Waco's Badge (15 page)

“I
wouldn't
!” Belle admitted vehemently. “The Pink-Eyes
⁵
are too close on my heels for that and, after what happened to two of them back in Tucson, I wouldn't want to let them lay hands on me.”

“Then we'll have to make a stab at getting them to show their hand,” the blond asserted. “And, was I asked, going by the way you're dressed and jewelled, not to mention bawling at the top of your voice about that five thousand dollars you've just now lost to me, I'd say that's what you was figuring on doing all along.”

“It was,” the lady outlaw confirmed.

“Which only goes to prove's how great minds think alike,” the blond declared. “Because Doc, Jed and me've been working along that same trail.”

“I see it's the Cattlemen's Hotel you're taking me to,” Belle remarked, before any more of the scheme could be described.

“It's the best place in town,” Waco replied. “Only you won't be getting your fingers into her hair there,
not unless you go into the bar room. Which for-real ladies aren't allowed in, even if they sound like they're French.”

“I'll keep
that
in mind, too,” Belle promised. “How will I know them?”

“Anyways, happen you aren't sure,” the blond finished, having described Sarah Siddenham, Fiona Crenshaw and Thomas O'Carroll as they now appeared. “I'll have Doc point them out for you.”

“What's he doing?” the lady outlaw asked.

“Being a professional gambling man,” Waco replied. “He's doing right well at it and they're watching him.”

On arriving at their destination, Belle reverted to her French manner of speaking. Presenting the blond with a dollar, for “being zo kindly,” she gave her attention to the desk clerk. Pocketing the coin and grinning, Waco strolled outside and found his path was blocked.

“Howdy, Pete,” the blond greeted, noticing William “Fast Billy” Cromaty hovering to one side in an ideal position to assist the foreman in case of gun play. “I hardly knowed you, all dressed up so quiet and fancy.”

“I've allus been knowed for my good taste,” Glendon answered, being clad in a pearl gray derby hat, a black and white check suit with a mauve vest, a salmon-pink shirt to which was attached a celluloid collar, a necktie of numerous clashing colors and black town boots with white spats. However, he was
still wearing his gunbelt. “That was a right nice lady you toted the bags for. Do you know her from somewhere?”

“She never even told me her name,” Waco replied, with complete truth. “Gave me a whole dollar, though.”

“That was mighty generous of her,” the foreman said dryly. “How's about you, me 'n' Fast Billy going off some place where we can make us some talk?”

“Now that's right strange,” the young Texan drawled. “I was just fixing to say the self-same thing to you.”

“O
H MY GOOD GOD,
C
HARLEY
!” F
IONA
C
RENSHAW
suddenly screeched, clutching at her mid-section. “Stop the coach, my time's come and I'm starting!”

Listening to and watching the buxom little blonde, Belle Starr, Waco, Doc Leroy, Jedroe Franks and Peter Glendon were each willing to concede she was an excellent actress!

Accompanying the foreman and William “Fast Billy” Cromaty to a sparsely occupied saloon in the less affluent section of Phoenix, the blond young Texan had found sufficient privacy to satisfy his and their mutual curiosity.

Without divulging too many details, as Major Bertram Mosehan had stressed the need for discre
tion concerning the force of peace officers being formed until they were ready to commence operations, Glendon had done the majority of talking for himself and the lanky cowhand. Claiming the injured shotgun messenger was a friend, which was true although they had not seen each other since their Army days, he had said he was hoping to flush out the gang who had robbed the stagecoach between Red Rock and Marana. He was posing as a whiskey drummer, hence his gaudy attire, who would be carrying a large sum of money upon his person when he left town.

Admitting to having an identical motive where the lady outlaw was concerned, but refraining to mention how recently they had been in each other's company, Waco had told the two men as much as he had passed on to her. He had found they had reached similar conclusions with regards to the Summer Complaints and Deputy Sheriff Jackson Martin, even before having seen Sarah Siddenham, Fiona and the male members of the group in Phoenix. They had laughed heartily on learning of the source from which had come the money being used by Doc and Franks for a similar purpose to that of Glendon. In addition to what he had won since his arrival, being an excellent poker player with an equally thorough knowledge of fair and cheating methods in many forms of gambling, the slender Texan was displaying a sizeable bankroll where various of the Summer Complaints could see it. For his part, particularly in the same company, the Easterner had boasted of how
he tricked the outlaws into believing he was poor when he had had over five thousand dollars belonging to his employer hidden in the cheap trunk they had not thought to search.

On Glendon having suggested—with the full agreement of Cromaty—that they all worked together from then on, Waco had not hesitated to give agreement on behalf of himself and his two companions. He was satisfied the pair would do, as cowhands on a trail drive often said when referring to one of the most hazardous conditions they could encounter while moving a herd of half wild longhorn cattle, “to ride the river with when the water was up over the willows.”

