Waco 4 Read online

“Inside, folks, food’s waiting,” Ma boomed, ushering the women into the building.

  Wilson and the preacher followed the women inside, leaving Waco and Yarrow on the porch watching the cursing stage crew unhitch the team. Ma turned to go after her guests, then halted and looked at the three saddle horses. None of them belonged to Waco or Yarrow. Neither the Rangers nor Apache Scouts would use such sorry specimens; and no self-respecting Texan rode a single-girth, centre-fire saddle, claiming such were fit only for greenhorns and other Yankees.

  “You run into trouble?” she asked.

  “Some,” Waco replied. “I’ll tell you about it later. Reckon it was Apaches who took off with your stock?”

  “I was down there and checked. Just about enough sign for it to be Apache work.”

  It never occurred to either man to doubt Ma’s judgment of the situation. She had been over thirty years in Arizona Territory and never lived anyplace that a woman did not need to be able to handle a rifle as well as a skillet. Ma knew how to read sign as well as many a man, while her Apache knowledge exceeded that of a number of well-known Indian-fighting army officers.

  “I don’t get it, Ma,” Yarrow put in. “The San Ramos is the nearest Apache reservation. I was through there a couple of days back and nary a sign of raiding showed.”

  “That’s what I’d’ve thought until this morning,” Ma Randle answered. “But I got certain sure it was Apaches when I found the jacales empty and Pedro’s kin all lit out.”

  That figured. The peons had intermarried with Apaches for generations and had an insight into the tribe’s behavior. They would catch signs, or might even have received a friendly word of warning to pull up stakes and get out. In either case they would leave fast.

  “We can’t get to do anything afore dawn, Ma,” Waco drawled. “Today’s team’ll get us to Mecate and we can wire the cavalry. You coming with us?”

  “It’d take a sight more than a few Apaches to chase us out of here,” Ma answered grimly. “Now take it easy in there and don’t scare the folks. I don’t want no hysterical women on my hands.”

  The main room of the way station contained bar, saloon, and dining room. At the back lay the bedrooms for the male and female passengers, the Randies’ quarters and kitchen. The bar end of the room was separated from the rest of the building by a chalk line. Beyond the line a traveling lady could sit without the taint of entering a saloon. The line did not look like much of a barrier but, under Ma’s strong rule, stood as sturdy as a wall built of solid rock.

  Bertha Ford sat alone, her niece having neither spoken to her nor acknowledged her presence since sinking to her seat in the coach. Caroline shared a table with Julie, her eyes still red but her face regaining its smile as she got control of herself once more. Hodges also sat alone, his Bible unopened on the table. Wilson stood at the bar, sullenly eyeing Waco and waiting to be served.

  “What’s wrong, Waco?” Julie asked as he and Cody Yarrow approached her table.

  “Nothing at all, Miss Julie,” Waco lied.

  Yet things were wrong, bad wrong. It was not just a chance raid that left the way station without spare horses. The Apaches wanted the coach holding and Waco knew why.

  “But you seem so concerned about something, Mr. Waco,” Caroline put in.

  Waco grinned, looking about fifteen years old. “Know something, Miss Banders, ma’am, I’ve never been called mister afore.”

  Caroline’s cheeks flushed just a little red at the words. She suddenly realized that Julie and the two men did not hold her relationship with Bertha Ford against her. The two men held their hats in their hands, then asked for permission to sit down.

  “Feel free,” Julie replied. “And Caroline, you only call a man mister out here if you don’t like him. What is wrong, Waco? I’ve been to Ma Randle’s more than once and never seen the stage driver unhitch his own team before.”

  “Waal, I’ll let you into a secret,” replied Waco, dropping his voice in a confidential manner. “It’s Pa Randle.”

  “What’d he do?” asked Julie, eternal woman, hot and eager for gossip.

  “Took off with Pedro’s squaw. Upped and threw her across the back of his hoss and headed for the hills. So ole Pedro and the rest just took out after them.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that?” Julie snorted.

  “It’s as true as I’m riding this here bull buffalo,” Waco replied. “Cross my heart and hope to vote Republican.”

