‘My people are not getting the food the white-eye nantati promised us.’
The young Apache boy stood erect and proud, looking at the mocking faces of the three big white men before him.
Phil Weiland, Reservation Agent for the San Carlos Apaches, grinned at the two burly, hard-looking men at his back, then glanced at the other loungers who were looking on.
‘Is that right?’ he sneered. ‘Are you saying we starve you red heathen?’
The young Apache looked at each face in turn, reading the mockery and hatred on them. These three men who controlled the reservation and who held the key to starvation for his people hated the Apaches.
‘The wagon which came from you brought only three sacks of flour and one piece of worthless meat. It was not what we were promised when we made peace with the white eyes.’
Gratton, the taller and heavier of the two men, moved forward, thrusting his unshaven face towards the Apache.
‘Why should we feed you damned heathen savages when the Apache Kid is up in the hills murdering white folks.’
There was a rumble of approval at this from the watching crowd, for three times a white man had been found dead, killed by an Apache, and word went round blaming the Apache Kid, last, savagest and most deadly of all the Indian renegades.
‘That is not the word of truth,’ the Apache boy shook his head. ‘The Apache Kid is far from here and has not been near the reservation for many suns.’
Gratton lunged forward, a big fist smashing up into the boy’s face, knocking him to the ground. The big man lunged forward, drawing back his foot and snarling, ‘Call me a liar would you?’
The boy rolled under the kick, hands shooting up and caught Gratton’s foot, heaving it up into the air. The big man roared in rage and crashed over on to his back. He lit down turning the air blue with curses, his hand going to the gun at his side, drawing it.
‘Leather it, pronto!’
The words came from Gratton’s side and were backed by the clicking sound of a Colt gun coming to full cock.
Gratton obeyed the order, the tone it was given in warning him the speaker was not fooling. Then he got to his feet and turned to see who’d intervened. Three tall men stood looking at him with expressions of dislike such as he rarely encountered. One of the trio he recognized right off, the big good-looking deputy sheriff of Cochise County, Billy Breakenridge. The other two were Texans by their dress. One a tall, handsome blond boy in good range clothes, with a matched brace of Colt Artillery Peacemakers and low-tied holsters to his buscadero gunbelt. The other was not quite so tall, nor so wide shouldered: a pallid faced, studious-looking young man. His range clothes were plain, good quality and the short coat he wore had the right side stitched back to leave clear access to the ivory butt on the Colt Civilian Peacemaker in the low-tied holster at his right side.
It was the taller of the two Texans who held the gun on them, waiting for his order to be complied with, a hard twist to his lips as he went on:
‘Dead game against a button.’
Gratton scowled, shoving his gun back into leather again and getting to his feet. ‘Folks hereabouts don’t take to Injun lovers.’
The Texan’s gun went back to its holster in a smooth flip that warned Gratton that here was master of the triggernometry arts and one who would be well able to handle the best play he, Gratton, could offer.
‘And I don’t take to a yeller skunk forcing a fight on a yearling button not half his size, be the young ’un red, black, white or green with blue spots.’
In this raw frontier hamlet Gratton was acknowledged one of the tough citizens. He had a reputation to consider. So he considered and put aside thoughts of gunplay to end this matter as being unsafe and plain loco. There was another course left open to him.
Swinging a roundhouse punch at the Texan, Gratton expected to catch him by surprise: the only surprise was the one Gratton got. He was big and strong, but not skilled in the refinements of the fistic arts, relying on brawn. The Texan was also big and strong, and the way he acted showed he was also a skilled fist fighter.
His left deflected the wild punch over his shoulder, then his right drove with the full weight of his powerful young body right into Gratton’s middle. There was an explosive grunt from Gratton, who doubled over, his face turning grayish green. On the tail of the right, and brought up with a speed which augured badly for any man who tried matching him with a gun, the Texan’s left lashed into Gratton’s down-dropping jaw, the knuckles landing on the jaw with a click like the meeting of two king-sized billiard balls coming together. Then as Gratton straightened out again the right came across, smashing into his jaw and spinning him round to crash into the hitching rail. For a moment Gratton hung there, then his knees buckled up and he crashed down on to his face.
