“Ain’t love wonderful?” Darkie White inquired of his friends.
The rest of the BM hands greeted the remark with knowing grins and wise nods as they studied their boss-lady and the tall young Texan who sat next to her on the wagon-box.
“Seth,” the girl remarked casually, “I think Darkie had best ride the East line for a spell.”
Braden nodded in agreement while Darkie howled his protests to the skies. The East line was one of the dark cowhand’s pet hates. It was boggy land and the line rider spent much of his time hauling cattle out of the mud. Darkie tended to be something of a dandy dresser and hated getting his clothes all muddied up.
“Serves you right,” the hand called Johnny said severely. “Putting your big ole nose into other folks’ love-lives.”
“And there’s a whole lot of fence digging on the spread that’ll just be Johnny’s big enough,” Beth went on cheerily.
That ended the comments. Beth knew how to handle her crew, knew all their likes and dislikes. When they riled her she could always find some task they particularly disliked to give them.
Braden was worried as he watched the girl. She hated to ride on the wagon, but this day insisted that she did so, sitting next to the stranger who she’d also decided was unable to ride his horse.
The girl talked with Waco, trying to help him discover who he was. He knew about the range and the cattle, but it was his past life, his name and other personal details he did not remember. She was more than sure he really knew nothing and that he was not trying to trick her. She was puzzled by this and thought of what they knew. His horse was good, better than usual run of cow horses. His saddle was a plain, very well-used cattle rig and his rope was more than a decoration. He’d worn a gunbelt and two guns, that was far from usual; the men who wore two guns, were either trying to bluff people into thinking they were tough, salty and good—or they were tough, salty and good. That rifle was not a cowhand’s weapon either, although there was no reason why a cowhand should not own one if he wished. His lack of a bedroll was another unusual thing. She wondered if she should send word to Two Forks and have that Drifter Smith, the sheriff, come out to take a look.
Behind the wagon the rest of the hands were just as interested in Waco.
“Wonder who he are?” asked Darkie White.
“Been a cowhand,” Braden replied. “Least, his hands carry the marks.”
“Used him a gun more than a might,” Angus McKie remarked.
“Any man who rides the range’s likely to,” Braden growled. “I’ve never seen none of you bunch riding around naked.”
“Ain’t every man who shows that he’s been toting a brace,” Angus stated. “I never seen many who wore two and less that looked as if they could handle both of ’em when they did. He can. Look at that rifle of his’n.”
Not knowing the interest he was causing, Waco relaxed, listening to the talk of the pretty girl by his side. He could never remember when he knew another girl like this one, for the voice raised stirrings in his heart. His mind was working, trying to probe back and remember who he was, what he was doing here.
At last the girl pointed ahead to her home. “That’s our place, Texas.”
Waco looked ahead. Near a small clump of scrub-oaks, with a stream running in a curve around it, lay the BM ranch house. It was a small, neat two-story stone building, fresh painted and pleasant looking. The bunkhouse lay off to the left, a few smaller buildings behind it and the usual three corrals out front. All in all it looked like a middle-sized, well-cared-for ranch, the sort of place Waco would have dreamed of owning, had he ever found time for dreaming.
“Nice spread you’ve got there, ma’am,” he said.
Beth eyed him with mock severity. “I’m not going to tell you the name’s Beth anymore.”
Three men came from the bunkhouse, making for the corral to greet the rest of the ranch crew. The hands attended to their horses, telling of their adventures in town and describing the fight to the other two old BM hands. The third man was mostly ignored. He was a tall, handsome man with black hair and a close-trimmed moustache. His dress was good, a rangeland dandy with a low hanging Colt gun in his holster. There was arrogance in his every line as he studied Waco, watching the Texan turning his paint into an empty corral.
“Who’s this?” he asked, glancing at the bandage around Waco’s head.
“A new hand. His name’s Texas,” replied Beth, not hiding her dislike of the handsome man.
“Looks like a bagline bum to me,” grunted the cowhand. “I didn’t know you wanted any new hands.”
“I hire, or fire, who I please,” Beth snapped. “You remember that, Jack Hatch. Did you dig that new backhouse hole?”
