Waco's Badge (6 page)

“You best go ask around if anybody did see, Leftie!” Martin ordered, his sallow face reddening. Showing no sign of knowing Glendon was present, he turned his gaze to the major and asked authoritatively, “Who are you?”

“Bertram Mosehan,” was the quiet reply.

“Mose—!” the taller deputy began. Then, being aware of the influential people who employed the man he was questioning, he adopted a more polite attitude. “I don't think there's anything to keep you here, Major Mosehan, it was a clear case of self defense.”

“Thank you,” Mosehan answered, with just a trace of irony. “I'll be here for a few days, probably, in case you need me for anything.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” Martin promised and looked around. “Hey, some of you fellers carry the body to the undertaker's parlor for me.”

“Do you mind if I drop by at your office to look through the wanted dodgers?” the major asked, as the instruction was being obeyed by members of the crowd. “I'd like to find out who he is.”

“I'll do that for you,” Martin offered.

“Thanks,” Mosehan answered. “I reckon I owe you a drink for cutting in the way you did, Pete.”

“Which I've never been known to refuse since I was big enough to pick up a beer stein,” Glendon assented.

“Who are those two knobheads?” Mosehan inquired, as he and his former sergeant crossed the sidewalk to enter the hotel.

“Names are Martin and Dubs,” the stocky man replied. “Figure they're wild, woolly and so full of fleas they've never been curried below the knees.”

“I got the notion you don't cotton to them.”

“I've met snow-birds and sheep herders I'm better took with.”

“How's that?”

“Way they act, particularly Martin, they must reckon to be another couple of Wyatt Earps,” Glendon snorted.

“Do they?” Mosehan said dryly. “I've heard tell
there are people who say
one
Wyatt Earp is way too many.”

“And I'm one of them,” Glendon claimed. “Don't know if you know it, Major, but I'm ramrodding the Cross Bar Cross out of town a ways. Soon's they come in here after the old deputy retired, Martin and his bunkie showed they was figuring to pull some of those Kansas fighting pimp games on the local cowhands. I sort of talked them out of the notion, 'specially where my crew was concerned.”

“That's why they looked like they wished you weren't there,” Mosehan decided with a grin, remembering how effectively his former sergeant could handle either a rough-house brawl or a gun. Having entered and crossed the bar room while they were talking and coming to a halt at the counter, he went on, “Name your poison, Pete.”

“Bourbon, happen that's all right with you, Major, I've got sort of high-toned tastes since I was made foreman,” the stocky man replied and, after the order had been given to the bartender, continued, “Are you in town for the cattle sales?”

“That's why my bosses said I should let on I'd come here,” Mosehan answered.

“Excuse me,” a voice said, before the explanation could be completed. “Are you Major Bertram Mosehan?”

Turning from the counter, the two cattlemen looked the speaker up and down. Clad in a somber black suit, white shirt with a collar which appeared
to endanger his prominent adam's apple by its stiffness, a black cravat and blunt toed boots, he was balding, middle-sized, slender and had an obsequious demeanor. Although his attire was of a somewhat better quality than was usually the case, he reminded them of business clerks they had come across who a lifetime of yielding to the wishes of those higher in the office hierarchy had left—although neither knew, much less expressed, the term—suffering from a marked inferiority complex.

“I am,” Mosehan confirmed.

“His Hon—
Mr. Jervis
is in his room and would like you to join him as soon as it is convenient,” the newcomer announced, something in his manner implying the invitation should be accepted immediately even if not convenient.

“I don't think you and I have met,” the major hinted.

“We haven't, sir,” the man admitted. “My name is Erroll Madden.”

“Will our business take long, Mr. Madden?” Mosehan asked.

“Possibly, sir,” the man replied vaguely. “I couldn't say for sure.”

“In that case,” Mosehan said, suspecting Madden had the type of mentality which would refuse to offer further information unless it could be done so in the guise of conferring a favor. It was a point of view which he had come across many times throughout his military career and he had never regarded it favor
ably. However, past experiences had taught him how to cope with such a mind and, giving a well simulated shrug of disinterest, he went on, “I'll go and bed down my horse before I see him.”

“His—
He
did stress the urgency of the situation,” Madden protested.

“I'll see to your hoss for you, major,” Glendon offered, despite knowing what his former commanding officer was up to. “I want to go take a look at mine, I left him getting shod.”

