‘Gent to see you, Dusty,’ Waco said, entering the marshal’s office.
The train had departed, taking with it as ripe a collection of tinhorn gamblers, gold-brick salesmen and assorted petty criminals as might be found anywhere other than in a State or Territorial prison, and Dusty was seated in his private office at the jail.
Rising, Dusty strolled out into the main office and nodded a welcome to Frank Derringer. Going to the main office’s desk, Dusty opened its drawer and took out a deputy’s badge, dropping it on the desk top before the gambler. ‘Pin her on, Frank,’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘The boy’s name’s Waco, none of the rest of us ’cept you are called Frank.’
‘I’m no lawman, Dusty. My religion is devout coward.’
‘I reckon you’ll do for what I want,’ Dusty replied, knowing the gambler to have sand to burn when the chips went down. ‘Anyway, happen there comes danger you can always hide behind Big Sarah. That’s what I do.’
‘And me,’ Waco grinned. ‘But don’t worry, there’s room for us all, ’cepting Mark’s head behind the—Eeeyow!’
The latter came as Mark and Big Sarah descended on Waco. One moved in at either side of the youngster without his realizing how close they were to him. Although neither of them spoke, each reached out and took a firm hold of the youngster’s ears and led him, yelping his apologies, through the door and into a cell.
‘He looks more natural in there,’ Big Sarah remarked, locking the door.
‘Sure does,’ Mark agreed.
‘All right, all right,’ Waco yelled. ‘I apologize. There’s even room for Mark’s head behind you.’
‘That lets you out with me, boy, but not with Sarah,’ Mark grinned.
‘I’d best let him out, or I’ll have Babsy jumping me,’ Sarah went on.
While his deputies let off some of their high spirits, Dusty went on talking with Derringer. Dusty outlined his plan to check on all the games in town and his need for a man with knowledge of a fair number of the tricks crooked gamblers used to rook their victims. While Derringer was a completely honest gambler, he needed to know the crooked tricks to protect his interests. That Dusty would have need of such specialized knowledge was apparent to the small Texan from the start and he had been on the lookout for a straight gambler to take on as deputy. Of all the honest gamblers he knew, Dusty was most pleased to see Frank Derringer and hoped the man would agree to help out.
‘I hoped to get a job dealing for some house in town,’ Derringer remarked.
‘You can do that too. All I want to do is have you around when there’s a check made on the various games.’
‘Danged if I don’t give it a whirl,’ grinned Derringer. ‘Slap on the badge and swear me in.’
By the time Dusty had sworn in his new deputy, Sarah, Mark and Waco were finished in the cells and returned to the front office. Sarah remarked that she had to go back to the Fair Lady and Mark stated that as he was still all weak and feeble from his wound he aimed to catch some sleep before coming on to help with the evening rounds.
‘You’re off watch tonight, boy,’ Dusty said as Sarah, Mark and the Kid left the office.
‘Why sure,’ agreed the youngster cautiously.
‘Seeing Babsy?’
‘Yep. Miss Freddie gave her the night off and we aim to take us a buggy ride after we’ve had supper at the hotel.’
The friendship between Waco and the volatile little Babsy had been a source of some unexpressed amusement amongst the youngster’s amigos. It was an innocent enough affair which ebbed and flowed depending on how the mood took either Babsy or Waco at the moment. However this would be the first opportunity the two had had of getting together in an evening, for each other night Waco found himself on watch as Dusty’s deputy and Babsy had her work at the Fair Lady to keep her occupied. For all that, when Waco visited the Fair Lady he usually wound up sitting with Babsy and the other girls appeared to respect her prior claim for none of them ever tried to cut in on the handsome young deputy.
‘Dangerous things, buggy rides,’ Dusty stated. ‘How’d you like to come along with Derry and me to check over the games at the Fair Lady and Dongelon’s Wooden Spoon?’
Interest showed on Waco’s face. ‘Gee, I’d like that swell. I don’t have to meet Babsy until seven so there’s time.’
One thing Dusty had learned early about Waco was that the youngster possessed an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Much of the young Texan’s earlier truculence stemmed from his lack of opportunity to learn things. Clay Allison’s crew might be tough, efficient, handy with their guns, but they had little to teach Waco. Since throwing his lot in with the O.D. Connected, Waco had always been asking questions and found his new friends willing to take time out to answer, or give practical demonstrations of things which interested him; and his chip-on-the-shoulder attitude fell away as he learned.