“Got started on it, but we was too busy guarding the spread.”
“You’ll push your luck just too far, Hatch,” barked Braden. “I’m getting sick of you and your ways.”
“Yeah?” Hatch grinned, hand lifting over the butt of his gun.
“Seth!” Beth spoke quickly, trying to prevent trouble. “Take Texas to the bunkhouse and see he gets bedded in. Windy, tote Texas’s kak up to the barn and put it on the burro for him.”
Waco drew the rifle from the saddleboot and followed Braden towards the bunkhouse. The rest of the hands followed along, talking among themselves, while one of the pair who’d stayed on at the ranch picked up Waco’s saddle and toted it to the barn.
Hatch watched the others go and there was dark anger on his face as he followed them. Beth watched him and went along to the house where a fat old Osage woman stood waiting on the porch. She was Little Doe, Beth’s housekeeper, maid and one-time nurse. The girl went to the old Indian woman and began telling her about the man who had come so suddenly into her life.
Waco followed Braden into the large bunkhouse. He laid his rifle on the table in the room center and went to the empty bunk the foreman showed him. The other hands entered the room, talking eagerly about the fight, the hand who’d missed it cursing his luck. None of them noticed Hatch come in, but the man crossed the room and stood looking at Waco.
“Hey you,” Hatch said loudly, bringing an end to all the talk. “We don’t like you here.”
Waco turned, looked the man over, seeing he was primed for trouble. “We don’t—or you don’t?”
“Me for one. I don’t like Texans any time. I like them a damned sight less when they can’t remember their names.”
“Mister,” replied Waco. “What you don’t like’d be like to fill the big ole Grand Canyon.”
Hatch started as if Waco had slapped him in the face. There was sudden anger in his eyes. “Why you damned saddle-tramp!” he began, and made a mistake.
His fist shot out, smashing into Waco’s face. He staggered back, hit the wall and Hatch came at him, ripping a punch which jerked his head to one side. Waco was taken by surprise but his instincts came to his aid. He’d learnt fist-fighting from a man who was acknowledged as being one of the finest rough-house brawlers in the West. Mark Counter’s lessons came in useful right now. Waco’s left arm came up to deflect the next punch, his right ripped into Hatch’s stomach, bringing a grunt of pain. Waco brought up his left, snapping Hatch’s head back and before the dandy got a chance to recover, Waco drove across the right. The dandy staggered back across the room and went down. He came up again, his Colt falling from the holster, but did not get a chance. Waco attacked fast, his fists slamming the man across the room before him. Hatch hit back, spinning Waco on to a bunk. Then Hatch dived across the room, hand clawing for his gun.
That was when the ranch crew saw how fast Waco could move when needed. The young Texan went over the table in a rolling dive, scooping up the rifle as he went. He hit the floor and the rifle bellowed, the heavy bullet smashing the revolver from under Hatch’s hand.
In the same move Waco rolled to one knee, the rifle lever blurred and the muzzle lined on Hatch’s chest.
“Freeze hard, you lousy rat,” he snapped.
The bunkhouse door was flung open hard enough to almost jar it from its hinges and Beth came in. She tried to get through the bunch of cowhands and her body felt suddenly cold as she heard Braden say:
“You lousy rat, Hatch. The boy wasn’t wearing a gun.”
“Surely got hisself one fast enough though,” whooped Angus delightedly. “And ole Jacky there’s been telling us he was fast.”
Waco ignored all this, laying his rifle on the table and clenching his fists. “You all wanting to carry on with it?”
Slowly Hatch came to his feet, rubbing the blood from his face and tried to meet the angry blue eyes. He knew that here was a master with fists or with any kind of weapon.
Before he could say anything, there came a violent interruption. Beth was in front of him, her eyes glowing with fury. The cowhands stared, they’d never seen the girl so angry.
“You gel: off this ranch right now, Jack Hatch!” she snapped, the combined fury and loathing in her voice making him take a pace back. “You dirty bully, attacking a sick man.”
Darkie gave a whooping laugh. “Ole Texas hits that way sick, I’m not fixing to tangle with him when he’s well again.”
“Darkie boy,” agreed Johnny. “You’re right for the first time in your young and wuthless life.”