Weiland stared down at Gratton, looked up at the young Texan, then at Breakenridge and shouted, ‘Arrest him.’
‘Why?’ Breakenridge answered. ‘The way I saw it I should be taking Gratton in. What he was doing looked like attempted murder to me. This here’s Waco and Doc Leroy of the Rangers.’
Waco looked Weiland over in disgust as he worked his knuckles which ached from the contact with Gratton’s jaw.
‘We’ve been sent up here because your crowd at Tucson wants an investigation into the three Indian killings. Why’s the hard man set on the button?’
‘He reckoned we was robbing his tribe of their supplies,’ Weiland answered.
‘And weren’t you?’ Doc Leroy asked.
Weiland and Dugdale, the other tough, looked at each other, then at Doc but neither took any noticeable offence at this question. That could have been because of a feeling of goodwill and Christian charity. It could also have been because in the matters of triggernometry Doc Leroy was by repute even faster with a gun than his chain lightning fast partner, Waco.
‘Hell, Gratton was only fixing in to throw a scare into the Apache.’ Weiland was not used to backing down and the feeling hurt. ‘Coming here accusing us of robbing him and his bunch. These gents here,’ he waved a hand to the bunch of loafers who were gathered round, ‘saw what I sent out. So did Breakenridge.’
The deputy nodded reluctantly. ‘I saw it. Checked it the last two times to make sure. The wagon was loaded with the right amount both times.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Breck,’ Waco answered, giving the loafers a withering look. ‘But I wouldn’t believe this bunch happen they told me Monday came a day after Sunday.’
There was an annoyed rumble in the crowd at this remark but none of them there going to make more than annoyed rumblings at a man like Waco of the Rangers.
‘We supply again tomorrow,’ Weiland sneered. ‘You’d better come down and make sure we don’t rob your friends.’ Waco’s hands took hold of the lapels of the Indian Agent’s coat and dragged him forward. The young Texan thrust his face up close and in a tone as mean as the snarl of the starving grizzly said:
‘Mister, I handled your hired hard man with no trouble at all. I’d expect even less with you. So don’t rile me or open your mouth about me like that again. You do I’ll close it with a Justin, spur and all.’
With a contemptuous thrust of his arms Waco sent the man staggering back and Weiland hit the hitching rail. He was angry but managed to hold down the anger and say: ‘No offence, Ranger. You come and watch us load the wagon before we go.’
‘We’ll do just that, hombre,’ Waco agreed, then turned back to Breakenridge. ‘Like to see you down at the office.’ The County Sheriff maintained a small office and jail in Tannack. It was only a small place and for the most part unoccupied. Only when Sheriff Behan or one of his deputies came this way for some purpose was the building in use. It was kept fairly Clean by the swamper from the saloon, although he was not strong on dusting.
Billy Breakenridge waved the two Rangers into chairs and took a seat facing them. He looked round the room, seeing that no one had been in here for some time now and promising to go and have a long talk with the swamper who was getting paid to clean up. Then he sat back and listened to Waco telling why they were here. Some of it he knew, the rest he did not.
The Apache Kid was on the rampage, or so the rumors went. Three times he struck near the San Carlos Reservation. The first time he killed a rancher and drove off his horses. The second time he stampeded a herd of cattle at a ranch house and killed the owner who came out to try and stop them. Last time it was the most infamous of all for he wiped out yet another rancher, his wife and small child. The outcry was raised by that bloodthirsty Indian-hating crowd, asking for reprisals to be taken against the Apaches and the Territory Governor to send word to Mosehan, Captain of the Rangers. The word brought Waco and Doc in from a fruitless search for an absconding bank teller and sent them to Tannack and the San Carlos Reservation.