Dusty, Waco and Derringer left the office and strolled along the sidewalk in the direction of Dongelon’s saloon. While none of them expected to find anything wrong with the games, Derringer figured he could point out a few things of interest and show the others a few pointers in the difference between straight and crooked gambling equipment Across the street the Kid came from Birnbaum’s store accompanied by the storekeeper. The problem of Birnbaum’s firearms training had been simplified by the discovery that not only was his wife a real good cook, but that he possessed a pretty daughter. Once that fact had been established competition to act as instructor became keen between Mark and the Kid.
A trio of men rode along the street, passing Dusty’s party and swinging their mounts to halt before the Wooden Spoon’s hitching rail. They were unshaven, wore cowhand clothes, looked like a bunch of hands fresh off a trail drive and each wore a low hanging gun. Leaving their horses with the reins tossed, but not tied, over the hitching rail, the three men stepped towards the sidewalk ready to enter the saloon.
After giving the men a quick glance, Waco studied their horses. The center animal moved restlessly and as it did Waco saw that its off hind shoe had come loose. He decided to warn the horse’s rider, allowing the man a chance to have the shoe replaced firmly or the horse re-shod.
‘Hey, mister!’ he called, stepping from the sidewalk alongside Dusty and Derringer. ‘Hold it a min—’
Turning, the three newcomers looked in Waco’s direction, saw the trio of law badges approaching and grabbed at their guns.
‘Look out, boy!’ Dusty yelled, shooting out his right hand to thrust Waco to one side and sending his left flicking across his body to the off-side Colt.
Two things saved Waco’s life that day: Dusty’s knowledge of the basic rule of a lawman; and the small Texan’s ambidextrous wizardry with his guns.
The center man was very fast. Flame ripped from the barrel of his gun and the bullet missed the staggering Waco by a mere couple of inches. Before the man could fire again or correct his aim, Dusty threw a bullet into him and Dusty shot to kill. There was no other way. The man had shown himself to be better than fair with a Colt and that he had right good reason to fear the approach of lawmen; it paid off only in tombstones to take fool chances with such a man.
Although the center man was good, the other two were not better than average and they were completely outclassed even by Derringer. Steel rasped on leather as guns came out. Even though off balance, Waco beat Derringer and the other two to shoot. His bullet caught the man at the left in the shoulder and spun him around—but the man still held his gun.
Then Waco learned his second lesson in a few seconds. Dusty threw a shot into the wounded man, spinning him around again. Cocking the seven-and-a-half inch barreled Army Colt on its recoil, Dusty prepared to shoot again unless the man released his weapon. The impact of Dusty’s shot threw the man backwards and his gun clattered to the ground.
Derringer’s right hand fanned down and brought out his Colt an instant after Waco fired. Having time to spare—even though it only amounted to a split second—Derringer sent his bullet into the last of the trio’s shoulder and the man staggered back, his heels struck the edge of the sidewalk then he sat down, allowing his gun to fall back from a limp and useless hand.
‘Don’t shoot!’ the man yelled, raising his left hand shoulder high. ‘Don’t shoot, I’m done!’
‘Move in on them and watch them!’ Dusty ordered and as they walked forward went on. ‘Boy, never as long as you’re wearing a lawman’s badge call out to a man, or go towards him after you’ve stopped him, without being ready to draw your guns.’
‘I only—’
‘I know what you aimed to do and don’t blame you for doing it. But innocent as Lon looks, or guilty-looking as hell, don’t make the mistake of not being ready to draw. And if you have to draw on a man, keep shooting as long as he holds his gun no matter whether he’s standing or lying.’
Cold-blooded it might seem, but in later years Waco remembered Dusty’s warning and advice and it saved his life on at least one occasion. The youngster had killed four men before that day, each one in a fair fight, but this was the first time he had been in a shooting scrape on the side of the law.
