Waco 7: Hound Dog Man (A Waco Western) Read online

  After disposing of the dog, without wasting any time, the grizzly made for Copson. The horse had bolted, tearing across the range and carrying away the only thing which might have saved the man’s life; always assuming that the .45.75 caliber carbine, vast improvement that it was over the old ‘yellow boy’, packed enough punch to knock down the bear in time.

  Copson screamed as the grizzly reached him, desperately throwing up an arm in a futile attempt to protect his throat. Crushing jaws closed on the arm, sinking in and merciless claws raked flesh after tearing through the butcher’s jacket, vest, shirt and undershirt as if they did not exist. Borne to the ground by the bear’s weight, Copson struggled feebly and ineffectively during the few seconds of life left to him. Maybe during the brief seconds of agony he realized just what the old cowhand, Wilkie, meant when giving the grim warning back in town.

  Snorting its rage, the bear stood over the bloody ruin that had been a man. Instinct led it to lap at the flowing blood and it tasted the saltiness of human gore for the first time. Like most animals, the bear had a craving for salt and, tasting it in the blood, tried a tentative bite at the flesh. Satisfied that the man’s body offered something which the cow’s did not, the grizzly laid hold of Copson’s shoulder in its jaws and began to drag him towards the bushes. In a hollow not a hundred yards from where it made its kill, the bear started to feed on human flesh. Before it could take more than six bites, it heard a distant drumming of hooves. Memory stirred, giving a warning of other times such a sound reached its ears. The coming of a number of men could not be handled as had the arrival of a single individual. Unlike Vic, the bear’s courage was tempered with caution and it knew when to run instead of standing to fight. Swinging away from the lacerated body, the bear faded off through the bushes and headed towards the high country. It went with a full stomach – and an awareness of the taste of human flesh.

  Holding their horses to a fast trot, seven men rode towards the scene of the killings. When Daniels heard Wilkie’s news, he forgot fishing. So did the doctor, a capable if irascible man who said uncomplimentary things about Copson’s intelligence. In town they collected the sheriff and three more men, picked up suitable armament and rode after the butcher in the hope that they might arrive in time to save his life.

  From various signs, the party doubted if they would be in time. They passed the red-bone hound bitch slinking along with terrified, rolling eyes and tail tucked up tight between her legs. Riding on, the party went by the body of the dead cow. Copson’s highly prized Bull Terrier’s smashed, ripped-open carcass hung on the blueberry bushes. Pushing on cautiously, afoot and holding their rifles ready for use, they found Copson – he was not a pretty sight.

  ‘The – the bear’s been eating him!’ gasped one of the party.

  ‘For God’s sake get a blanket and cover it up!’ another went on, face turning an ashy-grey color.

  Only old Wilkie appeared unmoved by what he saw. ‘I told him,’ the grizzled cowhand stated. ‘I said it wasn’t a chore for an amateur.’

  ‘You told him,’ admitted the rancher. ‘Head back to town and send word for Scobie Dale.’

  Two – I Never Needed More Than One

  ‘I won’t go with him, Mr. Zimmerman!’

  More than just an ordinary objection to accompanying a customer filled Pauline Pitt’s voice as she looked from her employer to the tall, lean, city-dressed figure of Ike Skerrit at his side.

  ‘You’ll go with whoever I tell you to!’ Zimmerman replied, his fat, Hebraic face showing anger under its smooth, professionally jovial exterior.

  ‘I’m not going!’ Pauline insisted. ‘Let him find another girl.’

  ‘He wants you,’ the saloonkeeper pointed out.

  On the face of it, Skerrit’s insistence on Pauline as a companion did not appear to be worth causing trouble over. Certainly it could not be because she stood out amongst the other occupants of the room. Small, not more than five foot two in height, with honey-blonde hair piled up on top of her head, a pretty face and shapely body that the knee-long, low-cut blue dress of her kind did nothing to hide, she made an attractive picture; but there were at least two better-looking and more attractive girls in the room.

  ‘And aims to have you,’ Skerrit stated, his lean, sallow face showing no expression to explain the insistence.

  ‘Now stop your fooling and go with him!’ growled Zimmerman, shooting out a fat hand to catch her arm in a tight, savage grasp.