Still without betraying her true identity, despite his belief that Glendon and Cromaty would not turn her over to the authorities, nor trust him the less for being her willing accomplice, the blond had said the “rich lil ole French gal” planned to return to Tucson on the Friday stagecoach. When he had suggested they made their attempt to capture the gang on the same vehicle, Cromaty objected on the grounds it would put the “foreign lady” in jeopardy and the foreman had given his concurrence. The young Texan had countered this by pointing out that Dennis Orme had already seen her jewellery and heard the references to the “five thousand dollars travelling money,” so the gang might decide to rob the stagecoach upon which she was travelling without the added inducements they intended to offer as bait. De
claring they would do everything possible to avoid harm befalling the “French gal,” Waco had won his way.

Following the lines of action already set in motion, the conspirators had soon felt sure they were achieving the desired results. With the exception of the blond, who was keeping in the background and not setting himself up directly as a prospective victim for robbery, the men had each noticed various of the Summer Complaints paying careful attention to their activities. Meeting Waco by arrangement, Belle had said the same applied to her. Having contrived to be selected for the comfortable role of hotel guest, Thomas O'Carroll had tried to make her acquaintance and advised against displaying so much jewellery or talking about the “travelling money.”

On Wednesday, satisfied all was ready, the conspirators had respectively announced in the hearing of the Summer Complaints that they intended to go to Tucson by the Friday stagecoach!

Of the young Easterners, only Fiona and Stanley Crowther had been in sight on Thursday morning!

Arriving at the depot of the Arizona State Stage Line early Friday morning, Belle, Doc, Franks and Glendon had discovered that the little blonde and Crowther were also travelling as passengers. Without being able to discuss the matter, each of the intended victims had guessed how the stagecoach was to be stopped for the hold up to take place.

Clad in a cheap black “spoon” bonnet shaped like
the rear end of a Conestoga wagon's canopy, a threadbare brown coat over a gingham frock and high buttoned shoes, Fiona looked like the wife of a poor farmer. The hat covered all her hair and she had removed the heavy make-up employed while working as a saloongirl in the bar room of the Cattlemen's Hotel. What was more, by careful padding and a walk appropriate to such a condition, she had given the impression of being in a well advanced stage of pregnancy. Wearing a cheap suit, collarless white shirt, heavy black walking boots and round topped, circular brimmed black hat such as was worn by members of the Grange,
¹
Crowther was also a sufficiently good actor to pass as the kind of husband she would be expected to have.

Studying the pair when he joined the stagecoach, Waco concluded only one thing prevented them from being completely convincing in their disguise. The hands of each were far too clean and soft for the type of people they were supposed to be.

Wanting to lessen the chance of their complicity being suspected, the blond had ridden to Red Rock on horseback accompanied by Cromaty and another of the cowhands enrolled as a member of the proposed force of peace officers. Brought to the vehicle on its arrival, apparently in a drunken stupor, he was loaded aboard by his companions. Then, looking so
vacant such blatant indiscretion appeared believable, the lanky cowhand had requested Toby Winkler—the shotgun messenger replacing Benjamin Eckland until he was recovered from his injuries—to “make sure good ole Davey-boy gets off safe at Marana, 'cause he's toting five hundred dollars belonging to his boss.”

Once on board, Waco had continued to behave as if sleeping off excessive drinking by sprawling along the center seat which had been lowered. He was helped in his pose by being held in position with the knees of Doc, Franks and Glendon at the rear and Belle, who had agreed to let the “married couple” have the window places, in front. As had been the case throughout the journey so far, there was only desultory conversation such as might occur between travellers with little or no common interests. However, while passing through the woodland about a mile beyond the boundary between Pinal and Pima Counties, having either recognized something or seen a signal which had escaped the attention of the other passengers, the little blonde had let out her realistic sounding comment.

“What?”
Crowther gasped, displaying an equally well simulated alarm. Then, leaning out of the window he had asked to be allowed to sit next to on boarding the vehicle, he raised his voice. “Driver! Driver! For god's sake, stop!”

“Why?” demanded Walter Tract from the box, impressed by the suggestion of dire urgency in the speaker's voice.

“I—It's m—my w—wife!” the male Summer Complaint answered, contriving to appear close to panic stricken. “S—She's s—starting to have the baby. Please, for god's sake, stop right
now
!”

“Well I'll be damned!” the driver ejaculated, not entirely without a trace of satisfaction in his voice, as he started to haul back on the ribbons and apply the brake. “I've finally got it happening to
me
!”

“Which being, I surely hope
you,
that fancy French gal, or one of them fellers inside knows how to haul the little sucker out should it conclude not to come natural-like!” Winkler replied. “'Cause I've never so much's seen one being born and ain't 'special keen to do it now.”