A crowd gathered, people coming from the Wooden Spoon and running along the street. Ignoring them, Dusty told his deputies to gather up the trio’s guns. Then he looked down at the three men. The one he shot first was dead; Waco and Dusty’s man had wounds and both looked serious; Derringer had been able to merely disarm the third man who looked like it would be some time before he used a gun with his right hand.
‘How’d you know?’ groaned the third man, holding his shoulder. ‘Stayley there,’ he indicated the man Dusty killed, ‘reckoned word couldn’t’ve got here.’
‘It arrived,’ Dusty replied.
‘Th—the money’s in Stayley’s saddle pouches. All of it just like when we took it out of the Wells Fargo box.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Six miles south of Newt—’ the man began, then stopped as he realized how much he had given away.
‘A Wells Fargo stage, huh?’ Dusty asked.
‘I got nothing to say,’ the man answered.
The Ysabel Kid had arrived on the run, although he found his presence unnecessary. However, Dusty did not let the Kid make a wasted trip for he left the Indian-dark young man to see the removal of the body and arrange for the wounded to be attended by the local doctor then lodged in the cells. Dusty knew he would get nothing more out of the third man, at least not until later, so he let the matter drop. A telegraph message to Newton’s Wells Fargo office would give Dusty all the information he needed and the man dropping the name ‘Stayley’ handed Dusty a lead to one of the trio’s identity.
What happened was clear enough. The three men held up a Wells Fargo stagecoach out of Newton and came to Mulrooney, possibly by a roundabout route and in a manner which would make tracking them all but impossible. If they had kept their heads when Waco called, they might have got clear through the town of Mulrooney for no word of the holdup had arrived.
Seeing Dongelon among the people who gathered, Dusty went to him and said, ‘We’re just coming in to make a check on the games, Don.’
‘Feel free anytime,’ the saloonkeeper replied, leading the way into the Wooden Spoon. ‘Can I offer you a drink before you start?’
‘Not while we’re on watch,’ Dusty answered and turned to Derringer. ‘Where do you want to start, Frank?’
‘How about the roulette table?’
‘You’re bossing the drive.’
Watched by an interested Waco, Derringer examined the table thoroughly. Although he knew nothing would be wrong, Derringer removed the table’s wheel and examined the spindle on which it turned. While making his check, Derringer explained to Waco how unscrupulous operators rigged their wheels by means of hidden springs and wires which worked on a push of a concealed button so as to ensure that the number most favorable to the house came up a winner.
‘How’d the house make sure the wheel pays off then, I mean a straight wheel like this one?’ Waco asked. ‘I don’t reckon they can.’
‘They don’t have to even with a straight wheel, b—Waco.’
‘How’s that?’
‘See that sign on the table, house limit twenty-five cents to twenty-five dollars only. That’s how they make their profit. This’s a honest wheel but it gives the house an edge of five and five-nineteenths per cent. That means that for every dollar bet, the house collects five and five-nineteenths cents. Clear?’
‘Clear as the Missouri in high-flood.’
A grin split Derringer's face for, like Waco, he knew the Missouri had a reputation for being an exceptionally muddy river even when not in flood. So to help clear the subject Derringer explained how the house’s percentage worked, drawing in part of every bet made. He went on to explain to Waco how the limit protected the house by preventing the players doubling up on bet after bet until eventually they won; and also against the chance of a player walking in, betting a large sum on one roll, winning and walking out with the profits.
‘See, bo—Waco,’ Derringer finished, ‘you can only make seven double-up bets then if you lose that last you’d go over the limit. So you have to make several small bets and the house gets its rake-off with the percentage. That’s fair enough, the owner’s supplying a service and the upkeep of the game costs him money.’
‘Huh, huh,’ Waco replied. ‘I see it now. Let’s have a look at the other games, shall we?’
While Waco might see the point of Derringer’s argument, he failed entirely to notice the time. So absorbed did he become that the fingers of the clock went moving around as Derringer examined game after game. At each he explained to Waco how it could be fixed so as to ensure the house won heavily and also told the youngster the game’s percentage. While giving the decks of cards a casual glance, Derringer warned Waco of the way players at the games tried to improve their luck. All in all Waco was receiving an education in the art of crooked gambling and, as in all the subjects his friends taught him, he stored the information away for future reference.
Just as the three lawmen were leaving the saloon, Mark Counter strolled up to them.
