Waco's Badge (5 page)

“Damn it!” Doc breathed, when there was no re
sistance to his actions and the eyelids separated instead of contracting; as would have happened in the case of even a heavy stupor. What was more, despite suddenly being subjected to the bright light of the sun—which should have caused the muscular ring known as the “iris” to shrink and the size of the pupil to diminish—they remained immobile. “It's a deep coma for sure, likely with a fracture to the skull.”

Releasing the eyelids, Doc glanced to satisfy himself that the teeth of the guard were natural. If they had been false, they would have needed to be taken out before he did anything else. Then, as the breathing remained quiet, he removed and folded his jacket to make an extemporized pillow. Raising the head and shoulders slightly, with it as a support, he turned the former so the injured side was uppermost. As he did so, he was ready to modify the position if the breathing became in any way difficult or obstructed.

Moving his seemingly boneless hands with great care, the Texan ran the tip of the right forefinger along the contused ridge. With a sensation of relief, he found no irregularity and concluded there was a chance his fear of a fracture might be misplaced. Gambling upon this proving the case, he gave his attention to the jaw. In addition to being badly swollen and bruised where the punch had landed, his gently questing fingers felt the crepitus caused by the broken section of the bone grating against one another. The extreme depth of the coma was further indicated by the complete lack of response from Eckland to the
treatment. However, an examination of the mouth proved the tongue was not cut. Nor was the extent of the damage so severe, as might have happened if the injury was caused by a bullet, that it was liable to slip back and impede breathing.

For all the positive results acquired by his scrutiny, Doc did not for a moment consider he was faced with a sinecure!

The Texan was engaged in the kind of a situation where, lacking the aids to diagnosis which would be available to a later generation, a doctor in the late 1870s—particularly on the great range country west of the Mississippi River—had to rely upon his knowledge, judgment and instincts!

While he had not qualified, Doc had to reach a decision regarding treatment upon which the life of another human being could depend!

If he was correct about the extent of the damage caused by the barrel of the pistol, Doc could bandage the broken jaw. To do so, should the skull be fractured, would apply a pressure and compression to the former injury, no matter how carefully he applied the bandages, which could prove fatal. On the other hand, if left unsecured, the journey to the nearest town would offer opportunities for further damage to the jaw which could prove just as fatal as an incorrect summation regarding the condition of the skull.

A lesser man might have called upon Tract, as Eckland's friend, Waco, or the passengers of the stagecoach, for an opinion!

That was not the way in which the late Eldridge Jason Leroy, M.D., had taught his son to behave!

The decision was for Doc and Doc alone to take!

“Damn it, Sir John, why couldn't you have been a storekeeper instead of a doctor?” the slender Texan mused wryly, employing the sobriquet by which his father had been known to differentiate between himself, “Lil Doc.” Opening the black bag, he lifted out a roll of wide white bandage and went on, “Life would surely be more easy for me if you had!”

“I'
VE COME UP ON YOU AT LAST, YOU MURDERING
son-of-a-bitch!”

Hearing the words as he was dismounting from his big and, at present, hard ridden bay gelding at four-thirty in the afternoon, Major Bertram Mosehan looked around. What he saw gave warning that, even if such provocative words were ever intended to be part of rough cowhand horseplay, their current intent was in deadly earnest. For all that, he was at a loss to decide why they were being directed his way.

Considering to whom it was being uttered, there were many people in Arizona Territory and elsewhere throughout the United States of America who would have thought the words extremely ill-advised!

Tall, wide shouldered, in his early forties, Mosehan bore himself with the straight backed posture of a professional soldier. Moderately handsome, sun bronzed, his mouth was firm and shielded by a close clipped brown moustache. A touch of gray at his temples gave a maturity to a strong countenance which indicated he was not a man with whom it would be safe to trifle. He had on a tan Stetson with a “Montana crown” peak, a waist length brown leather jacket, dark green shirt, blue bandana and yellowish brown Nankeen trousers tucked carefully into the tops of black Hessian leg riding boots. About his waist was a broad black belt with a United States Cavalry buckle. A Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker was butt forward in its high riding, flap topped military holster on the right side. Such a rig offered excellent protection from the elements for the weapon, but did not grant unhindered accessibility should it be required urgently.

After a creditable and honorable career in the Army of the United States, rising to the rank of major in the Cavalry,
¹
Mosehan had resigned his commission to become manager of the already extensive Hashknife ranch in Arizona. As was the case during his military service, he had acquired a reputation for being honest and scrupulously fair in his dealings
with others, but
very
strict when in contention with those who transgressed upon him or any property for which he was responsible.

