Waco's Badge (12 page)

Belle felt certain that, should she raise her voice, she would be silenced!

Neither operative would be willing to share the kudos for arresting such a well known member of the criminal element with the local peace officers!

Therefore, the lady outlaw would be prevented from creating a commotion which—even if leading to her arrest—could deprive Gill and Miles of the credit!

“Are these men annoying you,
mademoiselle
?”
asked a precise, even prissy, male voice while Belle was still trying to resolve her predicament.

Hearing the question, Belle and the two men looked around!

Catching sight of the speaker failed to raise any hopes for her salvation for the lady outlaw!

Studying Pierre Henri Jaqfaye as he came from the alley Belle had just passed without noticing him in it, the burly operatives were no more impressed. In fact, the only emotion his presence evoked for either was annoyance that he should dare intrude upon their affairs. Regardless of the rules for conduct laid down by the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, they only showed politeness to important and influential members of the public from whom a complaint to their superiors might bring repercussions. While they recognized the newcomer as the owner of the most highly priced women's clothing shop in Phoenix, they did not consider he fell into such a category. Nor was his physical appearance sufficiently menacing to cause them to assume that tact, or conciliatory conduct was called for.

Rather the opposite, in fact!

“Just what the hell is it to
you,
fancy pants?” Gill demanded menacingly.

“It seemed your company was unwelcome to the lady,
m'sieur,
” the Frenchman replied, continuing his advance and twirling the black walking stick with a dainty, limp-wristed motion. “I felt I should ask if this was indeed the case.”

“This here's law business,” Miles warned, in just as threatening a fashion. “So you just get on about your ‘mother-something' doings and leave us to ours!”

“You are officers of the law?” Jaqfaye asked, halting with the stick held at arms' length before him in both hands.

“What the ‘something' hell do you reckon we are?” Miles challenged. “A couple of your no-bullfighter buddies?”

“Then perhaps I might see your badges?” Jaqfaye requested, sounding more like an indignant woman than a man angry over the derogatory term for a homosexual being used with regards to his friends. “And, I might add, I mean to tell your superiors I find your attitudes far from civil.”

“That's not all you'll find us if you don't get the hell back to your boy friend!” Miles threatened.

“Has anybody ever told you that you have the manners of a pig,
m'sieur
?” the Frenchman inquired. “If not, it may only be because they have no wish to insult the pig!”

While Belle would have found the spirited response amusing under different circumstances, particularly as it was uttered in a high and mincing tenor, she felt it to have been highly ill-advised in the present case!

“Why you ‘mother-something' lavender boy!” Miles snarled, striding forward and drawing back his left fist. “I'll—!”

Instantly, still exhibiting a suggestion of effeminate petulance, Jaqfaye met the intended attack!

Opening his left hand and swinging around the stick, although he had not removed the wooden sheath to expose the deadly blade, the Frenchman handled it as deftly—if not so lethally—as when he had killed Erroll Madden two nights earlier in Marana. Going into a lunge, he jabbed the steel ferrule at the throat of his bulky assailant. Considering what could have happened, Miles might have been grateful he was not struck by the device when it was made ready to serve its other function. However, he knew nothing of the concealed sword and was only conscious of the pain inflicted by the blunted steel tip of the stick. This proved sufficient. Letting out a startled and strangled gasp, he involuntarily changed his hostile advance into a hurried retreat.

Seeing what had happened to his companion, Gill jumped toward Jaqfaye. In one respect, at first anyway—because he was alerted to the danger—he fared better than Miles. As the stick was directed his way like a saber making a cut to the side of the head, he shot out his right hand to grasp it.

Although the distraction had offered Belle an opportunity to flee, she had dismissed the thought of doing so. She knew that her escape would leave the man who had come to her rescue at the mercy of the two burly operatives. Not that any mercy would be shown. Even as she was reaching into the reticule for her revolver, she discovered that—while he might have behaved in an ill-advised fashion so far—her rescuer was much more competent than appeared on
the surface. However, watching what happened after the attack by Miles was thwarted, she concluded his luck had run out and she began to slip the Manhattan from its holster. Knowing Gill, she considered it would be needed to save the Frenchman from serious injury.

Jaqfaye proved capable of protecting himself!

Instead of being deprived of his weapon, as the lady outlaw was anticipating, the Frenchman kept hold and allowed himself to be drawn toward Gill. Suddenly swerving like a
toreador
avoiding the charge of a bull, he pivoted to swing his right foot around and toward the unguarded side of the burly operative. Such was the power behind the kick, Gill felt as if his ribs were being caved in. Releasing his hold on the stick, he blundered across the sidewalk to run face first into the wall of the building. The collision caused his derby hat to be dislodged and deprived him of its protection against what followed. Stepping into range, Jaqfaye swung around the stick. It struck the operative on top of the head and he collapsed like a punctured balloon.