“That's good of you, Pete,” Mosehan praised, being intrigued by the possibility of learning why he had been instructed to make the journey from the Hashknife ranch, and coming to a conclusion from the way in which the miserable looking man referred to “Mr. Jervis.” However, although for once he was willing to forego attending to his horse—knowing it would be in good hands—he could not resist continuing, “I'll come and fetch my bedroll, then see if I can get a room.”

“There is a room booked for you already,” Madden claimed, showing agitation over the possibility of a delay. “And a bellboy will take your—bedroll—to it for you.”

“By cracky, why didn't I think of
that
?” Mosehan ejaculated. “Can you give the bedroll to him before you go, Pete?”

“Sure.”

“Gracias!”

“Es nada,”
the stocky ranch foreman replied ami
ably. “And when you get through, maybe we can get together in here to bend an elbow a couple or so times in memory of the boys of good old Company A?”

“I'd like nothing more than that,” Mosehan affirmed, with genuine warmth although this left his voice as he concluded, “All right, Mr. Madden, let's go and see Mr. Jervis.”

“W
ELL, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT
, P
ETE
?”
Major Bertram Mosehan asked, as his former sergeant crossed to meet him when he entered the bar room of the Pima County Hotel some ninety minutes after having left it with Erroll Madden. “‘Mr. Jervis' turns out to be the Governor of Arizona Territory and he wants me to become a peace officer.”

“Doesn't he know you're pretty well fixed already and on something a whole heap safer 'n' better paid than that?” Peter Glendon inquired, showing no discernible emotion over the information, although his erstwhile commanding officer could tell he found it most interesting.

“Seems my bosses recommended me and are hold
ing open my position at the Hashknife outfit until I get through,” Mosehan replied, glancing around the room to find it had acquired many more customers in his absence. However, as had been the case when he was passing through Marana on his way to the rendezvous with “Mr. Jervis,” he saw nobody other than Glendon with whom he was acquainted. “Let's find somewhere we can talk this out, Pete, unless you've anything needing to be done.”

“I don't have,” the stocky foreman of the Cross Bar Cross ranch asserted and made a gesture with his right hand. “We'll use that table over by the window.”

“How about those fellers who're at it?”

“They ride for my outfit. Likely they'll take pity on their poor old ramrod and let me have it for just the two of us.”

“Seems you haven't changed a bit, Pete,” Mosehan claimed, a few seconds later, as he took a seat at the table by the window and watched the cowhands who had occupied it making their way to the bar.

“I sure haven't,” Glendon agreed. “It's all done by kindness.”

“And saying they'll wind up on k.p.?”
¹
the major suggested.

“Not since I left the Cavalry,” the former sergeant replied, also grinning. “Now all I do is tell them I need somebody to ride the blister end of a shovel.”

“I never asked how you came to be on hand just when I needed it, Pete,” Mosehan remarked, noticing Madden looking at him through the door from the lobby and then turn to disappear in the direction of the front entrance to the hotel. “How was it?”

“I was sitting here with the boys when I saw you coming across the plaza,” Glendon explained, signalling for one of the waiters. “So I headed on out to say, ‘howdy.' Only you looked a mite busy when I got to the front door and I figured to keep watch in case you needed backing. Seemed like you did when I saw that yahoo with the rifle, so I concluded I'd best cut in.”

“I'm obliged you did,” the major stated. “
Gracias
again.”

“Like I said before,
es nada,
” the foreman replied, the Spanish term meaning, “it was nothing” sounding somewhat strange in conjunction with his Brooklyn accent. Then, after the waiter had come to take their order and delivered it, he asked, “Why'd they pick you ‘special' to pin a badge on? No disrespect meant, mind, only there's a whole slew of fellers in Arizona Territory and through the rest of the West, comes to that, who don't do nothing but peace officering.”

“That's what I told ‘Mr. Jervis',” Mosehan admitted, glancing through the window at the people passing along the sidewalk. “But it seems none of the men he considers most suitable is able to come right now and he doesn't think any of those he can lay hands on around the Territory would do what he needs.”

“Including the Earps?”

“
Particularly
the Earps.”

