Winchester 1886 (6 page)

And death.

“Water,” Ted Dunegan moaned. “Water. Please, I'm so thirsty.”

“Ted,” Jimmy said softly. “I need to know about Danny Waco.”

“Adsila,” the dying husband called out. “Honey, I'll take even some Choctaw beer.” He blinked, sniffed, coughed. Blood seeped from his mouth, and he tried to swallow. His eyes finally focused on Jimmy. “I swear . . . I didn't know he was gonna kill that agent.”

“I know that.” The words were tight. Jimmy pressed his lips together. “Where did Waco go?”

“Didn't even . . .” Another savage coughing spell. By the time Dunegan was finished, blood drenched the pillow.

Adsila handed Jimmy a cup of steaming black coffee. Sixpersons stood at the foot of the bed rolling a smoke. He stuck the cigarette into his mouth and accepted the cup Adsila offered him.

“Adsila,” Dunegan said softly, pleadingly. “Honey, could you . . . just bring me some whiskey. Please!”

She looked down at him, spit in his face, and walked back to the stove.

Dunegan began crying. Saying how he didn't want to die, that this shouldn't have happened to him.

“Waco,” Jimmy said. “What about Danny Waco?”

The outlaw sniffed. “Cheated us . . . didn't give us all our share.”

A match flared. Sixpersons lighted his cigarette.

“Just ten dollars.” Dunegan coughed again. “Each.” He smiled, though, and his fingers slid into his vest pocket, withdrawing a piece of paper. “But I fooled him. I got . . .” The paper slipped. “This.”

Jimmy reached over, unfolded the check, saw it was made out to one Elizabeth Vestal for $17.32. He handed it to Jackson Sixpersons.

Ted Dunegan would die for $17.32.

“Where did Waco, The Tonk, and Gil Millican go?” Jimmy asked.

Nothing. Ted Dunegan seemed to be staring at something on the ceiling.

“They double-crossed you, Ted,” Jimmy said softly. “Took off with most of the money and left you here to die.”

“Mal said we shouldn't stop,” Ted whimpered. “Said we should just keep ridin', that the law would catch us. Where's Mal?”

Sixpersons blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “In Hell.” He sipped his coffee.

“Ted,” Jimmy tried again, knowing he was about out of time. “Danny Waco. Where did he go? Did he say anything? Give you any idea?”

Dunegan laughed. “Waco? He wouldn't tell us nothin'.” He cursed Waco, and shook his head. Suddenly, his right hand shot up, gripped Jimmy's vest, and pulled him down. “But”—Dunegan groaned—“I heard . . . Gil. . . . He . . . said . . . Cald . . . well. . . .” Death rattled in the outlaw's breath.

Jimmy pried the man's fingers from his vest, letting the arm drop to the dead man's chest.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

 

Once upon a time, Caldwell had been a rip-roaring cow town. You could get drunk, find a hurdy-gurdy girl, gamble sun-up to sun-up for weeks on end, race up and down Main Street, even kill a gent you figured was cheating you. Basically, you could do anything and everything, and the law left you alone.

Of course, ten years ago, the town marshal, a hard-rock named Henry Brown, had ridden over with some pals of his to rob the bank in Medicine Lodge. They didn't come back, having gotten caught by the law, and killed by the populace.

Those days,
Danny Waco lamented,
were but a fond memory.

Oh, you could still get drunk in Caldwell, gamble, and maybe even find a petticoat that didn't charge too much, but the wildness had departed. So had the cowboys. Just last year, the town had served as the jumping-off point for homesteaders, boomers, and sooners, after the Cherokees sold the Outlet, and the Strip had been opened for settlement. About the only people racing down Main Street were farmers, and they didn't move fast at all. But since the Rock Island had laid tracks into Caldwell, and railroaders loved to drink and gamble, a man like Danny Waco could find something to occupy his time.

He reined in the buckskin, let two farm wagons pass, turned in front of the opera house, and crossed the street to the hitching rail in front of Dick's Saloon & Gambling Emporium.

“You sure this is a good idea, Danny?” Gil Millican stopped his bay, leaned to the right, and spit out a river of tobacco juice.

“We're out of Indian Territory, ain't we?” The leather squeaked as Waco slid from the saddle. He pulled the .50-caliber rifle from the scabbard on the left side of the saddle. The one on the right held the London-made shotgun, which he left.

“Yeah, but by, what? A mile? Two?”

“You're thirsty, ain't you?”

Near the Osage Agency in the Nations, Waco had traded his old Winchester and one of the pocket watches from the Katy robbery for three fresh horses. He looked hard at the buckskin, blind in its right eye, almost asleep. Before long, they would need more horses, but he wasn't about to spend money on horses.

He ducked underneath the hitching rail and stepped onto the boardwalk, out of the sun. Another farmer in bib-and-brace overalls and his brood rode out of town, heading south, toward the Strip and his hundred and sixty acres.

“Let's cut the dust. Find a card game. Get some real money.”