‘I thought you was headed for bed?’ Dusty asked.
‘Was. Only there’s a feller down the hall from me who’s got a helluva appetite and it worries me.’
‘Does, huh?’
‘Sure. I can figure a man wanting a stack of sandwiches near on two foot high, and a couple of bottles of whisky,’ Mark drawled. ‘Only I can’t see why he needs half-a-dozen glasses, cigars and pipe tobacco.’
‘Half-a-dozen, huh?’ Dusty grunted. ‘Let’s go.’
‘This’s gone right by me,’ Waco stated as he followed the other three along the street in the direction of the hotel.
‘You’ll see, boy,’ Mark replied.
The manager of the hotel was not present and his desk clerk, a young man fresh from the east, had ideas about the sanctity of the establishment’s guests. After hearing Dusty’s request, he shook his head and stated that he could only hand over his pass key on the manager’s orders.
‘It’s your door,’ Dusty drawled.
‘How do you mean, marshal?’
‘There’s something going on in one of your rooms. When I knock on the door, I may have to go in fast. That means either unlocking and opening the door—or we kick it in. It’s your choice, but I sure as hell can’t see Mr. Schafer thinking happy about you when he hears why we did it.’
One thing the young man learned early in his career as a hotel desk clerk was that any trouble which happened in the building usually wound up as being his fault. In the small town back east he had never seen much of the law, but he guessed that Dusty did not aim to waste time arguing. Either he handed over the pass key or the small Texan’s party would break open the door and Schafer, the manager, was sure to hold the desk clerk responsible.
Taking the key, Dusty led the others up the stairs and along the passage to the room Mark pointed out. They halted too on each side of the door, standing back against the wall. Reaching around, Dusty knocked loudly.
‘Law here,’ he shouted. ‘Open up!’
There was no reply for a moment, so Dusty slipped the pass key into the lock and turned it. Thrusting open the door, Dusty went in fast, followed by the other three. All halted and looked at the scene before them. They saw it through a haze of tobacco smoke; half-a-dozen men seated around a bed and grabbing up money and cards hurriedly.
‘There’s no law against gambling, gents,’ Dusty remarked. ‘Open the window and let’s have us some air in here, boy.’
While crossing the room, Waco studied the gamblers. Four of them were Texas cowhands and looked like they had only recently paid off a drive. One of the other pair looked like he might be a store-clerk or some other kind of town dweller, an innocent, honest appearing man in a cheap suit. The last of the six showed what he was, a professional gambler and most likely the organizer of the game.
‘Then what’d you bust in here for?’ asked the gambler sullenly.
‘Civic ordinance number thirty-seven, mister,’ Dusty replied. ‘It empowers the town marshal to examine any instrument, device or article used for the purpose of gambling.’
‘This could be a stick-up!’ yelped the townsman.
‘Don’t be loco,’ one of the cowhands replied. ‘That there’s Cap’n Fog and Mark Counter. I rode for them on that drive they made for Rocking H, when they made Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson run out of Dodge City.’
‘Howdy, Vic,’ Dusty greeted, recognizing the man. ‘What happened?’
‘Gent here,’ said the cowhand, indicating the gambler, ‘got him a game up. Said we could play in his room and not have to pay any house charge. This other feller here,’ Vic waved to the townsman, ‘came along for a game.’
‘Huh huh!’ Dusty grunted. ‘Check over the cards, Frank.’
Dusty knew there would be no trouble from the cowhands now he had been recognized as a friend. Otherwise the townsman’s words might have started shooting. Unless Dusty missed his guess—and he didn’t reckon he missed—that had been the man’s intention when shouting the suggestion of a hold-up.
‘Hell, these cards have designs all over their backs,’ the gambler growled. ‘Everybody knows you can’t mark them.’
‘That’s what your sort want everybody to think,’ Derringer replied over the other players’ rumble of agreement.
Gathering in the cards, Derringer gripped them firmly in his left hand. He ran his right thumb over the upper edge like a child playing with a ‘moving picture’ book, watching the flipped pasteboards intently. When he had repeated the process twice more, Derringer offered the deck to Waco.