Snarling half strangled profanities, Miles returned to the fray. Hoping to catch his victim unawares, he too essayed a kick. Coming around swiftly, before Belle could utter a warning or take more positive action on his behalf, Jaqfaye dealt with the latest threat to his well being. Grasping the lower end of the stick while stepping back a pace, he hooked it under the rising leg to apply a twisting heave. Sent in a twirling
and headlong plunge from the sidewalk, Miles alighted on the street. Partially breaking the fall, he was just able to keep his face from striking the hard earth surface. However, this proved only a brief respite. Bounding into the air, the Frenchman came down with both feet on his shoulders. Crushed to the ground, the pain this created endured but briefly. Stepping clear, Jaqfaye turned to kick him hard on the temple and he relapsed into unconsciousness.

“Thank you, sir,” the lady outlaw said, having noticed the especially vicious way in which the
coup de grace
was delivered. She had already replaced the Manhattan in the reticule and was continuing to employ the accent suggestive of Swedish “roots.” “You saved me from those brutes.”

“It was the only thing a gentleman could do,
mademoiselle,
” Jaqfaye replied. “But now I think it would be better if we were to go away from here without delay.”

“You mean before they try to attack you again?” Belle suggested, as might be expected of the kind of person she was pretending to be.

“I hardly think
that
is likely, either now or when they recover,” the Frenchman declared with conviction and confidence. “I have friends of sufficient importance to ensure their employer will see to that. It is
you
I am thinking about.”

“Me?”
the lady outlaw said, looking puzzled as she retrieved her parasol.

“You,
mademoiselle,
” Jaqfaye confirmed. “I doubt
that you would wish to be present if genuine officers of the law come along. After all, you
are
Belle Starr.”

“God heavens, sir!” the lady outlaw gasped, although something told her that she was wasting her breath. “Surely you didn't believe all the foolishness those dreadful men were talking?”

“You play your part excellently,
Mademoiselle
Starr,” the Frenchman praised. “But the man I sent to seek you out gave me an excellent description and told me where you are staying. I was on my way to visit you when I saw you might need my assistance.”

“There have been times when I've needed help less,” Belle conceded with a smile, reverting to her natural Southern drawl. “Shall we go, sir? I've an idea you have something interesting to tell me.”

“I believe you will find it so,” Jaqfaye answered, as he and the lady outlaw started walking in the direction from which she had come.

A
LTHOUGH THE BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WOMAN WHO HAD
led the gang of outlaws during the hold up of the Phoenix to Tucson stagecoach would not admit it, one of her faults was over confidence!

Having for several seconds been driving her dazed looking opponent around the boxing ring without any reprisals, the leader of the gang saw no need for caution on her part. About to deliver another blow, she was taken unawares by one which caught her in the center of the face an instant before she could launch it. Her head snapped back, pain bringing tears to her eyes and, in spite of the bulk of the eight ounce gloves tending to reduce the effect of a punch, a trickle of blood came from her nostrils.

Possessed of a completely unscrupulous nature, Sarah Siddenham was the dominant and guiding force behind the perpetration of the hold up!

Born into wealthy theatrical families with political aspirations, the band had been sent to Arizona Territory because—as a result of a complete lack of discipline while children—their frequently antisocial behavior was an embarrassment to the “liberal” pretensions of their parents. Despite having been provided with remittances sufficient to have proved adequate for their needs, provided they were willing to find some form of employment by which it could be supplemented, they had had a mutual disinclination to do so. Instead, at the instigation of Sarah, they had pooled their resources and bought a small ranch in Pima County close to the boundary with Pinal County. They had needed to take a mortgage on the property to secure occupancy, but the bank in Phoenix had been sufficiently impressed by the prominence of their families to make the required loan.

From the beginning, although this was not mentioned to the banker, there had never been any intention of working the acquired property in the conventional manner. Instead, showing considerable forethought in one respect, Sarah had claimed it might be put to more profitable use by offering it as a location where wealthy Easterners could spend vacations. Such a proposition had seemed most attractive to her companions, none of whom relished the
prospect of having to perform the hard work needed to operate a cattle outfit even if they had possessed the knowledge.

It had soon become apparent there were several unexpected flaws to the scheme!

For one thing, Arizona was still far from being sufficiently settled and law abiding to attract any except the most adventurous visitors. Secondly, the Territory lacked the glamor which had attached itself—via the highly spiced stories in “blood and thunder” novels and the sensational newspapers of the day—to the Great Plains, the towns in Kansas at which the trail drives ended, or even Texas. Nor could it be reached as easily as the other three.

