Waco's Badge (4 page)

“None I can find,” Max admitted a few seconds later, having tossed aside the short barelled revolver and run his hands over the clothing of its owner.

“Now that's strange!” the woman purred, looking straight at Franks' face as she had ever since ordering the search. “I've still got this feeling that he's carrying more than we've laid hands on.”

“All right,” Max said. “Let me stick the carbine under his chin and give him a count of five to tell us where it is.”

“And what will you do if he keeps quiet, shoot him?”

“Yes.”

“Then how the ‘something' will he tell us?” the woman snorted. Stepping closer, she placed the muzzle of the carbine under Jaqfaye's chin and went on, “I'm counting to five, smart-ass, then I'll spread his brains all over the range I'm so sure you've got more
money hid away. If that doesn't work, I'll do the same with the driver. One! Two!”

Looking at the Frenchman, Franks was impressed by the way in which he was behaving. If he was lacking in masculinity, it certainty did not extend to physical courage. It was not, the young man felt sure, fear which caused him to stand like a statue. His face was impassive and only a slight tightening of the lips showed he appreciated his deadly peril. It implied he did not doubt the threat would be carried out. For all that, he made no attempt to speak, whether to ask for mercy or suggest a surrender to the demand.

“Three! Four!”

“All right, you win!” Franks acceded, his belief being strengthened that there was more to the Frenchman than met the eye. “It's in my carpetbag in the front boot.”

“Take him to fetch it, Max!” the woman ordered, stepping away from Jaqfaye. “Haven't you finished, Tommy Crane?”

“Yes I have!” the long haired outlaw affirmed, displaying the money belt he was holding between the tips of his right fingers and thumb.

In the earlier stages of the conversation between the blonde and the passengers, Franks had contrived to keep Tommy Crane under observation. It had become increasingly apparent that he found the task to which he was assigned most distasteful. He had handled the corpse hesitantly and with care, clearly being disinclined to touch it. On having removed the
money belt from beneath the shirt of the dead man, finding his hands had become stained by blood, he had shown what was obviously revulsion and, going to the edge of the trail hurriedly, wiped them clean on the grass. Stepping back as soon as he had handed over the belt, he rubbed his palms vigorously against the legs of his trousers and gave a sigh of relief.

“Hey!” ejaculated the outlaw who had acted as spokesman, gazing across the range. “Where the hell as Fio—
Fred
got to? S—He should be coming by now.”

“Here
he
is,” the woman replied, laying great emphasis upon the second word, as she turned to look in the same direction. “All right, Tommy Crane, get up on the box and empty the guns.”

Having been compelled to divert his attention from the long haired outlaw by the need to unload his carpetbag from the luggage boot beneath the driver's box, Franks found the comments sufficiently intriging to decide he would see what had caused them. He discovered that a rider leading four saddled horses was coming from one of the clumps of woodland which, unbeknown to him, had been studied with misgivings by Benjamin Eckland prior to the hold up.

Shorter than the woman and the male outlaws, the newcomer appeared to be very stocky in build. This, Franks concluded, could be due as much to clothing as physical characteristics. A low crowned black Stetson was pulled down sufficiently to hide the hair inside it and a bandana covered almost all of the face.
Worn despite the heat, with the exception of black gloves and Levi's trousers tucked into smallish brown riding boots, a voluminous yellow “fish” slicker concealed whatever lay beneath it.

“Where the hell have you been?” the spokesman yelled angrily, as the newcomer brought the horses to a halt some thirty yards away.

“It's not that important, blast you!” the woman stated, before any reply could be made. “Have you-all unloaded those guns yet, Tommy Crane?”

“Not yet!” the long haired outlaw answered with asperity, from the box of the stagecoach. Tipping the shells from the twin barrels of the shotgun he had broken open, he continued with no trace of his earlier guttural accent, “I've only got one pair of hands, you know.”

“Then use them instead of talking, you stupid
half-breed
son-of-a-bitch!” the blonde ordered and returned her attention to the victims of the hold up. “If you know what's good for you, you-all won't try loading those guns until we're well out of sight. Just let us see any of you-all so much as look like that's what you're figuring on doing and we'll come back to give you-all exactly the same as that fat jasper there got.”