‘Try that and see what you see, b—’
‘For gawd’s sake say “boy” just once,’ Waco suggested. ‘You’re dang nigh old enough to be my grandpappy anyways.’
Derringer grinned as he realized that he had been admitted into the select few who could address Waco with the name ‘boy’ and not wind up fighting.
‘Can’t see a danged th—’ Waco went on, following Derringer’s actions with the deck of cards. ‘Hey though, the pattern’s changed—’
‘Just sit right there, hombre!’
The words cracked out from Dusty’s lips and were accompanied by the click of his right hand Colt coming to full cock as he threw down on the gambler and halted the man’s move towards his jacket’s sleeve. An instant later the townsman found himself with a first-class view of the bore of Mark’s right side Colt, Both men were covered and sat very still, all ideas of resisting further comments on the cards forgotten by them.
‘You mean they was cheating?’ growled one of the cowhands.
‘Could be,’ Dusty replied. ‘Just you boys sit right there and leave us handle it, huh?’
‘You’d best do it, Wilf,’ Vic warned. ‘Cap’n Fog’s got a right convincing way with him happen you don’t.’
‘How about it, Frank?’ Dusty asked.
Taking the cards from Waco, Derringer riffled them once more, inserting a finger in between two of them. He removed the card and held it towards Dusty and said, ‘They’re what’s known as “block-outs”. There’s a lot of people believe there has to be a white border around the design before the cards can be marked. I reckon the idea was started by a tinhorn. See that piece of the diamond patterning on the back? It’s been darkened a mite more than the rest and is just a mite out of shape.’
Even when pointed out, the blocking-out took some spotting. Both the gambler and his partner must have possessed keen vision to make use of the marking.
‘But that deck was new opened, with the Federal Revenue stamp on the outside, cap’n,’ Vic objected. ‘I wouldn’t’ve been loco enough to play otherwise.’
‘I know two fellers in Kansas City who earn maybe thirty-five dollars a week steaming off the Revenue seals, marking the cards then sealing the deck again,’ Derringer answered.
Surprise showed on the cowhands’—and Waco’s—faces. A cowhand only earned thirty-five dollars with a month’s hard work.
‘Share out all the money that’s on the table, boys,’ Dusty ordered, using the term ‘table’ even though the game had been played on a bed. ‘And in future if you have to gamble, do it in a saloon. You won’t win anyways, but at least there you’ll not be cheated out of it.’
Chuckling at Dusty’s adroit summing up of a man’s chances when it came to gambling, the cowhands gathered up the money and started to share it among themselves. As a fair amount of both the gambler and the townsman’s money was included in the share-out, the cowhands had no complaints and Dusty knew they would have no desire to seek out and take retaliatory measures against the two men.
Neither of the crooks said a word in protest, but sat scowling and watched the delighted cowhands troop out of the room. Then the gambler asked what would happen to them.
‘That depends,’ Dusty replied. ‘Search the room, Frank. Waco, help Mark search this pair.’
‘Keep close to him while you’re doing it, boy,’ Mark prompted, ‘and lay your guns aside while you do it if there’s more than one of you. Let the other man keep the prisoner covered. Another thing, keep your groin, gut and the rest out of the way while you’re doing it.’
Both Waco and Mark laid aside their guns and let Dusty cover the two tinhorns. Swiftly Mark demonstrated the ‘pat search’ used by lawmen to locate hidden but fairly bulky objects such as weapons. The blond giant worked from behind his man, the gambler, removing a Remington Double Derringer from the man’s right sleeve and an ivory-gripped, spear-pointed push dagger with a four-inch blade and a spring-away sheath from up the left. Following Mark’s moves, Waco searched the townsman and ensured that his man had no weapons hidden away.
While this went on, Derringer checked the gambler’s belongings and on opening a case found what amounted to a small gambling casino; including a miniature roulette wheel and cloth layout, several decks of cards, all marked or otherwise doctored and a few dice which carried loads or were mis-spotted.
‘What now?’ growled the gambler.
‘We’re taking you in,’ Dusty replied. ‘Do you want to see a lawyer?’
‘Does it have to come to a trial?’ asked the townsman.
‘Don’t add attempted bribery to it,’ Dusty warned. ‘Take them in, boy. Where do you live, hombre?’