“Well, you won't hear me, nor any other cowhand, complaining 'cause he counts the Earps among them he
doesn't
want,” Glendon declared with vehemence. “It's the first time I ever knowed a politician do anything which showed good sense.” Raising his glass and sipping as if drinking a toast to the wisdom of “Mr. Jervis,” he set it down again and became more serious as he continued, “Only it cuts deeper than you just being asked to put on a badge, don't it?”

“It does,” Mosehan confirmed. “You've heard about that business up in Coconino County?”

“You mean about that ‘mother-something' Eastern shyster threatening to sue the sheriff for grabbing and fetching back those bank robbers from outside his bailiwick?”

“That's what I mean, Pete. It's got ‘Mr. Jervis' real worried. He's committed to trying to have Statehood granted to Arizona, but there's too much lawlessness going on right now for Congress to be willing to move that way.”

“Making sheriffs quit going outside their bailiwick after owlhoots ain't what I'd call the right way to set about stopping law breaking!”

“It isn't,” Mosehan conceded, having heard similar sentiments from numerous other law abiding citizens since news of the events in Coconino County was made public. “The trouble is, that's the law of these United States. It's just that until now no smart-assed,
legal-wrangling, son-of-a-bitch has thought to use that law.”

“God damn it!” the foreman ejaculated, banging his clenched right fist on the table. However, he was sufficiently in control of himself to hold down his voice as he went on, “Can that son-of-a-bitch get away with it?”

“
That's
the question, Pete,” the major said, just as quietly, deciding retirement had not caused his former sergeant to lose a well developed sense of discretion. “You and ‘Mr. Jervis' both would like to know the answer. Word of what's going on has spread well beyond Arizona and a whole slew of people are waiting to see how things turn out. That's particularly the case with those who are against Statehood being granted, they'll be ready to use it no matter which way things go.”

“With that kind,” Glendon said bitterly, “it's always a case of, ‘Heads, I win, tails, you lose.'”

“You're as right as the off side of a horse,” Mosehan admitted. “Anyways, the Governor's passed word to every sheriff and town marshal in the Territory not to go outside his bailiwick after outlaws until the Supreme Court has handed down its ruling.”

“Then why'd he send for you?”

“To form a force of peace officers who
will
have the authority to go everywhere in Arizona regardless of city limits, or county lines.”

“You mean like the Texas Rangers?”

“Like the Texas Rangers,” Mosehan confirmed.
“Except that we'll be able to go in and do what needs doing without needing to wait to be asked by the local officers.”
²

“Sounds interesting,” Glendon remarked, in what some people might have considered a casual fashion.

“I need good men to back me,” Mosehan announced, as he did not come into the above category. “Of course, I wouldn't want to ask a feller who's settled down as the foreman of a ranch to sit in—!”

“My boss'll be just as willing as your'n to hold my job should I be
told
to do something like this,” the foreman claimed, still in the same completely disinterested sounding tone. “He's real keen on seeing Arizona made a State.”

“Are you volunteering to join?” Mosehan inquired, with seeming innocence.

“Volunteering!”
Glendon repeated, sounding as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. “Did you ever know a thirty-year non-com to
volunteer
for anything, major?”

“You know something, Pete, I don't believe I ever did,” Mosehan said with a smile, delighted to have received the unspoken offer and equally grateful for the good fortune which had brought himself and his for
mer sergeant together at such a propitious moment. “How would it be if I asked you to lend a hand?”

“I'd be likely to have the vapors was a field officer like you to
ask
me to do something,” Glendon declared, so somberly he might have been in deadly earnest. “Why don't you give me an
order,
like always, major?”

“All right, sergeant!” Mosehan obliged, his voice taking on a clipped and authoritative timber. “Haul your butt away from the easy living at the Cross Bar Cross and get ready to do some
work
for a change.”

“Yo!” the former sergeant assented, as he would have done during his military service when receiving such a command from an officer he respected.

“I can take on a dozen or so men,” the major announced, getting down to the more serious business even though a stranger would have been hard put to tell there was anything different in his demeanor and way of speaking. “Have you any suggestions?”

“Got Fast Billy Cromaty on the payroll at the spread, happen you remember him?”

“That lanky, carrot-headed young cuss I made corporal on the Yellowstone?”

“That's him.”

“He'll do,” Mosehan confirmed, remembering the man in question to be far more intelligent than he looked and generally acted.