‘You all got a map of the Territory, Breck?’ Waco asked at last.
‘Sure,’ Breakenridge opened a desk drawer and took out a folded map of the San Carlos Reservation and the surrounding districts.
Spreading out the sheet Waco looked down at it, reading the map and seeing in his mind’s eye the country it covered. His finger traced several watercourses after Breakenridge showed him the locations of the three places where the Apache Kid made his kills.
‘There’s something funny about those three ranches where the Kid hit,’ Waco finally remarked.
Doc and Breakenridge looked at the unsmiling young Ranger. ‘You’ve got a real strange sense of humor, boy,’ the deputy remarked.
‘Sure. I see funny things, like the Kid killing a man down here on Wednesday and being seen again on Thursday.’
‘What’s funny about that?’
‘He was seen right over the New Mexico line, that’s near two hundred miles from here. Did anybody see the Kid here. Anybody who knew him, I mean?’
‘Not that I know of. I took old Scratching Jack, that half-breed tracker, out with me and he talked when he got back about a lone hand Injun. Then some damned fool started yelling about the Apache Kid. You sure it was the Apache Kid over on the border?’
‘Me?’ Waco looked mildly at Breakenridge. ‘I ain’t sure of anything where Apaches are concerned. The man who saw the Kid, he was sure. He knows Apaches and knows the Kid real good. See, it was Tom Horn who saw the Kid. Would have got him too except the Kid shot his hoss from under him.’
That was puzzling to Breakenridge for he knew Tom Horn well enough. Horn knew the Apaches as only a man who lived with them could. He could never make a mistake over a thing like that and would not say he’d seen the Apache Kid just for the sake of sensationalism.
‘What does it mean?’
‘It means the Kid either rode the fastest relay ever heard of, covered two hundred miles in a night, or some damned bronco Apache is trying to steal his reputation. You think anything about the three places he hit at?’
‘No, why?’
They control all the water in this section between them.’
Breakenridge came round the desk and bent over the map, reading it and seeing that what Waco said was the truth: the three ranches would control all the water in this section and over most of the Apache reservation too.
‘What do you think it means he asked.
‘I don’t know, happen we can send a telegraph message to Cap’n Mosehan we might have a better idea.’
‘You can do that. Come on, I’ll take you to the post office.’
~*~
The following morning Waco, Doc and Breakenridge went along to the Indian Agency building and stood watching Weiland’s men loading a wagon. This wagon was an eye-catching sight. Its canopy was white with the letters, SAN CARLOS INDIAN AGENCY, painted on in two-foot high red letters. The team pulling the wagon were all big blacks, fine horses from the look of them.
For a time Waco and Doc stood watching the men working. Gratton and Dugdale scowled at them but did not say anything, once was enough where they were concerned. Weiland came over with a list in his hands, offering it to Waco.
‘That’s what we’re allowed to give them; you can see it’s all there.’
Waco stepped forward and looked at the sacks of flour which were being loaded. They, like the other supplies, appeared to be all right so he climbed down again. ‘Looks all right this time,’ he remarked.
Breakenridge nodded. ‘It looked that way when I checked but old Chief Hawk came the next day and told me he’d not been sent his supplies.’
‘Those damned Indians are always lying,’ Weiland snorted.
‘Comes of associating with you Indian Affairs men, I’d say,’ Doc put in, then pointed to the wagon. ‘Why so loud?’
‘To let the Apaches know who we are,’ Weiland replied. ‘There was an agency wagon attacked by the Mimbreños. They say they thought it was a trespasser and they went for it. The Bureau sent word that all the wagons had to be painted like this so that there was no chance of the same mistake being made.’
‘Stands out like licorice on a snowdrift,’ Waco said thoughtfully, then as they walked away. ‘Have you ever followed them to make sure they don’t change wagons, Breck, or been on the reservation when the wagon was unloaded?’