“Here it is!” Max announced, waving the bulky carpetbag he had been given by the young passenger. “I'll get—!”

“Fetch the god-damned thing with us!” the woman interrupted. “We've wasted too much time already.”

Backing away as she was speaking, followed by the spokesman and Max, the woman made for the horses. Dropping the shotgun and snatching up the Colt Peacemaker discarded by the driver, Tommy Crane tucked it into his waistband. Then, clambering down with haste, he scuttled rather than merely hurried after them. While this was happening, the second long haired outlaw looked to where Eckland was struggling dazedly into a sitting position. Swinging the right hand revolver he had unloaded, he laid the barrel with savage force against the side of its owner's head. As the shotgun messenger subsided once more, he gave a laugh and, tossing down both Colts, strode rapidly to join the rest of the party.

“Don't try it!” Franks advised urgently, his anger at losing the carpetbag containing all his savings and other items of property he prized highly being swamped by hearing Tract rip out a profanity on seeing what happened to Eckland and make as if to go after the assailant.

“You're likely right, young feller!” the driver admitted bitterly, after a moment during which he appeared on the point of disregarding the counsel. “But I surely hope I meet the half-breed son-of-a-bitch some time when I'm packing iron. Trouble being, it's not likely I'll get the chance.” He swung his gaze from Eckland to each living passenger in turn and went on in tones of certainty, “That was Belle Starr, gents. Which being, she'll have their get-away planned so god-damned well they'll all be to hell and
gone clear long afore we can set the law on their trail.”

“Then let's get going without any more delay!” Twelfinch demanded.

“We'll light out just's soon's it's safe to do it, Senator,” Tract promised, his voice cold, watching the gang riding away at a fast trot. “And after I've 'tended to Ben there. While I'm doing it, you gents can be getting Mr. Blenheim loaded.”

“Loaded?”
the politician repeated, looking with a mixture of revulsion and alarm at the body. “You mean loaded
inside
with m—us?”

“No!” Tract denied, making no attempt to conceal his annoyance and impatience. His tone became coldly challenging as he continued, “On the god-damned roof. But Ben'll be riding inside—Happen
you
don't have no objections,
Senator
?”

“I—I don't!” Twelfinch asserted, refusing to meet the savage gaze of the driver and suspecting any other decision would not be supported by Jaqfaye or the young man.

“I'll wrap the body in a tarp while you're attending to the guard, Mr. Tract, if you have one,” Franks offered, although he had appeared to be on the point of making a comment when the driver mentioned the well known woman outlaw, Belle Starr. But he had refrained and devoted himself to watching the gang taking their departure. “Then, if these gentlemen will lend a hand, I'll put it on the roof.”

“I will assist you,
m'sieur,
” Jaqfaye offered, but the politician did not duplicate the sentiment.

Instead, throwing a querilous glance across the range, Twelfinch inquired, “I—Is it s—safe for you to start moving about?”

“Safe enough, I reckon,” the driver assessed, looking in the same direction. “By the time you're getting the body on top, those son-of-bitches will be out of sight. But, to make sure, we'll wait until they are afore we do anything.”

“I agree with you,
m'sieur,
” the Frenchman said firmly.

“And me,” Franks supported.

“And you, my young friend,” Jaqfaye went on. “I am greatly in your debt. There are many who would have allowed me to be killed.”

“I suppose so,” Franks admitted, non-committally.

“Do not worry about your losses,” the Frenchman said reassuringly. “I will personally refund all they took.”

“That's very good of you and I'm obliged,” Franks replied, his gratitude genuine. “But, damn it, I hate being robbed.”

“So do I,” Jaqfaye seconded, his voice very quiet yet—to the youngest passenger at least—somehow as menacing as if he had screamed imprecations. “But, it is preferable to resisting, as
M'sieur
Blenheim proved. There is always another day.”

“Let's hope it isn't long coming!” Franks said,
thinking he would not care to be any of the outlaws who fell into the hands of the outwardly effeminate Frenchman. “Can we make a st—?”