  ‘No!’ Pauline gasped, her face showing more than a hint of fear.

  The customers of the Liberty Bell saloon in Braddock, Wyoming, watched the little scene without showing any sign of intervening on the girl’s behalf. Being, for the most part, regular customers, they knew better than to come between Zimmerman and his staff. Any man foolish enough to do so rapidly found himself wishing that he had not, for Zimmerman hired two burly bouncers to back his play.

  ‘Take your hand offen her arm, feller,’ said a low, drawling voice.

  It seemed that the man who entered the saloon did not know of Zimmerman’s way with busybodies who interfered in saloon business. Yet he also gave the impression that he might be capable of raising considerable objections to the bouncers rough handling him.

  Six foot one at least he stood and high-heeled riding boots did not account for any of it as lie wore calf-long Sioux moccasins instead of the more usual foot covering of the range country. His shoulders had a width that told of strength and he slimmed down to a lean waist, with long legs; giving him the look of a fast mover. A battered black Stetson hat sat on a head of shaggy tawny hair. Underneath its brim, the face, tanned to the color of old leather by exposure to the elements, might have been handsome but for the long triple line of scars which started at his forehead and ran down his left cheek to the jawbone. He wore a waist-long fringed buckskin jacket, open-necked dark blue shirt, tight-rolled scarlet bandana and washed-out Levis pants long since faded from blue to a neutral grey. Around his waist hung a gunbelt which showed the unmistakable mark of a George Lawrence craftsman’s work. Butt forward in a holster built for a fast low cavalry twist draw was a Remington 1871 army model single-shot cartridge pistol, .50 in caliber and exceptionally accurate in skilled hands. Bullets for the pistol, looking almost like they might be there to feed some rifle, fitted into the belt loops. Balancing against the Remington, on the left of the belt, hung a long-bladed knife, patterned on the fabled James Black bowie, in a Sioux sheath.

  All in all the man looked mighty efficient and capable of holding up his end in any company. For all that, Zimmerman scowled dangerously; he had his customers to consider and, after all, it would not be him who tangled with the newcomer.

  ‘Just who the hell asked you to bill in?’ Zimmerman demanded, releasing the girl’s arm and making a signal designed to fetch his bouncers to him.

  ‘Way I heard it, the lady said she didn’t want to go with this feller,’ replied the newcomer mildly, although with that scarred face he could never look mild. ‘Room here’s got plenty more gals who’d likely jump at the chance of looking after him.’

  ‘I want this one,’ Skerrit put in.

  ‘And she allows not to want you,’ answered the big man.

  Zimmerman threw a glance around to learn what the hell might be keeping his bouncers from attending to their duty. Both were at different parts of the room and only just becoming aware of the need for their professional services. However, knowing the identity and trade of his customer, the saloonkeeper figured Skerrit ought to be able to handle the big intruder.

  ‘Suppose I’m telling you that I’m taking her, no matter what she wants?’ asked Skerrit, studying the other’s armament with tolerant contempt and faint amusement.

  ‘I’d still say that was up to the lady.’

  ‘Are you taking her part?’

  ‘You might say that.’

  ‘All the way?’ said Skerrit.

  ‘Now me,’ drawled the big man, ‘I’d say that all depends on you.’


  Silence had dropped on the room and every pair of eyes but one riveted on the two men. For a moment, Pauline stood staring from Skerrit to her rescuer, then she made her decision. Backing away slowly, as if moving out of the possible line of fire, Pauline drew clear of the men. She kept moving slowly across the room until reaching the rear door. Hardly daring to breathe for fear that it attracted Skerrit’s attention, she opened the door and slipped through it into the night.

  Concentrating his attention on the intruder, Skerrit failed to notice the girl’s departure. His eyes lifted from the Remington to the other man’s scarred face and grinned.

  ‘I’ve seen those Remington one-shooters afore,’ Skerrit announced. ‘They’re straight-shooting guns all right, but a man’s only got one bullet in them.’

  ‘I’ve never needed more than one,’ the big man replied calmly.

  ‘That’s the living truth,’ put in one of the customers, wishing to show his superior knowledge, so speaking loud enough for as many of the room’s occupants as possible could hear him, ‘That’s Scobie Dale, the hound dog man.’