Hatch looked around, seeing the derision and dislike on every face. His eyes went to the tall young Texan and he snarled, “The next time we meet I’m shooting.”
“You just now tried,” replied Waco grimly. “Why wait until next time?”
“Let up, Texas,” growled Braden. “You got half an hour to get off this place, Hatch. See you’ve gone.”
Beth looked at the tall Texan and asked how he was. There were grins from members of the ranch crew at the girl’s concern, but none of them made a comment about it. The tension was still in the air and stayed until Hatch gathered his gear and left, heading for the corral.
Waco remained ready for trouble until the other men left, then he relaxed and was ready to become friendly with the others. Darkie White stepped up, watching the door close behind Beth, for the girl rarely came into the bunkhouse. That was the home of the cowhands and not a place for a woman.
“Texas, come and get acquainted with this ’ere bunch. Ain’t one of them wuth a cuss dead or alive, but you’ll have to put up with ’em.”
“Sure, but I’m lucky.”
“Why?” asked Darkie.
“I’ve only got to put up with them, they’ve got to put up with me—and you.”
So Waco took on yet another name; he became Texas to the crew. In the days which followed, while Bix Smith tried and failed to follow his tracks, Waco stayed on at the BM house. He quickly became very popular with the others and was Beth’s favorite, although he never played on it, nor, after the first day, received any special treatment.
His wound was not serious or troublesome and he was the first out to work every morning. He proved that he was a cowhand of the first water and could handle any horse in the remuda, although Beth would have strenuously objected had she known.
Braden watched the tall young man, wondering about him. That he was a tophand went without saying. Braden was willing to concede that Waco was as skilled with cattle as the foreman himself. They’d seen how he could use that rifle and handle his fists. They’d also seen how fast he could act when it was called for. Yet, for a man who showed signs of wearing two guns, he showed little skill when he borrowed a gunbelt and tried fast draw and shoot. That was easily explained. The cowhands did not wear double holstered belts, nor were their holsters worked on to give that extra ease of grip which a fast gunman needed. There was another thing, although Braden could not know this, that Waco’s matched guns were of the five-and-a-half-inch-barreled Artillery Peacemaker model. The ranch crew all owned Colt Peacemakers, but of the more usual seven-and-a-half-inch Cavalry or four-and-three-quarter-inch Civilian model. So the guns Waco was loaned did not balance in his hands; he could hit his mark, but not with the speed or accuracy he could attain with his own guns.
Five days passed. Waco settled down to his new life and worked hard. He was at the house for dinner most nights and was often seen taking walks with Beth in the moonlight. There were significant glances among the other men at this for the young Texan was a true cowhand and averse to walking any more than was necessary.
All in all, the hands approved of Waco as being nearly worthy of their boss-lady. Angus said a word about it as they gathered by the corral ready to go out to work some cattle after lunch on the fifth day.
“I like Texas,” he said profoundly. “He stands full seventeen hands high and he’s making a hand. But he’s got to prove he’s worth it afore he marries our gal.”
“Plays him a mean hand of poker,” Johnny remarked casually.
Angus granted. He was the authority on the noble art of filling the inside straight but in Waco met his match. It was a friendly game and Angus tried to make an alteration in the run of the cards by holding out a couple of aces ready for use. He got his chance to use them on Waco’s next deal, when, after an apparently harmless riffle, and the deck being cut, Waco dealt Angus a pair of aces. These, with his held-out pair, gave Angus a hand which might be expected to clean out the board. It was a good thought but failed, due to Waco producing a small straight flush. The young Texan then proceeded to show the others a whole lot about crooked gambling that they’d never seen nor heard of before.
“He can handle his ole paint hoss as well,” said Angus snuffily.
Johnny grinned wryly, his hand going to the battered old hat he wore. On the morning after their return from town he tried to take a short cut through the corral which housed Waco’s paint and found the huge stallion charging at him. To escape, Johnny threw his hat into the horse’s face and lit out for the corral rails. His hat was stamped to dollrags but he was fairly philosophical about it. The hat was brand new but all he said was:
“Could have been wuss. My head might have been in it.”