‘I followed them once, kept well back so they didn’t know I was following and went right to the edge of the reservation. I couldn’t go any further; Cochise County ends there at the edge, so I never managed to get out and seen one unloaded. But you boys can follow it, county lines don’t mean a thing to you.’
‘We’ll do that,’ Waco agreed. ‘I hope Weiland forgets we can cross county lines and go on to the Indian reservation land.’
‘Who’d they sell the supplies to, if they are short rationing the Apaches?’ Doc inquired. ‘I can’t see them doing it for laughs or meanness.’
‘Miners in the hills, some of the rustler gangs.’
‘Miners, lone hand or two at most, and the Apache Kid goes for a ranch house where he’s likely to hit more than he can handle,’ Waco remarked. ‘Breck, when the answer to my message gets here, hang on to it and don’t let the post office man talk.’
~*~
The wagon left town, headed along the well-worn trail towards the reservation, driven by Gratton, with Dugdale by his side. They did not look back but they knew they were being followed. Gratton had suggested that they get out of town and then lay for the Rangers, but Weiland squashed the idea right away. He did not doubt the willingness of his two men to commit murder, but he did doubt their ability to get away with it against Waco and his slim, deadly partner, Doc Leroy.
‘Kill them,’ he was too wise to show the doubts, ‘and every other damned Ranger in the Territory will be here, just looking for us and ready for war. They won’t leave until they’ve got the men who killed their pards. And we don’t want any more law round here than we can avoid.’
So Gratton and Dugdale drove their wagon and told each other what they would do to Waco and Doc if they ever got them without their Ranger badges, which was futile, because a Territorial Ranger did not wear a badge. The two toughs contented themselves with the knowledge that they would fool this pair just as they had fooled the others who tried to explain away the missing supplies. The two Rangers would follow them to the end of the reservation, where their jurisdiction ended, then return to town, satisfied that the Apaches would get full measure this time.
Waco and Doc rode at an easy pace, some distance behind the wagon. They knew that Gratton and Dugdale were aware of their presence but did not let it worry them at all. The two toughs were not the kind who could worry a pair of handy Texas gents like Waco and Doc, not even if they planned to lay in wait. In fact, any lying in waiting done by the likes of Gratton or Dugdale would finish with them laying more permanently.
Riding easily afork his big paint stallion Waco looked down at the hoofmarks left by the team ahead of them. From his good friend, the Ysabel Kid, Waco had learned how to read sign and he liked to keep in practice at all times. The four horses were leaving clear sign and he noticed the off leader carried a barred horseshoe on its near foreleg. He knew that from his examination he would be able to pick out the horse amongst a dozen others.
They were drawing close to the reservation, which lay behind a section of thickly wooded country. The reservation edge was bounded by a small stream about half a mile beyond the woods.
Where the trail ran into the woods the ground took a dip and the wooded area itself thinned down to a stretch not more than half a mile wide at most. But when the wagon passed down into this dip it was out of sight.
‘Let’s go,’ Waco ordered, ‘I don’t like that wagon being out of sight.’
‘Sure,’ Doc agreed and applied the persuasion of a Mr. Kelly petmaker to the side of his big black stallion. Before they got near to the woods the wagon was in plain view again at the other side, its team of blacks and its white, red lettered sides showing clearly against the dull reddish brown of the trail.
The reservation ford was made by the wagon even as Waco and Doc, riding at a fair speed, went through the woods. However, Waco did not want to go right up to the Apache camp so he and Doc reined into the woods and waited until the wagon came back again.
The wickiups of the Apaches were about half a mile across the border stream, a fair sized village. There were hostile looks from the men and women as the two young Texans rode in. Waco and Doc found the reason soon enough. Instead of the neat and large supply of food loaded into the wagon at Tannack only a small, miserable heap of moldy flour sacks and some flyblown meat lay thrown on to the ground.
