Waco's Badge (2 page)

Keeping a watch on his surroundings just as instinctively while talking, Eckland also forgot the conversation when the animal made its appearance.

Such was the nature of the terrain currently being
traversed by the stagecoach, their point of vantage on the box notwithstanding, neither Tract nor the shotgun messenger could satisfy their curiosity concerning the person who had lost the horse. Nor, as far as they could hear, was whoever had been dislodged from its back giving any indication of being close by. If he was able, when left in such an unsatisfactory situation, a cowhand would have raised the already traditional cry of, “Catch my saddle!,”
⁸
in the hope of somebody being near enough to hear and comply. Of course, he might be too badly injured to speak. Or he might be too far away for his voice to have reached the stagecoach. He might, in fact, not even be a cowhand.

The latter was a distinct possibility!

Without the need to guide his actions consciously, Eckland was studying the horse. A washy bay gelding of about fourteen hands and with no particularly distinguishing marks, it was not an impressive creature. Rather the opposite, in fact. For all that, there were a few indications to his range-wise eyes which led him to assume the absent rider was not a cowhand. Instead of the more general “split end” variety, its reins were in a single piece. The former were more favored in the West—particularly by cowhands—as, many horses being trained to stand still when they were
dangling free, it meant that the dropped reins—if one was thrown—soon caused the animal to come to a stop. Single girthed and “apple” horned, the saddle was a normal enough rig for the area. There was, however, no coiled lariat strapped to the horn and a cowhand was rarely without such an important tool of his trade. That there were neither blankets nor a bed roll attached to the cantle of the saddle was less informative. Their absence indicated the dislodged rider was not too far from some form of accommodation.

Lacking any positive information regarding the person from whom the horse had escaped, the two men on the box felt it incumbent upon them to take precautions. While Tract was causing his team to slow down, but was equally ready to goad them to increased speed should this be called for, Ekland was easing the Greener into a position of greater readiness and preparing to draw its hammers to the fully cocked position. Even if the horse had not swerved aside to run away at an angle on seeing them, they were aware of their duty to the passengers, and neither would have considered stopping and trying to catch the bay. It might, each realized, have been released to cause this to happen so a hold up could take place. If this was not the case, however, the range-bred animal would return to the place it regarded as its home and was unlikely to be lost.

Not until they were going around the bend were the men able to obtain at least one answer to their questions!

Taking in the sight which met their gaze, the driver and the guard regarded it with mingled emotions!

Sprawled on her back, unmoving in the center of the trail was a good looking and shapely young woman. On landing, she had lost the low crowned, wide brimmed black Spanish style hat she had been wearing and her formerly neat blonde hair was dishevelled. The white blouse she had on beneath a brown bolero jacket had burst open, allowing one bare and sizeable breast to be thrust into view. Rucked up, her doeskin divided skirt displayed two well curved legs encased in black stockings to just above knee level and a pair of black riding boots. Although brown leather gauntlets covered her hands and concealed any indication of her marital status, they were empty.

Instinctively, Tract began to haul back on the ribbons and used his right foot to apply the brake. Already having been slowed down, the well trained horses had no difficulty in responding to his verbal and physical demands for them to stop.

Skilled at his work, Eckland gazed carefully about him as the vehicle was being brought to a halt. There were many places close by where men could be concealed and at least three locations within half a mile were large enough to hide several horses. However, despite the scrutiny to which he subjected all of them, he could detect no trace of any being occupied. For all that, despite there being a beautiful young woman lying in front of the stagecoach, he remained wary and kept a grip upon his shotgun.

“Is something wrong?” called a voice with a carrying and bombastic New England tone.

“Nothing to worry about, Senator,” the driver replied, looking around to where a face reddened by the sun, with an expression suggesting pomposity and framed by a mass of white hair, was peering up at him through the uncovered off side rear window. “Could be there's been an accident. Just stay put inside, all of you, and Ben 'n' me'll 'tend to things.”

As Tract was returning his attention to the trail ahead, noticing in passing that Eckland was still holding the shotgun and looking around, the young woman stirred. Slowly and with a suggestion of being in considerable pain, placing her hands flat on the ground as an aid to moving, she began to raise her head and shoulders. Before she could attain a sitting position, it seemed the effort had proved too much for her. Giving a groan, she collapsed to lie supine and unmoving once more.

“Looks like she's hurt bad, Ben!” the driver assessed.

“I'll go along with you on that, Walt,” the guard conceded, but he swung another sweeping gaze around the halted stagecoach.

“Maybe you'd best go take a look-see,” Tract suggested, after he too had glanced at the surrounding terrain and seen nothing to arouse his suspicions. Despite his concern over the possibility that the woman might be seriously injured, he approved of the caution being displayed by his companion and went on, “I'll keep watch while you're doing it.”

