by J. T. Edson
Looking at the Kid, Trinian found the same contrition he himself felt. They each realized that their hostility stemmed from the War rather than any actual difference at that moment.
“You’re right, ma’am,” the Kid stated. “And I’m sorry for how I behaved under your roof.”
“So you should be, making me use cuss-words that way,” Corey-Mae smiled. “And Cash is as much to blame as you. When we saw you coming with the sabino, he had the kind of idea only a man could think up. It was a sneaky play by Eastfield. You’d been sent to sell us the horses cheap, then she could bring up a charge of buying stolen property. That’s why we acted the way we did when you arrived.”
“I know Calam’s got a sneaky, shifty look about her,” the Kid grinned. “But everybody with good taste tells me I’ve got a right honest face. How about it, Cash, are you coming in with me?”
“Yeah——!” Trinian said, starting to rise.
“There you go again!” Corey-Mae sighed. “Cash’s been hard at work all day, and you look like you’ve not slept properly for longer than’s good for you, Kid. But you still think you can charge back to town and be of help.”
“Well, ma’am——” the Kid began.
“Florence Eastfield had how many men the last time you went up there, Leathers?” Corey-Mae asked.
“Eight at most,” the old-timer answered. “So, happen she’s not got more in since yesterday, that ain’t a whole heap to go up against the town.”
“If I know Doc Goldberg and those other hunting and poker-playing reprobates,” the woman said, “they’ll be around Day Leckenby’s house armed to the teeth and all set to lick creation to help him.”
“She means the town’s leading citizens,” Leathers informed the Kid. “I’m one of ’em.”
“They’re around,” the Kid confirmed. “And I reckon Mrs. Trinian called ’em right. You mean there’s only eight men at the sawmill?”
“Nary more, not since the fellers who built it for her moved out,” Leathers replied. “I’d’ve expected them to be cutting the timber afore now, but they never got started. ’Cepting that Olaf’d cut some of the stuff close to hand. Must’ve been trying out the sawmill, or something.”
“Then that’s settled,” Corey-Mae smiled. “You can grab some sleep, both of you, and ride in at sunup. Even then, you’ll be there before she can get word to the sawmill and fetch in the rest of her men.”
“If eight’s all she’s got, I don’t reckon she’ll be back,” the Kid decided. “Which, I could stand a night’s sleep.”
“Then let’s chance it,” Trinian suggested. “We’ll leave here at sunup and should be in well before they couldn’ve got word to the others at the sawmill and back.”
At about eight o’clock the next morning, refreshed by several hours of uninterrupted sleep, the Kid, Trinian and one of the younger hands, a tall, freckled-faced redhead called Staff, rode through Hollick City toward the sheriff’s house. Approaching the building, the Kid for one felt sure that something had gone wrong. Several armed townsmen stood around and Swede hurried toward the newcomers.
“Kid!” the man said worriedly. “It’s trouble. We found Harry in the stable with a bust head, and Calamity’s missing.”
“How come?” growled the Kid, and Swede wondered how he had ever thought the Texan looked young or innocent.
“She went down to the stable to see to the hosses just after sunup,” the man explained. “We never saw nor heard nothing, and just now Millie asked me to go down and tell her breakfast was waiting. That’s when I found Harry and Calam’s hat.”
“I’ve sent for hosses,” the Wells Fargo agent went on, coming forward. “We was all set to go after her.”
“Not you,” the Kid answered, silently cursing himself for remaining at the ranch. “They see so many coming, they’ll kill Calam for sure. This’s a chore for one man. Me.”
“Three of us’d be small enough to keep hid,” Trinian objected. “And I know the range better’n you. I can take you straight to the sawmill.”
“Who’s the other?” asked the Kid.
“Staff. He’s a good hand with a gun and no heavy-boot comes to quiet moving.”
“This’s not your fight,” the Kid pointed out.
“The hell it’s not!” Trinian replied. “You saw Corey-Mae in action last night. Do you reckon I dast go back there and tell her what’s happened, unless I’d helped you get that gal back safe and well?”
“Likely you dasn’t,” admitted the Kid.
“And anyways,” Trinian went on. “I don’t know what Calamity plans to do with the ranch, but I’d say our chances are a whole heap better with her than if Florence Eastfield comes to own it.”
Chapter 14 YOU’D BETTER HOPE THIS WORKS
CALAMITY COULD, AND DID, BITTERLY CURSE HERSELF for getting captured so easily. Seated on the saddle of a strange horse, covered to the waist by an empty grain sack which let in no light, her arms pinioned and feet fastened to the stirrup irons, she had muttered savage invective against her captors and her own stupidity. Yet, she told herself, as the horse and its companions on either side of her came to a halt, it was always easy to be wise after some damned fool thing had happened.
With the Kid seen on his way the previous evening, Calamity had helped Mrs. Leckenby to feed the men who had gathered to protect the sheriff. All sensible precautions had been taken, including a guard being placed in the stable. Sent to collect him, two of the men had carried Lawyer Endicott from the Clipper Saloon. He had been too far gone in a drunken stupor for Calamity to hope to discuss business with him. At first the girl had been a mite alarmed by the Kid’s failure to return. Mrs. Leckenby had guessed what was happening and insisted that Calamity go to bed. Being more tired than she cared to admit, the girl had obeyed.