When an appreciation of the situation had struck home, causing recriminations and predictions of foreclosure and eviction, Sarah had showed her mettle. She had faith in the potential of the scheme, but accepted that some way must be found to keep up the mortgage repayments until this happened. Knowing no extra money would be forthcoming from their parents—all of whom repeatedly pleaded a lack of funds when the subject was raised—and being equally aware of her companions' disinclination to do any form of hard work, she had realized there was only one other way of raising funds.

Completely devoid of moral scruples and with no belief in the right of ownership except where it applied to herself and her property, Sarah had concluded crime was the only solution. Being of similar
temperament, she had received only token objections from the others. While they were willing to commit robberies, all were adamant in their reluctance to facing the consequences of their crimes. They had stipulated there must be the minimum of risk to themselves and their chances of capture must be equally minimal.

With the latter in mind, Sarah had claimed their theatrical backgrounds—being unknown in the vicinity—offered an excellent means for her party to avoid suspicion. Having read of Belle Starr and her “gang,” without realizing that the writer had made free use of his imagination and had made errors in naming its two most prominent male members, the strong willed young woman had asserted that a suitable disguise and the right behavior would cause the blame to fall upon the famous lady outlaw. She had strengthened her arguments by pointing out how their status locally would help the deception. As a result of their ineptitude, they were considered something of a joke in the vicinity. In fact, people in Marana and Red Rock referred to them derogatively—if not with complete justification—as the “Summer Complaints.”
¹
Furthermore, she had declared, there was another reason no investigation was likely to be extended in their direction.

When she had acquired the cooperation of her companions, albeit grudgingly, Sarah had sought for
the most suitable victim. To give her credit, she had displayed considerable ingenuity. Nor, considering the quality of her associates, could her strength of will and powers of commanding obedience in the face of reluctance be faulted.

Fate had stepped in to offer what had seemed an ideal proposition!

While working in disguise as a waitress at the high class Cattlemen's Hotel in Phoenix, looking into the possibility of robbing the bank to which the mortgage was owed, another prospect had attracted her. She had already contemplated holding up one of the stagecoaches which passed twice a week in each direction between Phoenix and Tucson, but her instincts warned this might prove unprofitable if selected at random. Despite all the efforts of herself and her companions, who were established in various capacities around the town, her hopes of learning when a large sum of money was to be transported in a strongbox had not materialized.

However, another prospect had arisen!

Having been informed that the man who called himself “Maurice Blenheim” wore a wig despite needing to keep his head shaved to prevent his natural hair growing,
²
Sarah had ordered increased sur
veillance. On hearing he constantly went armed, including carrying a Remington Double Derringer in the crown of his hat, and wore a bulky money belt, she had concluded he could prove a profitable victim. Learning of his impending departure, she had put her plan for holding up the stagecoach into operation.

Despite the success which had attended the robbery, there had been a growing dissension among the Summer Complaints. This had not been caused by qualms over the possibility of their participation being discovered. Five days had passed without so much as a visit by the local peace officers, nor even any news regarding how the attempt to lay the blame upon Belle Starr was progressing. None of them were suffering from pangs of conscience over the murder of Blenheim. The main cause of the dissent had arisen over the division of the spoils, due to her insistence upon keeping over half of it to be used as operating expenses. Furthermore, her assumption of leadership and frequently bitter tongue had done nothing to improve relations.

Nor, as the other Summer Complaints had cause to know, did the young woman restrict herself to merely employing verbal abuse!

A vociferous feminist of the most objectionable kind, even before such an attitude reached its present stage of development, Sarah had carried her quest for equality to the extremes of seeking to acquire a knowledge of self defense equivalent to that generally considered the province of the male gender. While at
a college for women in New York, along with the few others sharing her persuasions on the subject, she had taken lessons in boxing and was one of the few to attain reasonable proficiency. Keeping herself in excellent physical trim, she took great pleasure in demonstrating her competence by indulging in what she referred to as “a bout of sparring” with her masculine companions.

Although the young men had learned how painful and humiliating such contests could be, having failed to think up a satisfactory reason for refusing, “Tommy Crane” was acting as “sparring partner” shortly before noon on the sixth day.

It had soon become apparent that the bout was intended as punishment for an increasing astringence and vociferous criticism of their self appointed leader!

As Sarah was wearing only a pair of form hugging black tights, ballet slippers and bulky brown boxing gloves, the figure which had distracted the shotgun messenger for long enough to let her fell him was even more in evidence. Like Blenheim, she had worn a wig during the hold up. Her reddish brown hair was cut boyishly short. Hard, yet not unfeminine muscles played freely beneath her bronzed skin as she moved, warning of strength beyond the average. Despite perspiring freely, as a tribute to her physical condition, she was showing small sign of having indulged in four rounds of three minutes duration prior to taking the blow to the face.