“Whichever way you want it,
amigo,
” Eckland assented, leaning the Greener against the seat where it would be within easy reach of the driver. His voice remained dour as he went on, “Then, should we get throwed down on by owlhoots, I'll lay all the blame on lil old you.”

“You would've anyways,” Tract claimed.

There was, the guard told himself silently as he was dropping to the ground and approaching the motionless figure, no reason why he should expect trouble!

In accordance with the policy of the Arizona State Stage Line, Eckland had been informed before leaving the depot at Phoenix that the strongbox contained nothing a criminal would regard as being negotiable and, therefore, worth trying to steal. Nor, to the best of his knowledge, was any of the four passengers carrying such a large sum of money, or quantity of other valuables, as to offer an inducement for a gang of outlaws to plan a hold up using the attractive young woman and her “lost” horse as a decoy. He had taken his precautions against such an eventuality merely as a matter of routine and he had seen nothing during his examination of the immediate vicinity of the stagecoach to suggest that robbers were lurking ready to pounce.

Yet, for all his apparently comforting summations, the shotgun messenger felt vaguely uneasy!

Although Eckland could not decide what it might be, there was something about the situation he found disturbing and puzzling!

The presence of the woman was certainly out of the ordinary!

While the attire of the blonde was that of a “good” woman and designed for riding on horseback, the guard wondered how she came to be in the vicinity. Although he and the driver were new to the “run,” to the best of his knowledge the nearest ranch house was some ten miles away. The towns of Red Rock and Marana, respectively in Pinal and Pima Counties, were closer and connected by the trail which the stagecoach was using. It was possible she could be going from one to the other for some reason. Certainly the horse he had seen running away was of a quality more generally offered for rent from the livery barns of such small communities than in the
remuda
of a ranch.

What struck Eckland as most unusual was that, to all appearances, the woman had been making the journey alone!

Still plagued by his misgivings, the guard crouched and began to bend over the blonde. She showed no visible signs of injury, but he knew this did not preclude the possibility of her having sustained damage of some kind as a result of being thrown from the horse. He had seen sufficient accidents of that nature to be aware of how serious the results could be.

Regardless of his concern for her well being, Eckland could not prevent his gaze from turning to the exposed and bare breast. Full and firm, the nipple rising in a prominent brown mound above the white
flesh, it was a sight to distract any normal man. However, even as he was looking, he was struck by a thought. From all he had heard and what experience led him to assume was the case, “good” women invariably wore undergarments of some kind beneath their outer clothing, no matter how warm the weather. As far as he could see, which was a considerable distance, the blonde was not wearing anything to waist level under the open white blouse.

Even as the shotgun messenger was starting to contemplate the possibilities suggested by the absence of undergarments, the woman opened her eyes!

There was an expression of mockery in the gaze of the blonde as, thrusting herself rapidly into a sitting position, she flung a handful of sandy soil into Eckland's face!

A
S HE SAW THE CHANGE COME OVER THE WOMAN, REALIZING
that he had been tricked after all, Benjamin Eckland's instincts as a shotgun messenger took over. Silently cursing himself for having fallen into a trap, which no man could have sprung upon him, he began to straighten up with his right hand dipping toward the butt of the holstered off side Colt Cavalry Peacemaker. Thrown with considerable force, the impact of the gritty grains against his features caused him to rise much faster than he had intended and to lose his balance. What was more, partially blinded by the unexpected attack, he fumbled his draw.

The guard was not granted an opportunity to clear his vision, nor to regain control of his movements!

Thrusting herself upward, with a speed and ease of motion which removed all indication of her having sustained an injury when “losing” the horse, the blonde continued to respond swiftly and effectively. As soon as she was standing erect, she knotted and swung her right fist in a rising arc. The blow she struck was delivered with a precision and force many a man might have envied. Certainly she had no cause for complaint over the effect it produced.

Driven with accuracy, by an obviously powerful body, the glove-encased hand took Eckland under the jaw. Beneath the thin sheath of leather, the knuckles had a hardness which went far beyond mere flesh and bone. Back snapped his head and, already close to toppling over, he went down like a steer struck by the pole-axe of a slaughterman at a hide and tallow factory.
¹
When he landed, the back of his head smashed against the ground with some force. As he had been falling, a succession of brilliant lights had seemed to be erupting before his otherwise unseeing eyes. The impact brought the sensation to an end and, as he lay supine without any movement, everything went black for him.

Like the shotgun messenger, Walter Tract was taken completely unawares by the sudden change in the behavior of the woman they had stopped to help. What was more, he did not respond in a positive manner to the implied threat. However, the disincli
nation to react was not the result of a slow witted failure to appreciate the potential danger she was creating. Handling the ribbons of a Concord stagecoach was not work for a dullard and he was all too aware of what was in all probability portended by her actions. In spite of that, and his friendship with Eckland notwithstanding, he was forcing himself to think as the driver of the vehicle rather than a paid defender of it and its passengers, or a seeker after vengeance. As such, he was primarily concerned with ensuring he retained control over the six powerful horses and kept the reins in his grasp instead of releasing them with the intention of arming himself.