In a tight town like Caldwell, it would take ten years to win the $40,000 they had thought that they would have already.

Reluctantly, Millican dismounted.

The Tonk remained on his sorrel.

“Get us a pack mule,” Waco told the Indian. “And supplies that can get us to Ogallala.” He bowed as a woman in a calico dress walked past him, basket in her hand.

The lady didn't even give him or Millican the time of day.

Waco stared at Millican. “Is Nebraska far enough from the law for you?”

“I reckon.” Millican hooked the tobacco from his mouth and tossed it onto the dirty street.

“Careful,” The Tonk said. “Constable might fine you for that.”

Cursing and shaking his head, Millican pushed his way through the batwing doors and into Dick's.

Waco told The Tonk, “See if they've got some shells for this baby.” With a grin, he hefted the Winchester 1886.

The Tonk frowned. “I doubt if you'll find anything larger than a pitchfork in this town these days.”

Well, Waco had what was left of that one box of shells. He'd put one into the express agent's face. Five more were in the Winchester's tubular magazine. That would have to last him. Besides, if Caldwell didn't carry his caliber at any of the mercantiles, he'd probably have better luck up north in Wichita. It was bigger than Caldwell. Although Wichita was once just as wild, it was just as boring as Caldwell these days.

“Just do it,” Waco snapped. He pointed north. “There used to be a wagon yard up the street, right before you get out of town. We'll meet you there tonight.”

With a quick nod, The Tonk left, and Waco went inside Dick's.

 

 

Dehner McIntyre leaned back in his chair, leaving the paste cards on the green felt. He smoothed his thin mustache as he watched the thin gent who needed a new set of clothes, a bath, and a shave join that other saddle tramp at the bar. Most people would have dismissed both men as just a couple of thirty-a-month waddies riding the grub line. McIntyre, however, lowered the legs of his chair onto the wooden floor and played the black ace on the queen. “Danny Waco,” he whispered to himself and gathered up the cards.

Waco wasn't all the gambler noticed. He saw the Winchester the man-killer held in his right hand. It was something else the sodbusters that came to Caldwell would mistakenly dismiss as just another repeating rifle. McIntyre knew a thing or two about guns, and that was one of John Browning's 1886 models—the most powerful repeating rifle in the country.

On his last birthday, McIntyre had turned forty-five. He was getting a little long in the tooth to be playing cards in towns like Caldwell, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what else to do. Go back to Georgia? Twenty-seven years later, he would likely find some people who would still like to lynch him in Savannah.

He wore fancy black boots, the tops inlaid with the aces of spades, for which he had paid a fortune down in Spanish Fort, Texas. His trousers were striped in gold, tan, olive, and red—so people noticed him when he walked into a dining room or just down the boardwalk. A pair of fine leather suspenders kept them up. He wondered if that clerk at that store in Carthage, Missouri, had ever figured out that the suspenders were missing. His shirt was bright white cotton, with a bib front and stand-up collar, covered by a double-breasted vest with a shawl collar in crimson canvas and a gold paisley ascot with an emerald stickpin. That Chinaman over in Hunnewell was probably still waiting to be paid for the starching. The four-button frock coat was tan, trimmed along the lapels and placket with brown, and if one didn't look too carefully, he might not notice how frayed the cuffs were or the small bullet holes in the right tails. Topping his head was a fine top hat of brown with a matching bound edge and grosgrain ribbon. He had stolen it from an undertaker in Coffeyville.

McIntyre reached for the beer, which he had been nursing for the past two hours. He sipped some, then again smoothed his mustache, once darker but now light with gray hairs, and began dealing another round of solitaire.

For the past six months, he had been riding a losing streak, bad cards following bad cards, and bad luck compounding lousy luck. Suddenly, he figured things might be looking up.

“You just playin' with yourself. Or you let anybody sit in?”

McIntyre lifted his eyes. That hadn't taken long at all. Danny Waco and a slightly taller fellow with a black hat stood in front of him.

“I'm just waiting for the next train to Dodge City,” McIntyre said, sounding just like the Southern gentleman his daddy had hoped he would grow up to be. He gathered the cards, motioning at the empty chairs opposite him. “But sit down. The train doesn't pull out until seven-fifteen.”

They sat down, and McIntyre's Adam's apple bobbed at the sight of the bottle of rye that Waco slammed on the table. The gambler wet his lips and cleared his throat. “Do you mind?” He slid the mug of beer toward Waco.

“Liquor on beer?” Waco lifted the bottle.

McIntyre smiled warmly. “The nectar of the gods.”

Waco topped the beer with two fingers of rye, then filled his partner's glass, and withdrew a large amount of greenbacks from his vest pocket.

McIntyre opened the fancy case next to him and brought out some chips. “How much do you wish to buy in for?”

Waco grunted. “How 'bout three hundred? Or is that too rich for your belly?”

With a grin, McIntyre slid stacks of blue, red, and white chips across the table, before looking at the other man. “And you, sir?”

The man dropped five golden eagles on the table. “Just a hundred.”