The same could not be said for Dennis Orme, who had long since discarded the black wig to expose his somewhat shorter mousey brown hair and washed off the dark brown stain. Pain and the strain he was undergoing showed upon his handsome, if weak, face. Dressed in the same fashion as his opponent, what had happened to him so far had made him wish he had been less open with his resentment of her repeated comments about the inadequacy of his performance as a half Indian outlaw. Although the subject had not arisen for the past two days, he had soon discovered the “friendly workout to loosen me up” into which he had been inveigled was a serious bout as far as Sarah was concerned. Nor had being of masculine gender, if not in sexual proclivities, offered salvation. He was a far from competent boxer—improving his ability to defend himself had been her excuse for having him participate—and had taken the worst of it without, until causing the nose bleed, inflicting any significant punishment in return.

Angered by the pounding to which he had been subjected, Orme set about making the most of the opportunity he was offered to take revenge. Following the young woman as she stumbled back partially blinded by tears, he swung much more inept blows at her than she had been landing. Awkward though they might be, they arrived squarely and frequently enough to keep her off balance as she retreated and prevented her from doing anything more positive than defending herself as best she could.

Despite it being obvious that their self appointed leader was in trouble, none of the other Summer Complaints made any more attempt to intercede than they had while Orme was receiving the punishment. In fact, only the last to have put in an appearance at the scene of the crime showed anything which could be described as sympathy with her predicament.

“Stop him, Sarah!” Fiona Crenshaw yelled, but with more excitement than concern.

The impression of stocky bulk conveyed by the small “man” who had brought the horses from their place of concealment was not entirely created by the garments “he” had worn. However, the voluminous yellow “fish” slicker in particular had been selected to conceal curvaceously buxom feminine contours.

Five foot four in her Indian moccasins, pretty, her face indicative of an effervescent spirit and having shortish, curly blonde hair, the speaker moved with an agility which implied she too kept herself in good shape. Certainly the skin tight man's tartan shirt—its neck opened far enough to show she felt no need to make use of undergarments—and equally snug fitting Levi's pants she had on proved there was no flabby fat on her frame and her bare arms were well muscled. Furthermore, although she only paid lip service to the extreme feminist views of Sarah, she took an interest in self defense and regularly indulged in vigorous sessions of wrestling—generally ending in them making love—during which each strove determinedly to win, with the other girl.

Even without needing the advice from the little blonde, Sarah was preparing to do as was suggested. Requiring a brief respite in which to clear her impaired vision, her not inconsiderable knowledge of boxing advised how best to gain it. Thrusting forward between punches, she clinched with Orme and succeeded in pinning his left arm to his side. Although acting as referee, the second “half breed”—who had auburn hair and a weak, sun reddened face—did not attempt to enforce the order when she refused his call for them to break. Thomas O'Carroll knew how she was likely to respond when subjected to attempts at enforcement and had no intention of suffering the painful consequences.

Feeling the big breasts grinding against his chest, as he and Sarah bombarded one another's ribs with their free fists, Orme found the sensation more of an irritant than most men would have. Wanting to escape, the short punches he was receiving being painful, he struggled against her encircling arms.

“L—Let—g—go, you ‘mother-something' bull-dyke!” the male boxer croaked, knowing he could not expect assistance in bringing this about from the referee.

Although Sarah gave signs of complying immediately, it was not out of respect for the wishes of her opponent. However, the way she responded was only partly caused by the profane reference to her by one term for the dominant partner in a lesbian relationship. She always had a compulsion to be the winner
in every form of competitive activity, regardless of the methods used to attain the victory. What was more, her vicious nature demanded she repaid the punishment he had inflicted upon her.

Having acquired the time for the tears induced by pain to dry, Sarah acted. Loosening the grip of her arms, she felt Orme begin to back away. Up rose her right leg, bending so its knee passed between his thighs. A gasp of agony burst from him as, fortunately with less than her full strength, he was struck at the most vulnerable point of the masculine anatomy. Starting to fold at the waist, gloved hands trying ineffectively to reach and support the throbbing point of impact, he stumbled away from his assailant. His misfortunes were not yet ended.

Dancing after Orme, bosom bouncing with the movements, Sarah propelled her right fist up to meet his forward inclined face. In spite of the cushioning effect of the eight ounce glove, the blow crushed his nose until he felt it must be flattened across his face. Blood far in excess of that he had drawn from the girl gushed out as he was forced upright, arms dangling helplessly by his sides. Coming across with all her weight behind it, the left hand smashed against the side of his jaw. Spinning in a half circle as he went down, he crashed face first to the well padded floor. Walking over to where Sarah was hovering above him, O'Carroll started to count in the accepted fashion. Although he tried to rise, his motivation was to get away rather than continue boxing. The effort
proved too much and, arms slipping apart flaccidly, he collapsed unconscious at the feet of his exultant opponent.