  There was just a momentary embarrassed pause, for Waco realized Caroline’s loyalties might be to the Republican Party and Texas-style jokes about it were not in the best of taste. Caroline only laughed and put him at ease in the manner of a born diplomat. The truth of Waco’s statement went bouncing to the floor when Pa Randle entered, a large tray loaded with steaming plates across one arm. Caroline studied the small, weedy, inoffensive-looking man and asked how he managed to lift a woman onto the back of a horse.

  Chuckling, Julie explained that Pedro’s squaw, while smaller, weighed even more than Ma Randle and it would take a good horse to carry her off at a gallop, assuming Pa had the strength and desire to swoop her up and head for the hills.

  “It’s cowhand humor, Caroline,” Julie finished. “They’re like overgrown school kids, all of them.”

  The plates were set before Caroline and Julie first, Pa serving with speed that spoke of long practice. The plates contained a thick and appetizing stew, which gave off a pleasant aroma and made Caroline’s mouth water, for she had eaten nothing since breakfast.

  “What is this stew?” she asked.

  “We call it son-of-a-b-gun stew,” Cody replied, hastily changing the range title for something more suited to female ears. He heard Julie’s gurgle of held-down amusement, for she knew the correct name.

  “See, the cook takes just about any old thing he can lay his hands on, throws them in the pot with the choice cuts of a calf, then cooks the lot until you can’t tell what any son of a gun of it is. Then he serves it up red-hot or all hands want to know why not.”

  The stew tasted as good as it looked and smelted. Caroline could never remember when she enjoyed a meal so much, for the conversation held her attention and brought tears of laughter to her face. She had never been really close to the people of the west before and found that three at least were not uncouth savages whose only aim in life was to shed the blood of fellow human beings. Then she remembered that both men had shed blood that same afternoon, taken life before her very eyes. Yet they spoke of the humorous part of their lives, showing her a side to them she never suspected a man who killed could have. In a few minutes Caroline learned more about human nature than she had in all her previous life.

  Julie pushed her plate away and sat back, laughter sparkling in her eyes. “Come on, Caroline,” she said. “Let’s freshen up, then we can come back and listen to these pair spinning some more windies.”

  Collecting their overnight bags from the porch, the two women went into the side room reserved for female passengers. Inside were four beds, each with clean sheets and blankets. In one corner stood a washbasin, and Ma Randle entered with a large jug of hot water.

  “Here you are, gals,” she said, putting it by the washstand. “Make yourselves at home.”

  Caroline washed and tidied up first and, while waiting for Julie to finish, took the thick letter from her bag. She looked down at the sealed back flap for a long moment then shrugged and thrust the letter unopened into the bag once more. Somehow the information inside did not seem to be important anymore. Julie had completed her freshening up and they returned to the main room. Cody Yarrow left the group at the bar, crossed the room, and joined them. Bertha Ford sat alone, her brooding eyes on her niece. She knew that Caroline had left her now and would be unlikely to return unless she made the first move, but her pride would not allow her to make it.

  “Tell you, Waco,” said Shotgun, nursing his glass of beer, the only drink Ma allowed a driver with a run to make. “Was it any other place but this, I
’d be real worried.”

  “I’m worried now,” Waco replied. “What do you make of it, Mick?”

  “Took all into consideration,” the guard sagely replied, “I’d say we was in for a tolerable slew of Apache trouble.”

  “Sure,” Waco agreed. “And you could be right at that. I’ll just take a walk to the corral and have a look at the horses.”

  “Want company?” the guard asked.

  “About two regiments of Confederate cavalry’d be fine. Can’t have them, so I reckon I’ll go alone. I’m not all that scared of the dark.”

  Waco turned and walked from the room. Wilson stood at the far end of the bar, nursing a bottle and glowering at the others. He let his hand slide under his coat toward the butt of the revolver but did not draw it. Wilson might be drunk but he could still think. The moment he drew and shot at the Ranger he would be dead, for the others would not stand by and allow murder to go unpunished.