  As he was meant to, Skerrit heard the words and took them in. Over the past few years Scobie Dale had achieved considerable fame in Wyoming and the surrounding States. When at cougar took to killing the ranchers’ livestock, or a bear went on the rampage, it had to be hunted down and destroyed. To do so called for specialized knowledge and equipment which the ranchers mostly lacked. That was where Scobie Dale came in. With his pack of trained hounds, backed by considerable knowledge of the animals making the trouble, he hunted down and killed the marauders. Doing so took courage – the scars on Scobie’s face showed it could be dangerous – and an ability to handle a gun accurately; but not in the manner to which Skerrit’s thoughts turned due to his own particular trade.

  ‘Are you Dale?’ Skerrit asked.

  ‘So they tell me,’ Scobie replied, studying the other man with equal interest and failing to place him. While wearing a town suit, derby hat and walking shoes, the man did not strike Scobie as being a dude. Sallow of face, maybe, but not a big-city man trying to impress the rural hicks with his toughness. He did not appear to be the kind who would want to take such a minor issue as the girl’s refusal with much ill feeling.

  ‘A man can right easy make a name by shooting down a few critters that’re watching a pack of hounds,’ Skerrit stated and threw a glance behind Scobie. ‘Anyways, you don’t have your hound pack along right now.’

  Pursing his lips, Scobie gave a low whistle; but he never took his eyes off Skerrit’s face. Feet pattered on the boardwalk outside the saloon and the batwing doors swung open. Moving as light-footed and alert as a brace of much-hunted buffalo wolves, a pair of dogs entered. Only one was a hound, a large Bluetick with a ragged ear and a general appearance of latent, deadly power. Its coat was white with a saddle and other patches of the deep slate color dog-breeders called blue, liberally ticked with the small, irregular-shaped black dots which gave it its name. In height the Bluetick stood a good twenty-six inches and weighed at least eighty hard-muscled pounds.

  Big though the hound might be, it was out-weighed by the other dog. An inch shorter than the Bluetick, the second dog gave an impression of being rectangular in shape, with a firm, broad back, deep capacious chest and very powerful couplings. Its head carried erect and alert, was broad, medium long with fairly small ears and a shortish, deep, powerful jaws. Black in color, with rich mahogany points on head, brisket and lower legs, its tail docked close to the root, the dog, a Rottweiler, went a hundred pounds yet did not look slow or awkward.

  ‘I don’t have my full pack here,’ admitted Scobie as the Bluetick stopped at his right side and the Rottweiler halted on his left. ‘But I reckon these two’ll have to do.’

  Zimmerman’s bouncers had been moving forward ready to jump the big man, but they came to a halt at the sight of the two dogs flanking him. Any man hawg-stupid enough to tangle with those trained fighting dogs stood a better than fair chance of winding up on the floor with one or the other of them massaging his throat with its teeth. Much as Zimmerman wanted to order his men to throw Scobie out, his voice refused to pass the words. Anyway, the bouncers would never obey him if he gave such a command.

  Standing looking at Scobie and the two dogs, Skerrit became aware of the girl’s absence. Much as he wanted to go after her, his professional pride refused to let him leave if doing so gave the appearance of his having backed down. Practically half the people in the room knew him to be a hired gun-hand with the reputation of being a bad man to cross. He had that reputation to consider, it brought in much highly paid work, so backing away from Scobie Dale would cause a serious loss of status. No threat he might utter could stop word of the incident getting around and prospective employers tended to have doubts about hiring a man who failed to back a play he started. Skerrit had another thing to consider. After he accomplished his mission in Braddock, he might run into difficulty from its citizens. A practical demonstration of his ability always served to quieten desires to apply the letter of the law to him.

  ‘Get the ga—’ he began, starting to swing towards Zimmerman, but halting as the Rottweiler let out a low, blood-chilling growl. ‘Watch them damned dogs, Dale!’

  ‘Easy, Strike!’ Scobie said gently. ‘Just don’t make any sudden moves and they’ll not fuss you any, feller.’

  ‘You get them curs out of here!’ yelped Zimmerman, showing more courage than any of his customers expected.

  ‘When I’ve done what I came in for,’ Scobie answered.