‘Down at the other hotel,’ the townsman, to whom Dusty addressed the question, replied sullenly.
‘Take him and collect his gear, Mark, Frank. Waco and I’ll handle this one.’
At the jail Dusty had the two men thoroughly searched and listed their property having them sign the list before locking the items in the office safe, then he consigned the two men to one of the cells. In the morning they would be taken before the judge, have a hefty fine slapped on them and then be seen on their way out of town.
‘What’ll we do with this, Dusty?’ Mark asked, nodding to the case of crooked gambling gear.
‘Leave it here,’ Derringer suggested, ‘I’ll see how much I can teach the boy with it.’
‘I’d surely hate to grow up all big and ignorant,’ Waco agreed, giving Mark a studied and knowing glance. ‘If I did, all I’d be good for’d be chasing ga—Yeeow! Is that clock right?’
All eyes turned to the wall clock. They had been so engrossed in their work that none of them gave a thought to the passing of time. Staring with horrified eyes, Waco tried to imagine the clock’s fingers did not show half past seven.
‘It’s right as the off-side of a horse,’ Dusty answered and went on innocently, ‘Was you going someplace?’
‘You show her who’s boss, boy,’ Mark whooped as the youngster, without offering any answer to Dusty’s question, dashed out of the office.
‘She knows who’s boss,’ Derringer contributed.
Laughing, the three men watched Waco hurry along the sidewalk in the direction of the Fair Lady Saloon.
‘He’s a good kid,’ Derringer remarked as they turned from the window.
‘He’s a damned good man to have siding you in a fight,’ Dusty corrected.
‘Yep!’ agreed Mark. ‘He’ll do to ride the river with. Now I’m going to the hotel to try and get some sleep.’
‘Lon’s not back yet,’ Dusty pointed out, then looked at Derringer. ‘Was I to be asked, Frank, I’d say you just volunteered for my partner tonight.’
‘Me?’ Derringer croaked. ‘I’m supposed to be the gambling expert.’
‘So you are. Get the cards out while things are quiet and we’ll have a few hands of crib—and make sure you don’t take one of the decks we confiscated from our two guests.’
Waco hurried towards the Fair Lady Saloon. A cold feeling came over him as he thought of the waiting girl and he would have been willing to bet all he owned that Babsy was not amused. Fact being she would likely peel his hide off when he arrived.
An indignant looking Babsy stood on the sidewalk before the saloon. She wore a neat little blue dress with a bustle, a picture hat and held a parasol. From the way her dainty right foot tapped on the sidewalk, Waco could tell she was pot-boiling mad and he hoped she would listen to his explanation.
‘Well?’ Babsy asked. ‘I’ve been working.’
‘Huh! A likely story. I saw you coming out of the Wooden Spoon!’
‘Sure,’ Waco agreed. ‘We went in to che—’
‘I suppose you think I’m going to fall for that!’ Babsy squeaked.
‘It’s the living truth. I went in with Dusty and Frank Derringer, him being our gambling deputy. Then just as we finished, Mark come along with a crooked poker game and we raided it. One way and ano—’
Again Waco’s words trailed off as some instinct warned him that Babsy would not take kindly to the suggestion that he preferred listening to Derringer on the subject of gambling to taking her to supper. Actually Waco did not prefer the former, only Derringer made it so interesting that the youngster lost all track of time.
‘Well?’ Babsy repeated.
Which same was when Waco began to get annoyed. ‘I told you I was working late!’ he growled. ‘Now I’m here, right side up and all my buttons on. So let’s us go eat supper.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that!’
‘Then no thank you, mate!’ snorted Babsy. ‘I’ll go to supper myself.’
‘All right then!’ Waco snapped back. ‘Go to going!’
‘Don’t worry. I’m going to!’
At which point both Babsy and Waco paused and waited for the other to make a move that would lead them to reconciliation. The trouble being that both of them possessed an almost equal streak of mule; and neither intended to give in first.
After waiting for almost a minute, Babsy gave an angry snort, turned and stamped off along the street. Waco watched her go, standing where he was and scowling at the brightly dressed little figure. Man, that lil blonde gal looked as cute as a June-bug and as desirable as anything he could ever remember seeing. Only he failed to see him taking to the idea of any girl—even one as pretty as Babsy—getting all uppy with him.