“Very good, sir.”

Four hundred bucks.
That was more money than Dehner McIntyre had seen in three months, and $397.42 more than he had in his pockets. Still, he took $500 in chips for himself, and began shuffling the deck.

He felt good—until Danny Waco laid the big Winchester on the table.

 

 

When Waco raked in a good-sized pot, McIntyre shook his head, pushed back his hat and smiled, “You're a man of luck, sir.”

“Luck?” Waco laughed. “It's skill.”

Pointing at the almost empty bottle of rye, McIntyre said, “Well, I think we need some refreshments. How about if I buy us a new bottle?”

“Suits me.” Waco's partner was a man apparently named Gil.

McIntyre bowed graciously, pushed his chair from the table, and walked to the bar. He pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his coat. “A bottle of your best rye, Horace.” Through sleight of hand, he handed over a five-dollar bill he had pocketed from the cash Waco had used to buy into the poker game.

He leaned forward, finding a match, and fished an old cigar—his last—from another pocket. As the bartender ducked to find a bottle of something that wouldn't blind a railroader, McIntyre whispered as he struck the match, cupped his hands, and lighted the cheroot. “Get the marshal. That's Danny Waco over there.”

The barkeep looked up, his face draining of all color.

“Just act normal,” the gambler said quietly, calmly. “How about that bottle?” he said loud enough for Waco to hear, and leaned forward, whispering again, “Find that scalawag you call a peace officer. Tell him to bring the vigilantes. Get them over here. Pronto.”

Reaching down, he took the bottle the bartender had, thanked him loudly, and returned to the poker table.

 

 

Two men in black broadcloth suits entered the saloon, shot a glance at the table, and moved to the bar.

“Danny,” Waco's partner said.

Waco was already studying the men, then grinned, and focused on the cards McIntyre had dealt. “They ain't no threat.” He bet a blue chip.

Not a threat?
McIntyre's head shook. He recognized both men as members of the Border Queen City Vigilance Committee. They were part of the reason he was waiting for the northbound train to pull out of town.

Gil swore, but matched the bet with his nine of clubs showing. McIntyre looked at the ace of diamonds in front of Waco's hand, and also bet.

He let the pot build. Three watches had found their way from the road agents' pockets, along with most of the chips, a diamond pin, a mother of pearl broach, plus some silver, gold, and greenbacks.

Three other men had entered the saloon, ordering a pitcher of beer and three glasses, but neither Waco nor Gil even considered them.

McIntyre couldn't blame them. He let Waco raise, saw Gil call, then he called himself, and dealt the last cards up. King of clubs to Waco, whose face revealed just that smirk he'd been showing since his first two cards. The queen of hearts went to Gil, who frowned, lousy poker player that he was. He knew the queen didn't help him at all.

So did McIntyre, who'd dealt himself the king of spades.

“Holy . . .” Gil whistled. “He's buckin' for a royal flush, Danny.”

Sure enough, McIntyre had a queen, jack, ten, and king—all spades—showing.

“Yeah.” Waco was still smirking. “But I've been playin' poker for years, and I ain't never seen no one deal a royal flush.”

Waco bet a hundred. A good bet, even facing a possible straight flush, since he had two pair—aces and kings—showing.

“Man!” Gil looked at his hole card for the umpteenth time. He shot Waco a glance, then smiled at McIntyre. “I don't think you got the biggie, but a flush maybe. But . . . Awe. it's only poker!” He called Waco's bet with the last of his chips and cash. He held a nine of clubs, six of spades, six of diamonds, and queen of hearts. He was betting against a flush—a possible royal flush, at that—and two high pair that could easily be a full house.

“Well . . .” McIntyre didn't look at his hole card. “Like the man said, it is poker.” He matched the bet, and casually raised $500.

Waco shook his head.

“He's bluffin',” Gil said.

“Of course he is.” Waco pushed the rest of his chips onto the table. “That's all I got, and it's table stakes.”

“How about that Winchester?” McIntyre asked.

Waco glanced at the big rifle. “That's too much rifle for a dude like you.”

Grinning, McIntyre pulled the emerald stickpin from his ascot, dangled it, and dropped it on the pile of chips and plunder. “A side bet. My pin against your rifle. What kind of punkin slinger is that, anyhow?”

“Fifty caliber,” Waco answered, looked at the pin, then grinning, slid the Winchester into the center of the table. His right hand disappeared briefly and came up with a Colt, which he slid where the Winchester had been resting. He kept his eyes locked on the gambler.

McIntyre looked at Gil. “It's up to you, sir.”

Sighing, the man polished off the rye in his shot glass, and turned over his hole card. “I want you boys to see what I'm folding.” The six of hearts fell atop his cards. “Sure hope my luck's better in Nebraska. Three sixes. I hope one of you ain't bluffin'.”

“I ain't much for bluffin',” Waco said, grinning as he lifted his hole card. “And I know you ain't got no royal flush, gamblin' man, because I got the ace of spades right here.”