There were angry rumblings in the crowd as the two Texans brought their horses to a halt and a short, stocky man with graying hair and the red headband of a chief came up, his face working angrily.
‘I am Chief Hawk,’ he said in fair English. ‘What do you come here for?’
‘We came to see what supplies the Agent sent you,’ Waco answered, speaking in Apache.
The Chief looked at the young man who spoke the Apache tongue, then the boy Waco had saved in town came to the side of the chief and spoke to him quickly. Chief Hawk relaxed as he listened, then with his hand on the shoulder of the boy, said, ‘I thank you for saving the young one’s life.’
‘Thanks aren’t needed,’ Waco replied, looking at the pile of supplies. He looked at Doc, ‘When do you figure they made the swap?’
Before Doc could answer there was another interruption. A party of young Apache braves came into the camp with one of their number hanging across his saddle, a rough rag tied around his leg, but blood flowing freely from under it. They helped the wounded man down and laid him on the ground. Doc swung from his horse and went forward, pushing through the braves to bend down and examine the terrible gash in the man’s lower leg.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
Through the Chief, Waco got the story. The man was part of a hunting party and had slipped into a ravine, tearing his leg on the way down. What other injuries he might have suffered were not apparent and the other braves did not seem to care. Doc bent down, finding from his examination that the man had broken a couple of ribs in the fall and that the bouncing ride on the back of the horse had not improved his condition.
‘Get him inside some place,’ Doc ordered. The Apache braves stood still and would not obey until Chief Hawk snapped an order. ‘I’ll fix him up, best I can, boy. You stay here for a spell.’
Waco nodded in agreement at this, for he knew Doc’s temper was liable to be a mite touchy when doing anything like this and was best steered well clear of until he was finished. So while Doc went to do what he could for the injured Apache, Waco strolled round the camp. The word of how he’d saved the young Apache boy in town appeared to have gone round, for there were smiles and cheerful greetings for him as he walked along.
Making for the edge of the camp Waco wondered who the boy was, for the Chief called him Son of My Brother, meaning he was adopted. Halting, the young man looked towards the woods wondering how the change had been made in there, for that was where it must have been made. Yet there had not been time to change all that food in the brief time the wagon was out of sight.
Then Waco stopped as if he’d walked into a wall. He was standing in the center of the trail, looking down at the multitude of hoofmarks in it. Then amongst the shoeless Apache pony sign he saw the marks left by shod horses. The marks of his paint and Doc’s black were there but he ignored them, for he knew them as well as he knew his own face. There were other shod horse tracks there, a team of four.
It was not the same team which pulled the wagon when it left Tannack. The horse with the barred shoe was no longer there.
‘It’s as easy as that,’ Waco said to himself.
It was easy when a man knew what to look for. The wagon went into the woods and while out of sight came on to a second agency wagon, the change was made and the supply wagon pulled off into the woods out of sight while the replacement, with its load of near worthless food, went on. A man following at a distance would see the wagon go into the woods and at the other side see apparently the same wagon come out. The white canopy with the red letters and the team of big black horses would apparently come out again in such a short time that there would be no suspicions of it being exchanged.
Waco turned and went back into the camp, collecting his big paint stallion and leaving word that he would meet his partner in town. He rode out along the trail, this time watching more carefully. At the ford in the small stream he saw the clear imprint of the wagon team tracks and saw he was right; there was no horse with a barred shoe in the sign.
In the woods he kept his attention on the ground and soon found where the second wagon pulled off the main trail and along a smaller, almost concealed track. Since they’d gone by, someone had been busy with a piece of branch, sweeping over the tracks and obliterating any sign of where the supply wagon went. Waco took the big paint into the woods, looking for and finding a small clearing. Here he stripped the saddle and bridle from the big paint, put them under a tree and left the horse standing loose, grazing. He slipped into the woods, moving to, but not on, the trail used by the exchanged supply wagon.