  Outside, the night was dark and still, not even the stars giving any light as Waco came from the building and looked toward the unhitched coach. He stepped forward, passing the coach and making for the corral. Every instinct warned him that something was wrong. The corral loomed ahead, bulking black against the dark of the night. It lay silent-too silent.

  Like most buildings in this tree-stunted land, the corral was constructed of adobe mud, stood six feet high and sturdy enough to hold in horses, particularly the heavy horses that drew Wells Fargo coaches and did little jumping. The corral walls would keep the stock in-as long as the gate remained closed.

  Waco saw the gate standing open and went forward fast, his hands dropping to his matched guns. The corral held no horses; the six from the coach’s team and the three belonging to the dead outlaws were no longer confined within the walls. The driver and guard knew how to handle horses; they would not forget to secure the gate on leaving the animals inside. Waco cursed himself for not posting a guard, then knew that most likely the man would be dead now, had one been on watch.

  “Don’t turn, white brother!”

  The words came from the darkness, floating in the air from nothing it seemed, but Waco knew a very material something was speaking to him. He could sense them all around him. Picture them too, cold-eyed, squat built, with lank and long black hair, watching him in the darkness, their weapons held ready for use. Only that voice should not be with a bunch of bad-hat Apache horse thieves. It was the voice of an old friend, of Johnny No-Legs, Apache army scout. For all that, it was a warning voice and one that must be obeyed.

  “I didn’t know you went in for hoss stealing, Johnny,” he said.

  “There will be death soon, Ranger. Much death,” came the reply, neither confirming nor denying Waco’s words but ignoring them as if they had never been said. “I have told these who ride with me of how you saved my life and how you caught the man who shot Victorio. That was all that saved you, amigo. These others would have taken you and sent you into the house as warning to the white eyes inside.”

  “I wouldn’t have liked that at all,” Waco replied.

  For all the light way he spoke Waco felt the hair rise stiff and bristly on the back of his neck. He knew the Apache way of taking a prisoner, putting him to torture, then sending him to their enemies as a warning of what they could expect.

  “What’re you wanting, Johnny?”

  “Mangus Colorado’s medicine. One of the white eyes who came on the stage with you has it.”

  “Which one?”

  “That I do not know. Nor what the medicine is like. I heard of the stealing and rode fast to try and stop the men of the San Ramos putting on their paint and riding to war. I have talked long and well, for they hold off until the sun rises. You have until then to find the medicine and return it, with the one who took it.”

  Waco stood for a moment without speaking, hoping Johnny could tell him something, anything, that might help find the medicine. For all he heard Waco might have been alone, but he knew they still watched him.

  “Don’t any of the brave hearts with you know who has the medicine?” he asked.

  “None of these here. They are young warriors and ride fast. Only the elders of the tribe know of the medicine. One comes but there is age in his bones and he rides slowly. Perhaps he will come before the sun rises-maybe not.”

  “Will you bring him to me when he comes?”

  “There is much between us, Ranger,” Johnny No-Legs replied. “I will do what I can for you. If you hear the call of an owl followed by the bark of a coyote, come and I will tell you all I know. But by sunrise, whether the old one comes or not, I can hold in the brave hearts no longer. If they strike, many white eyes will die. I have saved you, led these with me to hold their hands. I do no more, amigo.”

  The silence dropped once more like a curtain. For ten minutes Waco stood like a statue, waiting and listening. Once he thought he heard the gentle padding of feet but could not be sure. He remained as he was, still as the gatepost he stood against. At last he allowed his breath to come out in a long sigh of relief. Turning, he walked with purposeful strides toward the way station.

  The time for polite diplomacy, for sitting back and keeping eyes open for some sign, was passed. It went by the moment Johnny No-Legs spoke his words of warning. Out there, invisible in the night, the Apaches waited and watched. It only wanted one bad-hat white-hater among them to blow the entire situation, together with Johnny’s promise of holding off until dawn, into the air, and the people in the way station would blow up with it.

  “You should see Texas at this time of the year, Caroline,” Cody Yarrow told the laughing-eyed girl who sat at his table.