Braden settled back, listening to the comments. He glanced at Darkie who wore a new shirt, having been forced to scrub all his other clothes after riding the East line in an unusually hard patch of cattle getting into the mud. The dark cowhand saw Waco and Beth approaching so began to whistle the Wedding March.
Beth listened for a moment, there was a mild expression on her face and she cooed like a dove as she remarked, “Isn’t it about Darkie’s turn to ride the East line again, Seth?”
Darkie raised his hands. “I’ll be good,” he promised. “You just go and pick on one of the others for a change.”
“I’ll surely do that,” she promised, eyeing the grinning cowhands grimly. “Especially if I find out who put the stinkweed outside my door and left a nice lil note fastened to it.”
“Note?” asked the culprit, Johnny. “War there a note— and some stinkweed?”
“There was,” said Beth grimly. “And it wasn’t Angus, he can’t write. Darkie always spells love with a “u”, two “v’s” and no “e”. I saw a letter he wrote to Dolly Weller in town once.”
Waco knew who’d left the bunch of stinkweed, with the charming little note reading, “From Texas with luv.” He did not say anything, but that night, when Johnny jumped into bed; he found it filled with the foul-smelling weed.
“Hoss coming in fast,” Darkie said, before Beth could continue trying to discover who left the stinkweed. “Looks like Windy, but he don’t ride that fast less’n there’s food at the end of it.”
The girl turned and looked to where a rider was riding towards the ranch house. She recognized the approaching man but did not speak. The cowhand came up fast, bringing his horse sliding to a halt before the ranch foreman.
“Seth, they’ve been slow-elking.”
“How many?” growled Braden grimly. Slow-elking was killing stock, butchering some other man’s cattle, and treated in the same way as rustling.
“I found six.”
“Six head?” Beth snapped angrily. She did not mind a passing stranger killing one steer if driven to it by hunger, but this was wholesale butchery. “Get your horses, Seth, Texas, Darkie, Angus, Johnny. Windy, take another horse from your string and come with us.”
The men did not wait to talk about things. They darted for the corral and caught their horses while the other hands headed for the bunkhouse to collect weapons and ammunition for the party. One came up with Waco’s rifle and the box of bullets, handing it to the Texan.
“You want to borrow my Colt, Texas?” he asked. “Reckon I’d best stick to what I know,” replied Waco. The party rode from the ranch. The girl sat her little dun, a grim look on her face. There was no joking among the hands either, they rode in silence. This butchering was a grim business and not one of them felt like joking.
Windy led the others at a fast lope across the range and brought his horse to a halt, pointing ahead.
“Down there in them bushes. Saw some buzzards, dropping towards something and come over to take a look. Was a piece of gut they’d thrown out.”
Beth started her horse forward but Waco stopped her. His instincts were now those of a lawman. “Hold hard, boss-lady,” he said. “Suppose we all stops here and just gets down first.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Could likely cut for sign afore this heavy-footed bunch tramples everything flat into the ground.”
The girl saw the sense in Waco’s suggestion. If there was sign they might be able to read it and discover where the men who did the butchering went. There was only one snag which met her eyes.
“All right. But none of us are much good at reading sign. Nothing to make old Tom Horn worried, anyways.”
“I’ll make a try,” Braden growled, “although I’m not good. Sure wish we’d got Lil Doe’s brother along, he could read sign.”
“How about you giving her a whirl, Texas?” asked Darkie mildly. “You read any sign?”
“Just about follow a dragged log through sand,” Waco replied, something swirling through his head, some vague memory. It was gone before he could grasp it but he knew he could read sign. “If it’s soft sand that is.”
Braden and the girl exchanged glances. They’d wondered about the things Waco remembered, trying to fix together a picture of him as he was before the shooting. He knew much about guns and about the skills of the crooked gambler, although they doubted if he was the latter. Now he appeared to know something about tracking.
Beth frowned, the Texas man showed many of the talents of a town-taming lawman. Strangely, she never thought to connect this tall, handsome young Texan with her imaginary picture of the stem, thirty-year-old or more, lawman for whom she voted in the elections. She never connected her Texas with Drifter Smith, sheriff of Two Forks county.