He moved fast and in silence, watching the trail all the time. Then he halted, freezing behind a tree and standing without a movement Ahead of him the woods opened into a large clearing and at the far side it, almost surrounded by trees, stood a small cabin. In front of the cabin were the two wagons and a couple of horses. Weiland, Gratton and Dugdale came from the cabin and stepped up to one of the wagons, looking inside. Waco dropped his hand to the butt of his gun and was about to step forward when he heard a slight noise from behind him. He started to swing round when something smashed down on to his head and everything went black.
~*~
Waco opened his eyes and groaned, shaking his head. He tried to move his hands but could not. For a few moments it did not sink into his mind that he was tied up, seated with his back to a small tree, hands lashed together behind the trunk. It was night now and in the flickering light of a big fire and the light of the moon he could see Gratton, Weiland and an Apache seated against the side of the wagon. A noise to his left brought Waco’s head round. He looked at Dugdale who gave him a savage grin, then called.
‘He’s woke up boss.’
Gratton lurched to his feet. He’d got Waco’s gunbelt swung round his shoulder, and he came across and looked down at the young Ranger.
‘I owe you something,’ he said and drew back his right foot.
Waco’s left foot hooked round behind Gratton’s left ankle, the right foot against Gratton’s knee, then pushed hard. With a yell Gratton went over on to his back, landing heavily. He came up with a snarl and lunged forward. Weiland jumped in, grabbing the man and holding him.
‘Cut it out, you damned fool,’ he roared. ‘Gratton, quit it.’
With all his strength, Waco kicked up, his boot smashing in between Gratton’s legs, driving home with agonizing and all but crippling power. Gratton gave a scream of tortured agony and doubled over, clutching his injured body. He dropped to his knees, face ashy pale and drawn in lines of agony. For a moment, Waco thought Weiland would jump him and tensed to defend himself, but the agent shook his head, stood back and told Dugdale to help Gratton back to the fire.
‘Do you know why I stopped Gratton kicking you to death?’
‘Sure,’ Waco replied, watching the startled expression on the man’s face.
‘You do, huh?’
‘Why sure. You know that when you kill me there’s going to be an investigation by every Ranger in the Territory. If there’s one small slip-up they’ll be on to your foot, hoss and artillery. What they’ll do to you then won’t be fit for a man to think about.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m going to be another Apache Kid killing, I reckon. That buck there isn’t the Kid. He’s the one who’s been doing all the killing for you and that Eastern syndicate that’s offering stocks in a cattle company that takes in most of this strip?’
Weiland’s face showed more than surprise now. ‘You know all about that?’
‘Sure. The folks running the syndicate are going to be in for bad trouble if they can’t offer the land for sale. The three places the Kid made his kills at control the water hereabouts. I sent to ask Cap’n Mosehan to check on who owns the places now, or if they were sold, to find out who bought them. You’re going to let the Apache kill me and make it look like an Apache Kid killing again, figger that’ll rile the others of Cap’n Bert’s men to say they forget anything but investigating my killing. I hope you get away with it.’
‘We will, don’t you worry any about that. We will.’ Weiland rose and went to where a saddled horse stood waiting for him. He was about to mount when he asked, ‘How did you get on to us?’
‘You’ve got a hoss with a barred horseshoe in one team and not in the other.’
‘Does your partner know about it?’
‘Why sure,’ Waco answered cheerfully, knowing Doc was fully capable of taking care of himself.
‘I don’t think he does,’ Weiland swung afork his horse. ‘I’m going to town and if I think he does know I’m afraid there’ll be two dead Rangers, not one.’
Weiland rode off into the darkness along the trail and for a time all was silent. Dugdale sat watching his groaning partner and the Apache hunched down on his haunches, black eyes all the time on the young Ranger. Suddenly the Apache came to his feet and walked towards Waco, looking down.
‘Why did you come here to the San Carlos Reservation?’