Even if the driver had felt inclined to take offensive action, a movement caught at the corner of his right eye drew his attention that way and warned he would have been doomed to failure!

Although they had avoided being located until the time was propitious, two masked and armed men were making an appearance by the right side of the trail. One came into view from behind a clump of bushes several feet away, holding a Winchester Model of 1873 carbine. Closer to the vehicle, grasping a Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker, the other was throwing aside a freshly cut clump of mesquite under which he had laid concealed until that moment. Nor were they all the support for the woman. A glance in the opposite direction informed Tract that another pair of outlaws had hidden in a similar fashion and were rising just as well equipped to deal with any at
tempted resistance on the part of those aboard the stagecoach.

Despite his passive response to the situation, Tract set about doing the only positive thing he could envisage. As he had no intention of trying to resist, he devoted himself to studying the male members of the gang. In spite of the multi-colored bandana each was using to conceal the majority of his features, the driver was seeking information which might serve to identify them. All were tallish, but not exceptionally so and their respective builds were no more than average for their height. Therefore, unless he could discover some more prominent indications to act as a guide, he realized that picking them out of a crowd would be very difficult.

The two men farthest away had on the everyday attire of cowhands, except that the garments showed no traces of the hard usage which invariably arose when working cattle. Having the appearance of being recently purchased, their hats were shaped in the style by which cowhands in Arizona sought to set themselves apart from those of other regions. Like the clothing, their gunbelts were such as could be bought ready-made in any town of reasonable size. The wooden handled Colt Peacemakers looked to be standard production models, as were the Winchester carbines they were lining at the stagecoach.

While that pair offered scant evidence to set them apart, Tract considered their companions might
prove more fruitful. Going by various indications, they were of either pure or mixed Indian blood. Decorated by an eagle feather stuck under a dark blue band inscribed with medicine symbols, their black hats were high crowned in a fashion only rarely worn by white men in that day and age. From beneath the headdress, straight black hair hung to the level of the shoulders in each case, but the brims were drawn down sufficiently to aid the bandanas in preventing their features from being seen. However, the open necks of their fringed buckskin shirts displayed skin which was a dark brown in color as was their hands. Their brown trousers were tucked into the leggings of Navajo moccasions. On the left side of each gunbelt was a knife in a sheath which, like the hat bands, was of Indian manufacture.

“All right now!” yelled the man with the carbine on the left side of the trail, as he and his male companions started to converge upon the stagecoach. “Don't anybody try anything fancy happen you want to keep on living!”

“You do and you'll right soon regret it!” seconded the other outlaw armed with a Winchester, his voice also having a Mid-West accent. “We've got you covered from all sides and aren't bothered whether we take it from you alive or dead!”

“Wh—What the—?” began the unmistakable voice of Senator Paul Michael Twelfinch II from inside the vehicle.

“Do like they say, gents!” Tract advised. “They've
got us covered from both sides like he said and Ben—the shotgun messenger's down!”

As he was delivering the instructions, the driver hoped it would be obeyed. There had been a brittle timber to the voice of each outlaw. Despite the competence they had exhibited in preparing and carrying out the ambush, it suggested a nervousness which might erupt into violence if they believed things were going wrong. However, he was relieved by the thought that none of the passengers was likely to display hostile tendencies and he certainly had no intention of doing so.

“Now there's a right smart feller,” the first outlaw declared. “Come on down here, but leave your gun behind. You fellers inside, wait until he's done it, then get out where we can take a look at you.”

“Blue Buck!” called the woman, her accent that of a Southron. “You-all come on over and 'tend to this jasper.”

Hearing her speak, Tract returned his gaze to the blonde. She was standing with her back to him and, going by her actions, was fastening a bandana so it would hide the bottom portion of her face. However, he was not allowed to give her a great deal of attention.

“You heard me, driver!” the first outlaw barked, coming across the trail in front of the horses as the man with the long black hair at the left side walked toward the woman. “Get down here, fast!”

Looping the ribbons around the handle of the
brake, Tract eased the Peacemaker from its holster using only the thumb and forefinger of the left hand. Placing it on the seat of the box, he climbed down. On reaching the ground and stepping away from the stagecoach, he saw the door open and the passengers began to emerge.

Middlesized and slim, the first man to leave the vehicle had a foppish appearance. There was a suggestion of Gallic origins about his swarthily handsome features which were emphasized by a small black chin beard and a moustache with its ends waxed to short points. Worn fussily and indicating he took considerable care over his appearance, his well cut clothing was in the height of current Eastern fashion. Although his movements were closer to mincing than might be regarded as desirable in most masculine company, they had a lithe and cat-like grace about them. It warned, if one took the trouble to study him, that there might be more to him than met the eye. He grasped a well polished black walking stick in his right hand, enfolding its silver knob daintily. However, strangely for that day, age and region, he gave no sign of carrying a firearm upon his person. Certainly he did not exhibit a gunbelt and holstered revolver.