“Oh my god!” Twelfinch yelped, pointing, before the question could be completed. “Look there. Are they more robbers?”

A
TTRACTED BY THE ALARM IN THE VOICE OF THE
politician, Walter Tract, Jedroe Franks and Pierre Henri Jaqfaye did as he had requested!

Two riders, one leading a big paint stallion, were coming slowly around the bend of the trail from which the driver and Benjamin Eckland had received their first sight of the woman!

Although he did not answer what he considered to have been a most tactless question from Senator Paul Michael Twelfinch II, Tract was well versed in the ways of the West and he started to draw conclusions based upon what he could see.

From the shape of each rider's low crowned and wide brimmed J.B. Stetson hat and other signs, the
driver assumed they were Texans. They wore the attire of working cowhands and showed signs of hard travelling. However, despite the fact that the man leading the paint was seated on the horse used to aid the deception by the woman, he did not believe they intended any mischief. On the other hand, while they exchanged glances and brief comments at the sight ahead of them, they did not increase the pace at which they were moving.

Sitting the poor quality horse with easy grace, the taller of the pair being in his late 'teens, was also the younger. Wide shouldered and lean of waist, he was blond haired, clean shaven and handsome. Tightly rolled and knotted about his throat, a scarlet bandana trailed its long ends down the front of his dark blue shirt and brown and white calfskin vest. Turned back into two inches wide cuffs, the legs of his faded Levi's trousers hung outside high heeled and sharp toed riding boots with Kelly Petmaker spurs on their heels. Around his waist was an exceptionally well designed brown
buscadero
gunbelt carrying a brace of staghorn handled Colt Artillery Peacemakers in holsters capable of allowing them to be drawn with great speed provided the wearer possessed the requisite skill to utilize the quality.

Tract assessed that the blond had the necessary ability!

As well as lacking some two inches of his companion's height, at around six foot, the second rider was also more slender in build. Like Franks, his features
suggested a studious mien. However, while they were pallid, this was because his skin resisted tanning rather than because he led a sedentary and indoor life. His hair was black and a neatly trimmed moustache graced his top lip. With one exception, he was dressed in the same manner as the blond. Instead of wearing a vest, he had on a brown jacket. Its right side was stitched back to offer unimpeded access to the solitary ivory butted Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in the holster of a black gunbelt of an equally competent manufacture.

In the summation of the driver, here again was a capable gun handler!

Having completed his study of the newcomers and drawn his conclusions about them, Tract gave his attention to the horses. The paint led by the blond and the equally large black stallion his companion was sitting were magnificent animals. Despite showing indications of having been ridden hard for some time, neither could be controlled by a man unskilled in matters equestrian. Although the former was favoring its right fore leg in a way which suggested why the youngster was using the much poorer specimen, Tract decided it had only thrown a shoe and was not suffering from an injury. Both saddles were low of horn and—as Texans said, instead of “cinch” had—double girths, after the fashion evolved in the Lone Star State. Each had a coiled lariat fastened to the horn, a tarpaulin wrapped bedroll strapped to the cantle and a Winchester rifle, butt pointing to the rear for easy withdrawal on
dismounting, attached to the left side. On the opposite side to his lariat, the slimmer rider carried a black leather bag of the kind in which doctors kept the tools of their profession when travelling.

“Howdy, you-all,” greeted the blond, bringing the horses to a halt. He pronounced the words, “Heidi, yawl” in a fashion which announced he had been born and raised in Texas. He continued, “Looks like you've had more than a mite of trouble, gents.”

“There's some as might just up and say ‘yes' to that,” Tract replied, reading the brand on the paint as “CA” and knowing the ranch in the Lone Star State which used such a sign to identify its livestock.

If the blond rode for the CA ranch, the driver concluded, the chances were greatly in favor of him being better than average when it came to handling a gun!

“The gang who robbed us rode off that way!” Twelfinch put in, gesturing in the rough direction of where the outlaws had already disappeared amongst the trees. “Get after them!”