Although the major was ostensibly visiting Marana to participate in a forthcoming sale of livestock, he had another reason. He had been requested by his employers to go to the town and meet with a Mr. Edward Jervis, but they had given no further information. Accepting that the matter must be of importance, he had made the journey as quickly as possible. What was more, on his arrival, he had made his way directly to the Pima County Hotel—where he had been told the man he was coming to see could be found—instead of first going to leave his horse at the livery barn. With the sale commencing the following morning, the small town was busy and clearly had numerous visitors. However, while passing along the main street and crossing the Spanish style
plaza
upon which the hotel stood—as did most of the main buildings—he had seen nobody he recognized from elsewhere.

Although failing to identify him, looking at the speaker, Mosehan had no doubt what he was. Tallish, lean, with shoulder long black hair and a vicious, unshaven face, his clothing was that of a cowhand. However, if the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker he wore tied down and low heeled boots were any indication, any work he had been hired to do on a ranch was unlikely to have included handling the cattle. He was, unless the major guessed wrong, a hired gun fighter if not one of the top class.

“Have you?” Mosehan said quietly, his accent that of a Kansan; albeit one who had spent much of his life outside the State. Noticing that those people closest were backing away from what showed signs of developing into a most dangerous area, he stepped away from his horse to avoid putting it in jeopardy if—as seemed very likely—gunplay should take place. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

“You killed my brother,” the man claimed, speaking louder than was necessary for just the major to hear.

“I did?” Mosehan queried, keeping his hands by his sides to prevent making anything which could be construed as a hostile gesture.

“Not personal, with your own hands,” the man answered, right fist hovering over the butt of his revolver and eyes flickering to the closed flap of the holster worn by the major. “You didn't have the guts for that, so you got him hung for something you knowed damned well he didn't do.”

“What was his name?” Mosehan asked.

During his Army service, circumstances had compelled the major to have three men hanged; but he was certain each had been guilty of the crimes with which they were charged!

“Joe Benedict,” the man replied.

“Benedict?”
Mosehan repeated, frowning in puzzlement. “I've never even
met
anybody called ‘Benedict'.”

“Liar!” the man shouted and grabbed for his gun.

Instead of trying to unfasten and open the flap of the Cavalry pattern holster, the major sent his right hand upward and across to the left. Passing beneath his unbuttoned jacket, it made a grasping and twisting motion. Then it emerged, holding a short barrelled Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver.

Confident that he had an unbeatable edge with his open topped fast draw rig, the man was startled by the unanticipated reaction from his intended victim. It caused him to hesitate for a vitally important instant in his otherwise rapidly flowing draw. When he resumed the movement of his right hand, such was his sense of haste, he over compensated. Although his Colt came clear and roared, the bullet missed its mark.

Showing no sign of being deterred or disconcerted by the lead passing so close he felt its wind on his cheek, Mosehan lined up the weapon he had produced. Thumbing back the hammer with the deft ease of long practice, as was required by the single action mechanism, he squeezed the trigger when satisfied with his instinctive chest high alignment. Flame and smoke erupted from the muzzle. Shot between the eyes, in testimony to his ability, the man twirled and, letting fall the Peacemaker, sprawled face downward on to the ground.

“By the gunsmith's, Major!” yelled a husky yet carrying masculine voice which sounded familiar. “Get down!”

Without waiting to find out whether he was cor
rect in his assumption over the identity of the speaker, seeing a man carrying a Winchester rifle coming from the alley between the gunsmith's shop and another building, Mosehan carried out the advice. He realized, however, he was still in considerable danger regardless of the warning. Something over thirty yards separated them; a distance giving a shoulder arm a distinct advantage over a handgun, particularly a model with a barrel reduced to a length of three and five-sixteenths inches as an aid to concealment rather than range. While he was also carrying a Peacemaker which could have been more suitable to his needs, there would not be sufficient time allowed for him to draw and bring it into use.

Even as the major was drawing his unpalatable conclusions and starting to roll in the hope of taking at least partial shelter behind the lifeless man, he heard three shots. They had the deep bark of a heavy caliber revolver, not the sharper crack emitted by a rifle, and came from somewhere near the source of the voice which delivered the warning. Although none of the bullets took effect, as far as he could see, they caused the would-be attacker to have a change of mind. Spinning on his heel without offering to raise the rifle, he darted back in the direction from which he had come.

Rising and scanning the remainder of the plaza, Mosehan sought for any more companions of the man he had been compelled to kill. Satisfied there were none, he turned toward the hotel.

“You show up at the damnedest time, Pete,” the major greeted, looking at the rescuer who was crossing the sidewalk carrying a smoking Remington New Model of 1874 Army revolver in his right fist. “Care to come with me after that jasper with the rifle?”

“He had a hoss down the alley and's already fogging out on it,” replied the man who had intervened, his accent that of a New Yorker born in the already notorious East Side region. “Mine's down to the livery barn and that bay of yours doesn't look up to no fast chasing.”