  “I saw it two years ago,” she pointed out, then wished she’d not spoken, for on that occasion her aunt reported stories of the army’s treatment of Kiowa Indians and a full colonel was broken and ruined as a result.

  “Sure, you saw some of it. Ysaleta County now, there’s a land for you.”

  Julie sat on the other side of the table, a smile playing on her lips as she watched Caroline and the tanned young scout. Julie believed in romance, even in love, for other people. Then her eyes went to Bertha Ford, who still sat alone, resisting any of the few attempts made by the others to draw her into conversation. At another table, also alone and aloof, sat the preacher. Julie wondered why he did not offer his help to the woman, for she looked as if she needed help from somebody.

  “It’s not a bad country,” Julie replied. “I was in Ysaleta one time, singing. The town’s fine, growing, the sort of place a woman could settle down in.”

  “You settle down, Julie.” Cody laughed. “That’s about as likely as rain in the Staked Plains.”

  “Would you like to settle down, Julie?” Caroline asked, wondering what made a pleasant young woman roam the west.

  “Sure, one day. What I’d like would be a small shop, selling dresses and hats. I’ve some money saved but not enough to set out on my own.”

  Caroline studied Julie for a long time. It had always been her own ambition to own a business house of the kind she’d seen in New York and other big cities. She had learned something of dress designing under a tutor and wondered if she might put it to good use. One thing Caroline knew, she could not return with her aunt, but there had not seemed any way she could avoid it until Julie spoke. Caroline was trying to put her thoughts into words when the door opened and Waco entered.

  Crossing to the bar, Waco called Ma along to him. The woman’s grin died as she caught the tension on his face.

  “I’d like all these folks listening to me, Ma, and some backing from you.”

  “You’ve got both,” she replied, coming around the bar to join him. Her method of granting the first request was simple. Throwing back her head, she let out a bellow that might have been heard in Albion City had the wind been right. “Hey, all of you, the Ranger wants to talk to you.”

  The room fell silent and all eyes went to the tall young Texan as he stood before them, thumbs hooked into his gunbelt.


  “Some of you might’ve been wondering what I’m doing riding a stage. Could’ve thought it to do with that holdup. It wasn’t, I’ve been playing my cards close to the vest hoping I’d learn what I wanted without doing what I aim to do right now. One of you passengers took Mangus Colorado’s medicine from the San Ramos reservation, and has still got it with him-or her.”

  “What are you implying?” Bertha Ford demanded, flipping open the notebook she had taken from her bag while freshening up.

  “I’m not implying anything, ma’am,” Waco replied, “I’m telling you right straight out what happened. One of you has something the Apaches price high. It’s something they’re willing to take the warpath over, if they don’t get it back.”

  “What is this medicine, Waco?” Julie asked. “Is it valuable?”

  “I don’t know what it is, but likely it’d sell for a better than fair price in the east. I know an old army scout who used to buy rusted-up old rifles, drive tacks in the woodwork, and sell them to dudes as real, genuine Indian weapons. He got a thousand dollars for one he claimed was took off Sitting Bull when the army caught him. I reckon a real thing like Mangus Colorado’s medicine would bring even more. Do you know what the medicine is, Ma?”

  “Nope. I’ve never seen it, Ranger.”

  “You, Cody?”

  “I’ve heard tell of it, Waco,” the scout replied. “So have most folks who know Apaches. But I’ve never seen it and I don’t reckon any other white man has.”

  “We’d best find it for all that,” Ma put in.

  There was a rumbling mutter of agreement with the words from driver, guard, Julie, and Cody Yarrow. All had seen Apache war and all but Julie helped fight off the savage warriors before the army finally brought peace. They all had a fair idea what store the Apaches set on Mangus Colorado’s medicine.

  “I aim to make a good try,” Waco promised.

  “You’ve no proof one of us has the thing, whatever it is,” Bertha snorted.

  “Only the words of my boss, which same’s all I want, and a couple of small things. The Apaches watched the hotels you folks stayed at and no others in town. They watched the livery barns and were still watching the Wells Fargo office when we pulled out. Could even have followed us, although I’ve seen none of them. That all spells just one small thing. The Apaches know one of you has the medicine.”