However, with all the various celebrating men in town it might not be any too safe for Babsy walking the streets alone. While an ordinary town girl would have been fairly safe even from a drunken cowhand, Babsy had become well-known for her singing and dancing act at the Fair Lady. Cowhands and others often formed very wrong impressions of girls who worked in saloons; and that could lead Babsy right straight smack bang into trouble.
Not that Waco gave a damn either which-ways of course, but—well he was a town lawman and Miss Freddie had kind of made him responsible for the safety and well-being of her main and star performer.
With his excuse made up to his own satisfaction, Waco walked along the street after the girl, keeping some thirty yards or so behind her and making no attempt to catch up with her. He reckoned that by the time they had reached the hotel, Babsy—all right, then, both of them—would have simmered down enough to patch things up and have their supper and buggy ride.
Babsy knew that Waco followed her and reached much the same conclusion. All might have gone as planned if a brace of handsome, celebrating young Texas cowhands had not come from a store and removed their hats gravely as the girl approached. They had paid off from their herd the previous day and carried a mite more liquor than was good for them; although not so much that they failed to recognize the little girl who amused and charmed them the previous night at the Fair Lady.
‘Howdy, ma’am,’ the taller of the pair greeted. ‘I’m Tad, ’n’ this’s Beck.’
‘We saw your show last night,’ Beck told her seriously ‘Sure was good.’
‘Sure was,’ agreed Tad.
‘I’ll teach that there Waco!’ Babsy thought and then said, ‘Did you like it enough to take me to supper?’
‘Now you sure got a good idea there, ma’am,’ agreed Tad.
From the start Babsy figured she might be going too far. While the two cowhands behaved politely at first, they grew more familiar as the meal—and liquor—progressed. The girl tried to attract Waco’s attention as he sat silently eating a meal across the room, but he refused to be drawn into what he knew must wind up in a fight. Not that Waco feared a fight. He felt a sense of responsibility and knew becoming involved in a public brawl was not the action a good lawman took.
At last the meal ended and Babsy hoped to get away from the two cowhands so as to go and make her peace with Waco. However, Tad and Beck each took an arm and led her out on to the street. Night had fallen, with a moon throwing some light on the street. To Babsy’s horror there were few people about and the two cowhands began to steer her towards the Fair Lady.
‘How’s about a kiss?’ asked Tad.
‘Not on the street!’ Babsy gasped, which was a mistake.
‘That’s easy settled,’ grinned the cowhand and nodded to the alley between the hotel and its neighboring building. ‘Let’s go down there.’
Before Babsy could raise any objections, the two cowhands had taken her into the alley. Tad swung her around, curling his hands around her. Up drove Babsy’s knee and Tad let go faster than he took hold, staggering back.
‘Looks like she fancies me, Tad boy,’ grinned Beck and gripped the girl by her shoulders, making sure he kept his side to her knee.
A feeling of panic hit Babsy as the cowhand’s face came down towards her. Once back in England a drunken footman at Freddie’s house caught the little girl and tried to kiss her. Only Freddie’s arrival and a hard-applied riding crop saved Babsy from the possibility of something worse—but this time Freddie was nowhere around. The fumes of whisky came down into Babsy’s face, making her gag and stopping her crying for help.
‘G—get off me! ’ she gasped.
‘Shuckens, stop playing hard to get,’ Beck replied. ‘I only—’
‘You heard the lady!’
Never, not even with the arrival of Freddie that time in England, had Babsy been so pleased to see a friend come to her aid. She heard Waco’s words and saw the tall youngster grab Beck by the shoulder, heaving him bodily backwards.
‘Coo—look out!’
Babsy began to thank Waco and yelled a warning an instant too late as Tad lunged forward and crashed his fist into the side of Waco’s jaw. Waco went sideways and hit the hotel’s wall. Even as he struck the wall, Waco had his right hand gun in his hand. In almost the same move, as Tad sprang forward once more, the gun went back into leather. Waco could not see Dusty wanting any part of a deputy or a friend who shot down a drunken young cowhand without a whole heap better reason than Tad presented at the moment.