“There are four-five more of the boys from Company A around the Territory I can bring in,” Glendon offered.

“Do that,” the major authorized, being willing to accept the judgment of his erstwhile non-com. “You'll take rank as sergeant and I've a couple of men at the Hashknife I'll ask to join.”

“We'll still be some short even if they'll all take on,” Glendon estimated.

“Then we'll have to look around for others,” Mosehan replied. “I know the kind of men I want, but finding them won't be easy.”

The sound of a commotion from outside the hotel brought the conversation to a halt!

Turning his head, the major looked through the window to where half a dozen young cowhands were strolling along the sidewalk. From all appearances, they were celebrating their visit to the town. Laughing, talking loudly, occasionally letting out whoops of joy and jostling one another, they were behaving in a rowdy yet good humored fashion. Among them was one he recognized.

Tall and so lanky as to be almost skeletal, William “Fast Billy” Cromaty
³
had a spikey mop of hair—the orange-red of a carrot—which no amount of combing, or application of patent lotions, could keep under control for more than a few minutes. Such was the vacant expression on his excessively freckled ruddy face, people meeting him for the first time fre
quently assumed he was slow witted. Dressed in his “go to town” finery, the shirt and bandana were of such clashing and far from tasteful hues, they might have suggested he was color blind. However, although he seemed awkward and slothful, he could both move and think quickly enough when the need arose. More than one person had discovered how well he could handle himself in an all-in brawl and he was just as capable with the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker on his gunbelt.

On the point of rapping upon the window to attract the attention of Cromaty, Mosehan saw one of the happy group push another. As he was sent stumbling forward, the head of the cowhand suddenly jerked and the temple on the side nearest the hotel burst open. Having passed through, a bullet shattered the pane and hissed between the seated pair. Fortunately also missing the other occupants of the bar room, it ended its flight in the front of the counter. Rising with such haste and vehemence they sent the chairs pitching behind them, the major and Glendon watched what was happening outside.

The stricken cowhand reeled to crash his shoulders through the window, but slid to the sidewalk instead of tumbling onward into the bar room!

Startled exclamations burst from the rest of the group!

Of all the cowhands, Cromaty reacted most swiftly and effectively!

Spinning outward, bringing the Colt from its holster
with the kind of speed which had earned him the sobriquet, “Fast Billy,” the lanky cowhand set off across the plaza at a run in no way slothful or awkward!

“What the—?” Glendon began.

“Come on!” Mosehan snapped. “Billy's going after whoever did the shooting!”

Ignoring the questions directed at them by the customers and employees of the hotel, the two men ran from the bar room. Equally oblivious to the requests for information they received while going through the lobby, they made for the front entrance. On reaching the sidewalk, they found the other cowhands staring either at the dead man, or across the open space to where Cromaty was already approaching the alley from which the man with the rifle had appeared after Mosehan had shot his intended killer on arriving in Marana.

Reaching the gap between the gunsmith's shop and a general store, the lanky cowhand saw the man who had killed his companion at the other end of the buildings. Even if there had been others in the alley, he could have made the recognition from the manner in which the other was dressed and the way in which the Winchester Model of 1873 rifle was being held while the owner was gathering up the dangling reins of a “ground hitched” horse. Any lingering doubts would have been removed by the way the man behaved on glancing in his direction. Allowing the reins to slip from his grip, he swiveled around and started to raise the rifle toward a firing position.

Skidding to a halt, Cromaty realized the distance was too great for him to attempt firing at waist level and by instinctive alignment. With his left hand joining the right on the butt, he swung up the Colt at arms' length to a height where he could make use of its somewhat rudimentary sights. Taking aim swiftly, he cut loose. Regardless of the speed with which it was discharged, the bullet flew true. Caught in the left breast an instant before he was ready to use the rifle, pain caused the man to toss it aside and he went over backward.

Cocking the Peacemaker on its recoil kick, the lanky cowhand resumed his interrupted advance. He went slowly, his attitude wary and he was ready to use the weapon again if necessary despite having allowed its barrel to sink and removing his left hand. The need for further action did not arise. Sprawled upon his back, heart torn apart by the two hundred and thirty grain, .45 caliber cone of lead, the man was dead by the time he came up. Hearing running footsteps to his rear, he allowed the Colt to dangle by his right thigh and turned.