Regardless of a voice indicating he had been born and raised in the largest Eastern city, the speaker did not look in any way out of place in a small range country town. His multi-colored, tight rolled bandana, open necked tartan shirt, Levi's and boots were such as any working cowhand might wear. An off white Mexican
sombrero
dangled by its
barbiquejo
chinstrap on his shoulders, exposing a head of close cropped black hair. Swarthy in pigmentation, his rugged face had a disciplined strength relieved by the suggestion of a sense of humor. Of medium height, he had a barrel of a chest set on bulky hips and slightly bowed legs. As he was speaking, he returned the Remington to its cross draw holster. This was on the left side of a gunbelt which, although secured by a buckle similar to that of Mosehan's rig, had been made with the needs of a western gun fighter in mind and not those of a cavalry soldier.

“You're right about that,” the major conceded, re
placing the Merwin & Hulbert in the spring retention “half breed” shoulder holster from which it had come.

“Looks like leaving the Army hasn't stopped you finding trouble, major,” Peter Glendon remarked, joining the man who had been his commanding officer on the street.

“It found me,” Mosehan corrected. “Only I'll be damned if I know why. Do you recollect anybody called ‘Joe Benedict' while we were serving together, Pete?”

“I can't bring any such to mind,” Glendon confessed, after thinking for a few seconds, oblivious of the crowd who were gathering.

“That jasper said I had his brother hanged,” Mosehan explained, indicating the body with a jerk of his thumb. “But none of the three were called ‘Joe Benedict'.”

“No,” the stocky man agreed. “The two you arrested for raping and killing that Navajo girl were Buckton and Weighill and that snow-bird
²
who murdered the old prospector on the Yellowstone afore we tracked him down was called Joel Benskill. But we never had no doings with a feller called Benedict.”

“And, unless he was using another name, I haven't come across one since I took over at the Hashknife,” Mosehan declared. “Comes to a point, I haven't had
anybody hanged since those three either and every one of them was guilty.”

“There's no god-damned doubt about that,” Glendon confirmed, then gave a derisive sniff and continued, “Here come the local John Laws, on time as usual.”

Glancing in the same direction as his former sergeant, Mosehan studied the two local enforcers of law and order who were pushing with scant courtesy through the onlookers. Both appeared to be in their early twenties and, being a shrewd judge of character, he was not impressed by what he saw even without the indication of disapproval displayed by Glendon.

Slightly the taller of the two, Jackson Martin clearly regarded himself as the leader. His surly features were set in a frown augmented by the moustache he cultivated to make him appear older. Longish black hair shown from beneath his round topped black hat. He wore a black cutaway coat, floral patterned vest, white shirt and black string tie. Striped trousers were tucked into the legs of his riding boots. Looking so glossy it might have been patent leather, his gunbelt carried two rosewood handled Colt Civilian Peacemakers in its fast draw holsters. A sawed off shotgun rested upon his bent right arm and the badge of a deputy sheriff glinted under the left lapel of the jacket.

No better looking, with a similar hirsute appendage on his top lip, Alfred “Leftie Alf” Dubs was brown haired and two years younger. His attire was
much the same as that worn by Martin, but of cheaper material, and his Colts had plain walnut grips. Unlike his companion, he displayed his badge of office in plain view and was carrying his sawed off shotgun with his near hand grasping the wrist of its butt.

“What's happened here?” Martin demanded, halting and eyeing the two men arrogantly, his accent Mid-Western and suggesting a good education.

“That man tried to kill me,” Mosehan replied quietly, nodding to the body. “And I stopped him.”

“It looks that way,” Martin admitted and something of his arrogance left in the presence of a man he sensed could not be browbeaten by virtue of his civic authority. “Who is he?”

“I don't know,” the major declared. “That's the damnedest thing about it. He claimed I'd had his brother hanged, but the name he gave doesn't come to mind.”

“You hanged so many men you can't remember them all?” challenged Dubs, in a voice suggesting he came from the same region as his companion, albeit his origins were lower on the social scale.

“I said I'd had hanged, not that I'd hanged them,” Mosehan corrected coldly. “There's a difference. Anyways, whoever he was, he had a feller backing him. Sergeant Glendon here cut in and that one ran away down the alley.”

“Why didn't you take out after him?” Dubs wanted to know, being less susceptible to atmosphere than the other deputy.

“We thought your
superior
would prefer for us to stay here until he'd heard what happened,” the major explained with a studied politeness which his former sergeant recognized as a danger sign. “Is he coming?”

“
I'm
in charge of the sheriff's office here and double as town marshal!” Martin announced stiffly, emphasizing the first word. “Go and look for the one who ran away, Leftie.”

“Sure, Jackson!” Dubs assented, but with more reluctance than cheerful acceptance of an order.

“Now was it me going after a feller,” Glendon commented dryly. “I'd want to know what he looked like.”

“What did he look like?” Martin growled, as the other deputy stopped his intended departure, hearing chuckles from the onlookers.

“Tallish, with a high crowned white hat, and black vest,” the stocky man supplied. “Took off on a roan hoss, but I didn't see which way he turned when he got to the end of the alley over there.”