‘To hunt for the man who was killing and blaming the Apache Kid.’
‘That is me, Toya. I killed all the men that the white-eyes say Cabrito killed.’
‘I knew that, the Kid is a warrior, not a killer of women and children.’
The Apache grinned, his dark face fiat and expressionless. ‘You talk well, white-eye, I will see if you can die well, too. Many times will I make you cry before I kill you. Then I will leave you at the edge of the reservation.’
‘One day the Apache Kid will find you, killer of women,’ Waco answered, his voice mocking. ‘Then you will cry many times.’
‘That day I will kill him and sell his head to the white-eye soldiers,’ Toya scoffed. ‘The Kid is a little boy fresh from horse herding. I am a warrior.’
Standing up, the Apache walked away and joined the other men at the fire. Time dragged by and Waco worked desperately trying to free his hands. He knew that the Apache would be coming for him soon and wanted to have a fighting chance.
Then Waco felt something cold touch his wrist and the cords part under the edge of a razor-sharp knife. He was about to move when a hand gripped his wrist and a deep voice hissed, ‘Wait!’
Something hard touched Waco’s hand, his exploring fingers ran over smooth wood and made out the shape of a rifle butt. Slowly he moved his hands along the wood, knowing that this was his own rifle here. He could tell by the feel for he knew that rifle well. Sitting as if he was still tied, he waited, watching the men at the fire.
Gratton got to his feet. He still looked shaken by the kick and his hatred of Waco was not lessened any by taking it. ‘Let’s go, Toya. I want to hear him scream some afore you finish him off.’
The other two rose and Waco waited, wondering if his rescuer meant to take any more part in the proceedings.
‘Supaway John?’ a voice called from the darkness, giving the traditional call an Indian made when entering a white man’s camp looking for a handout.
A tall, wide shouldered Apache came into the light of the fire. He wore the usual buckskin shirt and trousers and the long-legged Apache moccasins. Around his head was the red band of a chief and across the crook of his arm he held an old Winchester ’66 carbine.
Gratton and Dugdale looked at the Apache with no great interest, for they were used to having Indians come in like this begging for food. Toya stared at the other Apache for a moment, then with his hand grabbing for the old Dragoon revolver in his waistband, he shouted:
The Kid!’
Like a rattler striking, the tall Apache moved. His old yellow boy flowed from the crook of his arm and levered three shots into Toya’s belly so fast the reports merged into one blur of sound and movement. It was done so fast that neither Gratton nor Dugdale had a chance to make any move at all.
Waco came to his feet with a bound, hand gripping the Winchester at the small of the butt and throwing it forward. His hands were stiff but he still moved fast enough. Held hip high the heavy rifle roared, throwing a four hundred and five grain flat-nosed bullet into Gratton’s body, knocking him off his feet and into Dugdale even as he was trying to throw down on the Apache Kid.
Round swung the muzzle of the carbine and spat, once. Dugdale rocked backwards, a hole between his eyes.
Flipping open the lever of his rifle Waco walked forward and rolled Gratton on to his back. The man was as dead as one could be with what appeared to be half of his right side blown away. Looking up at the Apache Waco nodded and said:
‘My thanks, red brother.’
‘You saved my brother’s life, Ranger,’ the other replied in a deep-throated growl. ‘Your friend saved an Apache in the village. I have repaid my debt to you.’
Waco bent and took up his gunbelt, checking that the guns and holsters were not dirty. When he looked up again he was alone with the three bodies. The Apache Kid was gone in complete silence. Waco lifted a hand in a silent tribute and then turned and went back along the tracks, looking for his horse.
~*~
‘I tell you, boys,’ Weiland looked at the crowded saloon in the cold grey light of dawn. ‘We’ve got to do something about these Apaches. The Ranger who went out to the reservation is dead. I found his body out there, just over the reservation border.’