“Toss away that fancy walking cane,
Monsieur
Jaqfaye of Paris, France!” ordered the outlaw acting as spokesman for the gang, pronouncing the honorific, “mon-sewer.” “We wouldn't want no accidents with it.”

“Whatever you wish,
m'sieur,
” Pierre Henri Jaqfaye replied, his voice bearing a noticeable French accent and a timber less than masculine. “Although, if you have no objections, I would much prefer to lean it somewhere, so it will not become scratched or dirty.”

“You just do that, happen you're so minded and just so long as you're real careful while you're doing it,” the outlaw authorized. “But make good and god-damned sure you keep both hands in plain view all the while. Tommy Crane there might only be part Injun, but he could be all Injun way he's so suspicious natured.”

“Ugh!” the second man with shoulder long black hair grunted gutterally, making a threatening gesture with his Colt. “That-um heap plenty true. Not trust-um paleface even if he look like fairy.”

Directing a glare of bitter hatred at the speaker, Jaqfaye stepped quickly across to leave his cane against the front wheel of the stagecoach. Having done so, keeping his open hands in plain view although still showing his resentment over the derogatory comment, he turned and stood alongside the driver.

Slightly taller than the Frenchman and better built without being anywhere close to bulky, the next passenger was a few years younger. Brown haired and clean shaven, he wore spectacles which gave a studious look to his tanned and reasonably handsome face. Although he wore a black Stetson hat with a
Montana crown peak, the rest of his attire implied he was a town dweller of moderate circumstances. He too wore no visible armament and, on reaching the ground, he went immediately to join Tract and Jaqfaye.

“Take it easy there, gents, I'm coming as fast as I can,” requested the third man to appear at the door of the vehicle, his New England voice placatory. “When you're
my
size, you can't move nowheres near so spry as these slender fellers.”

There was some justification for the assertion!

Having introduced himself as “Maurice Blenheim” on boarding the stagecoach, and continuing to chatter amiably throughout the journey, the speaker was middle-sized and portly. Black haired, blue eyed and perspiring freely, he had a cheerful face of the type to inspire confidence in his honesty. He wore a white “planter's” hat, shoved to the back of his head, a matching two piece linen suit and shirt, with a multi-colored silk cravat, and Hersome gaiter boots. As was the case with his predecessors from the vehicle, he showed no sign of being armed. Nor did he convey the impression of being any more of a fighting man than the other two as, moving with a ponderous slowness, he descended and walked to where they were standing.

“Hey in there, it's your turn now!” called the spokesman, after a few seconds had passed without the last occupant leaving the stagecoach. “Haul your god-damned butt outside here,
pronto
!”

“Do you know who you're talking to?” Twelfinch demanded, although his tone now was more querelous than pompous, peering out of the window.

“Sure I do, Senator,” the spokesman admitted, showing no signs of being impressed or concerned by the knowledge. “And what I said still goes, only more so.”

Muttering under his breath, Twelfinch rose and emerged with alacrity. Of slightly less than medium height and skinny, he was far from an impressive or commanding figure. Bareheaded, his white hair looked like a not too clean mop above a miserable face so thinly fleshed it resembled a skull. While costly, his Eastern style clothing hung loosely and untidily on his weedy body. That he should not show any indication of carrying weapons of any kind came as no surprise to anybody who knew him. He was an ardent and vociferous advocate of legislation to prevent ownership of firearms unless very stringent proof of need could be established.

“Hey, Belle!” the spokesman called, as the politician was going to stand alongside the rest of the passengers. “We've got—!”

“God damn it!” the blonde barked, turning to show she had fastened her blouse and concealed the lower half of her face beneath a folded bandana. Donning the hat she took from the man she had told to assist her, she went on just as heatedly as she strode forward leaving him to disarm the still motionless shotgun messenger. “Why don't you
tell
them who I am?”

“Sorry, B—!” the outlaw commenced.

“You damned nearly said it again!” the woman snorted, then ran her gaze along the line of men from the stagecoach. “All right, gents, let's start having you-all handing over your valuables. Being right respectful of important folks, Senator, we'll start with you-all.”

“Me?”
Twelfinch yelped and, taking a pace forward, looked by the next two passengers. “Jaqfaye, do
something
!”

“
Oui, M'sieur le
Senator,” the Frenchman answered, his attitude indicating he was far from enamored of being singled out in such a fashion. “Tell me what you would have me
do
and I may
try,
but I do not hold out too much hope of whatever it is being successful.”