On the way north Mark had taught Waco some of the basic fist-fighting techniques, not as much as the youngster would eventually know, but sufficient for the present situation. Waco side-stepped Tad’s rush, avoiding the cowhand’s blow and ripped his left fist into Tad’s unprotected belly. Taken by surprise, Tad folded over but his forward impetus carried him on so his head struck the wall.
Beck moved in as Tad collapsed to the ground. A bellyful of whisky might give a man the desire to fight, but it sure as hell did not improve his ability or technique. Ducking under Beck’s wild blow, Waco came up, ripping home an uppercut that lifted the cowhand on to his toes and draped him flat on his back.
Feet thudded and two shapes came into the mouth of the alley.
‘Hold it right there!’ Dusty’s voice barked.
Attracted by the sound of the fight, while making their rounds, Dusty and Derringer had come to investigate.
Shaking his right hand to restore the feeling robbed by its collision with Beck’s jaw, Waco turned to speak with his friends.
‘It’s all right, Dusty,’ he said.
‘What happened?’ Dusty asked.
‘Boys got a mite festive—with good cause,’ the youngster growled; and even in the dark Babsy could tell he did not eye her with pleasure or favor.
‘Do you want for us to take them in?’
‘No, Dusty. Just make sure they’re not hurt too bad and tell them I’m sorry,’ Waco replied, then caught Babsy by the wrist. ‘Come on, you.’
Not until they had passed around the rear of the hotel and stood behind the next building did Babsy try to stop herself being dragged along.
‘Here, lay off!’ she squawked. ‘You’re hurting—’ Swinging the girl to face him, Waco scowled down at her. They stood behind a store and a number of packing cases of various sizes had been stacked against the wall.
‘You little fool!’ he growled. ‘Those two kids are fresh off the trail. For over a month they’ve not seen a gal. Then you have to come along, making eyes at them and getting the wrong ideas going in their heads. I damned near killed one of them back there. And for what, because you wanted to rile me.’
‘You ne—Oh, Waco! I wish I’d never listened when the other girls told me to keep you waiting and come down late.’
‘You came out late?’
‘I—I’d only just come when you arrived.’
A sudden fury rose inside Waco, reaction to his having so nearly come to killing a man—and with so little cause. He might have forgiven Babsy for taking on at being kept waiting; but to find that she had not been kept waiting at all—While he had a damned good reason for coming late, the same could not be said of her and she took on like she was standing out front of the Fair Lady for the full half hour.
‘Here, what’re you looking at me like that for?’ Babsy asked as he gripped her wrist and sat down on one of the packing cases. ‘What’s the gam—Oh no! Waco, you wouldn’t—Eeeyow!’
With a jerk, Waco brought the little girl belly down across his knee. He could see that the bustle would impede his actions, so hauled up her frock’s skirt and shoved the figure-improver out of the way, exposing the short-legged black drawers, two strips of white thigh streaked with black suspender straps, and black stockinged legs. It made a pretty sight if Waco had felt like admiring the view. Instead of admiring, he ignored it. The hard palm of his hand rose and fell in a rhythmic tattoo on the appropriate part of Babsy’s anatomy and to the accompaniment of her squeals of pain. Finally he set her down on her feet and rose.
‘Goodnight,’ he said.
Sniffing down her tears, rubbing her rump and adjusting her clothes, Babsy stared after the departing youngster. Then she took a step forward, stumbled and gave a little wail.
‘Oooh! My ankle. Waco, I hurt my ankle!’
Coming back, Waco caught the girl and supported her. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Oooer! I don’t think I can walk on it Can you help me back home?’
Scooping the girl into his arms, he carried her behind the houses to the rear of the Fair Lady Saloon. Babsy took her key to the rear door from her vanity bag, forgetting that she had lost her parasol when the cowhands took her into the alley. Still cradled in Waco’s arms, she opened the door and then curled her arms around his neck again, snuggling her face against his shoulder. After locking the door on the inside, she let Waco carry her up to and into her room. Reaching over his shoulder, she closed and bolted the door after them.
Ten minutes later a female Cockney voice might have been heard to say, ‘Coo-er! You haven’t half got a lot of hair on your chest.’
And a male Texas voice answered, ‘You haven’t any on yours.’
Another part of Waco’s education was being completed.