approved of his actions.

  ~*~

  The passengers for the eastbound coach gathered before the Wells Fargo office and watched their overnight bags being placed in the rear compartment, then lashed into place ready to roll.

  Cody Yarrow had been first to arrive, a tall, wide-shouldered young man in the buckskin shirt, cavalry trousers, and moccasins of Sieber’s Apache Scouts. The gunbelt around his waist was of military pattern, the walnut-handled Cavalry Peacemaker riding butt forward at the left while a staghorn-handled bowie knife hung sheathed at the right. He tossed his bag to the driver and stood watching th
e other passengers come up.

  Next to come, dressed in sober black suit, white shirt, and cravat, was a sallow-faced, gaunt man of indeterminate age. He wore the round-topped black hat of a frontier circuit-riding preacher and held a thick, leather-bound Bible in his left hand. Even at this early hour of the morning sweat trickled down his face and he did not speak as he handed his bag to the driver.

  A young woman and a gambler walked toward the coach side by side. The woman stood at most five-foot-two and wore a small hat with a feather in it on her piled-up rust-colored hair. Her face had a certain attractive charm, and her dark blue satin dress revealed a shapely figure of the plump, eye-catching kind that was the current style among theatricals. In her right hand she carried a vanity bag, in the left a parasol, neither of which could a lady of her class be seen without.

  The gambler’s face had a pallor through which the dull hue of his facial hair showed. In height he stood only six inches taller than the woman, but was stocky and hard looking. The butt of a Merwin & Hulbert pocket revolver showed from a shoulder clip under his coat. His frilly-fronted silk shirt looked expensive while his trousers were tight-legged and stylish. He gave his bag to the driver, growling out an angry inquiry about why the stage came to be left in such a position.