Such was the feeling of awe experienced by bachelors in particular where the female process of giving birth was concerned, neither Tract nor the guard gave a single thought to the kind of precautions they would have taken—particularly in an area offering so many places of concealment on either side of the trail—if there had been a request for the stagecoach to be halted for almost any other reason. As it was, regardless of the sentiment he had uttered, Winkler lay the Greener shotgun behind him on the roof of the vehicle and swung down from the box with alacrity. Showing an equivalent dearth of wariness, the driver descended just as quickly from the other side.

“This is a hold up. I'm Belle Starr!”

The words were shouted in a feminine Southern drawl from the right side of the vehicle, as the two
employees of the Stage Line were turning toward the doors.

Reaching for the Colt holstered on his right thigh, Winkler was intending to dart around the rear of the stagecoach when he saw a movement from the corner of his eye. Looking more closer, he discovered that two masked and armed men were moving forward from where they had been hidden behind nearby trees. Their attire, weapons and the shoulder long black hair of the taller warned him that they were part of the gang which had carried out the earlier hold up. Even without being covered by the revolver and Winchester Model of 1873 carbine they were respectively carrying, mindful of his responsibility to avoid putting the passengers in jeopardy, he would not have attempted to complete his draw. Instead, he raised his hands to shoulder level in a sign of surrender.

Looking over his shoulder, Tract also refrained from trying to arm himself. He found he was staring into the muzzle of the Winchester carbine, this time held by the second “half breed,” which had killed Maurice Blenheim. At the other side of the bulky trunk of a white oak tree where they had concealed themselves, was the “blonde” who made the announcement. However, she now wore a masculine black shirt, Levi's pants, moccasins and was bareheaded. Although she had not displayed any weapons on the previous occasion, she now held the Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver which—the driver was
unaware—had been dropped on the porch of the ranch house by Doc Leroy on the evening the loot from the previous hold up was taken from the Summer Complaints. There was, Tract noticed, no sign of the “white outlaw” who had supported the “half breed.”

“Sit where you are, all of you!” Crowther commanded. Having withdrawn his head after making the request for the stagecoach to be halted, he had reached behind his back beneath the jacket. Bringing out the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker he had carried there unsuspected—or so he believed—as he was speaking, he went on, “Stay put, you men, or ‘Frenchie' there gets gut-shot!”

“By my ‘husband,' or by
me
!” Fiona supplemented, thrusting her right hand into what appeared to be a pocket but was actually a slit allowing access to the interior of the carefully padded gingham dress and extracting another of the short barrelled Peacemakers. Pointing it at Belle and drawing back the hammer with both thumbs, she continued, “So you'd all best do as you're told!”

“Whatever you say, ma'am!” Doc drawled soothingly, seeing the suggestion of alarm which came to the face of the lady outlaw as the weapon was fully cocked in such an inexpert fashion. “That's some
baby
you've had!”

“Isn't it?” the little blonde giggled, being of an ebullient nature and regarding the hold up as little more than an enjoyable game.

“Send them out one at a time, Josie, Vince!” Sarah Siddenham called brusquely. “And don't be all day about it—you-all!”

“Sure,
‘Belle
!'” Crowther assented, remembering the instructions to establish the “identity” of the “blonde” leader of the gang beyond all doubt. “You heard the lady, drummer. Get up and haul your ass out of here!”

“
Ladies
first, damn it!” Fiona protested. “Get up and let us through, St—
Vince
!”

“Sure!” Crowther grunted and rose, pressing himself back against the wall of the stagecoach's body.

“All right, ‘Frenchie,'” the little blonde commanded, too excited to notice how calmly the other female passenger was accepting the situation. “Push by that drunken sot and get out!”

“Whatever you say,
madame,
” the lady outlaw replied in her thick French accent and started to obey.

The two Summer Complaints failed to appreciate it in their inexperience, but they were putting themselves in particular in jeopardy by their behavior. Neither Fiona nor Crowther was able to maintain an adequate covering of the three men occupying the rear seat as “Frenchie's” departure was being made. However, although Doc and Glendon—even Franks to a lesser degree—were offered opportunities which the first two were fast enough to have made the most of, all remained passive.

“Where the hell's all that fancy jewellery
you-all
al
lowed she wears?” Sarah asked, as Belle preceded Fiona from the vehicle.

“She said she'd taken the advice she was given and hid it with her ‘travelling money' in her bags,” the little blonde replied, the lady outlaw being clad in the plain black two piece costume and white blouse she had worn on the night she met Pierre Henri Jaqfaye, unadorned by the excellent quality costume jewellery which he had supplied. “I'll wrestle you for the pick of it.”

“
You-all
watch what you're doing!” Sarah snapped, knowing how irresponsible the excitable little blonde could be even in situations of grave danger when a serious attitude was necessary. “Move toward the back of the coach, ‘Frenchie!'”