“How?” the blond inquired, turning a far from respectful gaze to the politician. “This ole Dusty horse of mine threw him a shoe back a ways and I'm surely not fixing on going chasing a bunch of owlhoots on this no-account crowbait we come across straying back there.”

“Then
you
go after the—!” Twelfinch commanded, cheeks reddening with anger at the rebuff, swinging his eyes to the other newcomer.

“Are both of them cashed in, friend?” the second
cowhand inquired, his accent just as indicative of “roots” in Texas, addressing the driver and giving the politician not so much as a glance.

“Only that gent,” Tract answered, indicating the body of Maurice Blenheim with a wave of his right hand. “But I haven't gotten around yet to finding out how bad hurt Ben there is.”

“Which being,” the slender Texan declared, starting to swing from his saddle. “I'd best take a look.”

“You?”
the politician asked disdainfully, the annoyance he felt at the way he had been ignored combining with his radical antipathy toward Southrons in general and provoking the question when his other instincts warned it might prove ill-advised.

“Are any of you gents for-real and regular doctors?” the blond drawled, when his companion did not deign to reply, making it obvious he was not including Twelfinch in the query.

“I'm not,” Franks replied, responding to the interrogative glance directed his way by the driver.

“Neither am I, I'm afraid,” Jaqfaye seconded, although he did not receive a similar hint from Tract.

“Which being,” the blond Texan stated. “I'd stand well clear, was I you-all, and let Doc go to it.”

“Doc?”
the driver queried hopefully, gazing first at the wedge-shaped brand on the flank of the big black stallion. Then he lifted his eyes to take in the pallid features of the man who had ridden it and went on, “Don't like to sound nosy, friend, but would you be Doc Leroy?”

“The name's Marvin Eldridge Leroy,” the slender cowhand informed, unstrapping the black bag from his saddlehorn. “But I've been called ‘Doc' on occasion.”

“And worse, more than just on occasion and always deserved,” the blond asserted, looking at Tract. “My name's ‘Waco,'
amigo.
Is there anything I can be doing while Doc's 'tending to that feller, him getting riled real easy 'n' sudden should folk get underfoot when he's doctoring.”

“You could take his horse and go after the gang!” Twelfinch suggested, in a tone which implied he expected to be obeyed.

“Well now, I
could
just do that,” the younger Texan conceded, his voice almost caressingly mild, as he was dismounting. “Only, seeing's how ole Snowy there's been toting Doc and me both for a fair spell afore we come across this miserable crowbait I've been forking, I sure as hell don't aim to push him no more by doing it.”

“But, god damn it, man, they robbed m—
us
!” the politician protested in righteous indignation.

“Go after them yourself, happen you feel so strong about it, I'll loan you a gun,” Waco answered and, with the manner of one who considered the subject under discussion was at an end, turned to the driver. “I'll give you a hand to get that dead
hombre
loaded on the coach, was such your intention,
amigo.
”

“Be obliged if you wo—!” Tract commenced.

“How's about thinking about the feller who's alive
afore you bother over the one who's already cashed in?” Doc Leroy interrupted. “What happened to him?”

“The gal who was running the whole she-bang knocked him down, wearing a knuckle-duster likely, first off,” Tract supplied, seeing the wisdom behind the question. “Then one of her men pistol whipped him when he showed signs of coming 'round.”

“Sound like real neighborly folks,” Waco commented. “Can us common fellers get to doing it now,
sir?
”

“Feel free,” Doc assented, the question having been addressed to him.

“Hey, though!” Tract ejaculated, looking at the blond with renewed interest. “Aren't you the ‘Waco' who rides with Cap'n Fog and the OD Connected's floating outfit?”

“There's only the one's I know of,” the younger Texan declared with a grin.

“Which same's
four
too god-damned many, most times,” Doc called over his shoulder, as he set off toward the motionless shotgun messenger with purposeful and confident strides. “You keep him hard to work, mind, friend. He gets fractious when he's let stand idle.”

“Sounds like he knows you real well, young feller,” the driver remarked amiably, satisfied his friend was in capable hands. “Would Cap'n Fog, Mark Counter 'n' the Ysabel Kid be around?”