  ‘And what’d that be?’ demanded the saloonkeeper, restraining a natural tendency to gesticulate as he found the Bluetick studying him with sinister intent.

  ‘Just to have a word with the Wells Fargo agent.’

  Turning his head, Zimmerman looked over his shoulders ‘You, Swales, come on up here and see to Dale.’

  A stocky man rose and walked across the room, but kept out of the firing line and halted well clear of the dogs. Being an employee of the Wells Fargo Company, he could guess at the reason for being called out.

  ‘Was there something, Scobie?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought you knew more about that than I do,’ Scobie replied. ‘Heard tell that you’ve a message for me.’

  ‘Sure have. There’s a grizzly gone on the rampage up Desborough way. It’s already killed and part-ate one feller. Looks like they need you up there mighty bad, don’t it?’

  ‘It looks that way,’ admitted Scobie. ‘I’ll be going then.’

  The trouble ought to have ended right then. Having work to do, Skerrit did not mind letting things drop if it could be done without loss of face on his part. However, in any crowd there can always be found somebody who wants more of a thrill than the situation presents.

  ‘Old Scobie sure made that hired gun sing low,’ said Braddock’s particular specimen of the thrill-seeking breed, pitching the words high enough to reach Skerrit’s ears without sacrificing his own anonymity.

  Cold annoyance flickered briefly in Skerrit’s eyes at the words. He knew that he must now make a play against Scobie Dale if he wished to retain his reputation for being a real hard man.

  ‘If you didn’t have those curs along—’ he began.

  ‘They’re here, mister,’ Scobie pointed out.

  ‘Reckon you figure standing up for the gal’s the only way she’d look at you,’ sneered Skerrit. ‘She’d have to be blind to take to a face like that.’

  ‘Least I wouldn’t have to call on the house-man to rough-handle her into coming with me,’ Scobie answered quietly.

  ‘Which same, I’d’ve thought she’d be just about the right size and heft for you to work on yourself.’

  For probably the first time in his life, Skerrit acted without thinking. He expected his comment on Scobie’s face to rouse the other man into a rash act. Instead of reacting to the taunt, Scobie calmly turned the tables by coming back with a comment even more scathing.

  Dropping his right sh
oulder forward in a manner which caused the side of his jacket to swing open, Skerrit sent his hand to where his Smith & Wesson 1881 Navy revolver rode in the type of holster originally designed by Dusty Fog [i] for use by a big-city detective who could not wear the normal Western rig. [ii] The holster pointed the revolver’s four-inch barrel to the rear and threw the butt into a position which looked awkward to eyes used to the type seen in the range country, yet gave a remarkable speed potential when a man learned its use. After much practice Skerrit could boast of being something of a master at drawing from the high-riding concealed holster.

  In a flickering move Skerrit started to bring the Smith & Wesson out of leather. He saw that Scobie was also commencing a draw, but figured he could get off the first shot – and at that range would be unlikely to miss. Even as Scobie’s right hand turned palm out, fingers folding around the worn walnut grips of the Remington, Skerrit brought his revolver out in the special circular motion the holster required. Everything was going Skerrit’s way.

  Then the Rottweiler cut loose with another growl, this time louder and accompanied by a tensing of his powerful muscles ready to spring. Skerrit saw the dog, heard it growl, and changed his mind. Instead of swinging the revolver into line on Scobie, he began to turn it in the big dog’s direction. At the vital moment he hesitated, unsure which of the two dangers must receive first attention.

  Scobie took the decision out of Skerrit’s hands in no uncertain way. Only a shade slower than the other man, his Remington left the holster even as Skerrit’s revolver began to swing into line. Without the dog’s intervention Scobie would have died, but the respite, brief though it was, gave him his chance. Not wishing to shoot Skerrit, for he knew the terrible effect of the .50 caliber solid lead bullet he used had upon living tissue, Scobie did not cock the hammer and squeeze the hair-trigger. Instead he whipped the pistol upwards in a semicircular swing that drove the barrel under the other’s jaw, gliding in a step to come within touching distance. The Remington 1871 Army single-shot pistol weighed two pounds, three ounces and lacked any delicate cylinder which might be damaged on impact, so it made a mighty effective club at close range.