Doc Leroy looked up, his face showing none of the anxiety he was feeling: Waco should have been back long before now. Of course the young man could look after himself and would stick on to whatever he found until he followed it to an end, and somehow Doc could not bring himself to believe anything could happen to Waco. He also did not believe that Weiland had found his pard’s body and left it where it was to prove the killing took place on the reservation.
‘You said wait until dawn, Ranger,’ a man spoke up. ‘It’s near enough dawn right now. If the Apache Kid is around here he must be hiding with them Apaches on the reservation. Now I don’t say as how we should go in there shooting, but I allow we ought to take a posse out there, see if your pard is dead or not and then search every wickiup in the village.’
There was a rumble of approval at this from the other men. They’d been here most of the night and Weiland’s arrival nearly sparked off trouble. Doc and Breakenridge were now trying to hold the men from going out to the reservation and either searching or attacking the Apaches.
‘You know what’ll happen if you try it, Neal,’ Breakenridge put in. ‘They won’t let us make the search and there’ll be shooting.’
‘And then the Apaches’ll be cleared off that reservation by the Army,’ Doc went on. ‘Throwing all that land open for sale.’
‘Is that bad?’ the man called Neal asked. ‘I could use some more land.’
‘You won’t get it. An Eastern syndicate is selling shares in a land and cattle company out there that covers every inch of reservation, including those three spreads where the Kid hit and damned near all of the neighboring ones.’ Neal looked at Doc for a moment. He was a rancher, running a small place on the edge of the reservation. ‘I ain’t selling my place.’
‘Mister,’ Doc sounded mocking. ‘You won’t need to sell out. They’ve already bought the three places and those three—’
‘Control all the water,’ Neal did not need that explained to him.
‘That’s right,’ Breakenridge agreed. ‘They control all the water. The only thing that’s stopping them moving right in and taking over is that Apache reservation. If the Apaches are driven out that land is offered for sale. The land company gets it. Just you boys think about that.’
‘What’s all that mean?’ another man asked.
‘It means, friend, that those Eastern company men need the Apache land. When they get it they can force every one of you out of your places. They’ve already started to sell shares in that company—’
‘I don’t know how you can stand there talking when your pard is laying dead out there on the reservation.’
‘Gents,’ the voice came from the door. ‘You’re looking at the best looking ghost in Arizona.’
Weiland and every man stared at the door. The Indian Agent recovered first. He leapt down from the table where he’d been arguing with the crowd and ran across the room to the other door, throwing it open. Then he screamed. Outside stood a tall, wide shouldered Apache Weiland knew all too well.
Slamming the door Weiland hoped to save his life, but from outside the Winchester carbine cracked twice, two holes leaping in the wood. Weiland stood erect for a moment, then turned and crashed down on to the ground.
The other men came to their feet, shouting and drawing guns. Waco’s voice cut over the noise, bringing silence to the crowd.
‘All of you, listen to me. The Apache Kid didn’t kill those three men. A buck called Toya did it. He’s dead, so are Gratton and Dugdale.’
‘So?’ a man asked, jerking a thumb towards the door. ‘Let’s go after that Apache who just downed Weiland.’.
‘Why sure,’ Waco replied, ‘go right ahead. That was the Apache Kid. He saved my life and killed Toya.’
There was a lamentable lack of willingness amongst the men to go after the Apache Kid. Not one of them wanted to go out there first in case the Kid was waiting in ambush.
‘The Kid didn’t do the killings; he couldn’t have killed the Randals,’ it was Breakenridge who spoke. ‘From what Waco told me I sent a wire to Tom Horn. He saw the Kid over near the New Mexico line morning after the Randals died.’
Every man here was a horseman and knew that horse or relay team was never foaled which could run that distance in the hours of one night.
‘What’re we going to do now, Waco?’ Doc asked. ‘The Kid’s sign is fresh out there.’
‘We were sent to get the man who killed those three. We got him. Let some other team hunt for the Kid. He saved my life and I owe him for that.’