“Not happen our luck holds good,” Waco replied,
but there was a wistful note in his drawl as he thought of the three men—Captain Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog, C.S.A., in particular—who he regarded, along with his present companion, as being closer than brothers.
¹
“I took lead in a shooting fuss over to Backsight and had to stay on for a spell,
²
but Doc and me're headed back home to Rio Hondo County, Texas, as soon as we've finished the chore we're 'tending to.”

Which proved that, competent as he undoubtedly was in several other fields of endeavor, the blond youngster rated pretty low as a prophet.
³

While the other men were talking, satisfied there was nothing to fear from the newcomers, Franks had gone to and opened the baggage boot at the rear of the stagecoach. There was a trunk and three large wicker baskets inscribed, “JAQFAYE OF PARIS” inside, but he had no difficulty in locating the items he was seeking. Removing the roll of tarpaulin and rope, he carried them to the body where he was joined by Waco and Tract. Remembering the offer of assistance made by the Frenchman, he expected it would be forgotten now other help was available. However, seeing
the politician was making for him, giving a gesture of obvious prohibition and rejection, Jaqfaye walked across to ask what he could do to help.

Going quickly to where Eckland was lying, all the levity Doc had employed when speaking to Waco left him and he became oblivious of everything else around him. His instincts warned that he had a difficult task ahead of him, but he did not allow the thought to distress or disturb him.

Although he had not yet been able to attain his ambition of becoming a qualified doctor, as his late father was who had encouraged him to do so, the slender young man who—apart from his pallid face—looked like a typical cowhand of Texas was already very knowledgeable in medical matters. Ever since the murder of his parents in a budding range war had caused him to put aside his departure to medical school in St. Louis,
⁴
he had taken every opportunity to study and improve his practical skills. What was more, while earning his living first as a hand with the Wedge trail crew delivering herds of cattle on contract for small ranchers,
⁵
then as a member of General Jackson Baines “Ole Devil” Hardin's
legendary floating outfit,
⁶
he had found numerous opportunities to engage upon the profession to which he aspired. In fact, due to the number with which he had been called upon to deal, he could even now claim to know more about the treatment of gunshot wounds than many a practitioner who had earned the honorific, “Doctor of Medicine.” In addition to these and other injuries which came the way of cowhands, he had on occasion found the need to deliver babies and, in the not too distant future, would be compelled to cope with the problem of bringing recalcitrant twins into the world.
⁷

All in all, therefore, Marvin Eldridge “Doc” Leroy had no reason to doubt his ability to handle whatever might lay ahead!

Setting down his medical bag so it would be readily available to his hands, the slender Texan knelt to commence his examination of the unmoving shotgun messenger. Even if he had not received the information from Tract, he could have guessed at least something of what had taken place to cause the condition to which Eckland was reduced. From previous experiences, when celebrating cowhands had been pistol whipped by the “fighting pimp” peace officers infest
ing some of the Kansas trail end towns, the sight of the swollen and discolored ridge showing through the hair—the guard having lost his hat when the woman knocked him down—where the barrel of the Peacemaker had struck the side of the head was sufficient to establish how it was created.

The first task, Doc realized, was to ascertain just how seriously his patient was injured. He knew the condition referred to as “unconsciousness,” or “insensibility,” was due to interruption of the action of the brain through some form of interference with the functioning of the body's nervous system. Apart from ordinary sleep, there were two degrees of unconsciousness; partial, or “stupor” and the vastly more serious complete insensibility known as “coma.”

Although there was an excessive flow of saliva tinged with blood oozing out of the mouth of the shotgun messenger, suggesting the driver was correct regarding the way in which the woman had protected her fist against damage prior to striking him, Doc wanted to establish the exact nature of his unconscious state before conducting any physical tests on the jaw. First, the Texan tried speaking to Eckland. Providing the stupor was not too great, the sufferer could sometimes be aroused by the sound of a voice. There was no sign of it happening on this occasion. Reaching with both hands, the Texan next took hold of the lashes of the right eye and pulled them gently in opposite directions.