Exhausted and in a safe bed, Calamity did not wake until seven o’clock. Slipping out of bed, she had donned shirt, pants and moccasins, then strapped on her gunbelt with Colt and whip, before going across to the stable to tend to the horses. Putting on her weapons had gained her nothing. As she had walked through the stable’s door, the grain sack had descended over her head and shoulders. Before she could struggle or raise the alarm, a hand had clapped over her mouth and a rope secured her arms from outside the sack. One of her assailants had disarmed her, then she had been swung on to a man’s shoulder and carried away.
Taken a short distance that way, she had been placed on a horse and lashed afork it. Then her captors, she had guessed at there being only two of them, had led her mount after their own. They had splashed through the Middle Loup River and gone on another couple of miles before coming to a halt.
The man to her right loosened the rope about the sack, but did not remove her bonds completely. Instead he jerked the sack out from under them. Half-blinded by the sudden flood of light, Calamity was unable to do anything before the rope tightened again. Shaking her head to remove the dizziness she felt, Calamity got her eyes focusing again. Vandor sat to her left, a grin of sardonic amusement on his lips. To her right, Poole, the third of the trio who had backed Olaf on their first meeting, had a swollen top lip and a bruise under his left eye. Going by the way Poole glared at her, Calamity concluded that she had in some way been responsible for his injuries.
“What the hell fool game’re you playing at?” Calamity demanded, looking at Vandor and seeing he carried her gunbelt across his saddle.
“Miss Eastfield wants you,” Vandor answered and looked her over from head to toe. “You sure don’t have any papers on you.”
“Could allus make good ’n’ certain,” Poole suggested.
“We’ll push on!” Vandor ordered. “Flo’s got something in mind for her. Say, gal, we heard that Texas gun-slick of your’n rid out of town. Where’d he go?”
No matter how they had managed to enter the barn, or even if somebody in town had been helping them, the men did not have a reliable source of information. So it would do no harm if they thought that the Kid was no longer a fac
tor in the game.
“Back south, the stinking-son-of-a-bitch!” Calamity spat out. “Took my money and’s soon’s the going got rough, he run out on me.”
“You should’ve tried paying him a bonus,” Poole said maliciously. “Same sort the boss gives Van he——”
The words ended as Vandor jumped his horse forward to face the other man. Anger twisted the handsome face and Vandor’s right hand raised above the Smith & Wesson’s butt.
“What did you say, Poole?”
“Hey! Easy there, Van! I was only fooling.”
“Then don’t!” Vandor warned, turning his horse and setting it moving. When Poole, leading Calamity, came alongside, he went on, “You watch your mouth, Poole. Else you’re likely to get some more of what Flo gave you for missing the sheriff.”
“I didn’t miss him!” Poole protested. “That feller back in Hollick telled us Leckenby was bad hit. His hoss carried him clear——”
“You was supposed to kill him,” Vandor pointed out. “He came back to town alive and Olaf got killed.”
“That was you ’n’ Torp’s doing, not mine!” Poole protested. “Anyways, why’re you so all-fired worried about that crazy bastard? He was better off dead.”
“I know it. You know it,” Vandor said dryly. “But don’t you ever let Flo hear you say it. Olaf was her brother and the best logger around until he had a tree drop the wrong way.”
“That’s how he got the scar and like he was, huh?” Calamity put in. “Poor son-of-a-bitch.”
“That’s how,” Vandor agreed, looking at the girl. “I don’t know what Flo’s got in mind for you. But, was I you, I’d be scared.”
“Could be I don’t scare easy,” Calamity answered, hoping that the icy cold sensation which ran along her spine would not make its effects noticeable.
“Maybe you ain’t got enough good sense to be scared,” Vandor sniffed. “But I’ll tell you one thing, gal. If you’re not dead by nightfall, it’ll be because you’re praying that you should be.”
Having delivered his cryptic prediction, Vandor urged his horse on at a faster pace. Throwing a glance to their rear, Poole forced his and Calamity’s mounts to keep up with the other animal. They were already out of sight of the town, riding through wooded country along the valley through which the Middle Loup River flowed. Hills rose on either side at that point and the valley wound through them.
After three hours continuous hard riding, they approached a place where the valley narrowed to a sheer-sided gorge. Coming out of the narrow stretch, the Loup widened to form a ford. Calamity noticed that the shallows had been much used over the past couple of months or so, both shores being churned into soft mud by continual coming and going of men and heavy wagons. A narrow path ran up the side of the gorge toward which the party was riding, but they did not follow it. Turning the horses, they rode up the scar ripped across the more gentle slope of the valley by the same means that had created the muddy banks.
Reaching the top of the incline, Calamity found herself in a fair-sized clearing on nearly level ground. The sawmill’s buildings fanned in a rough circle ahead of her. There were several log cabins designed to house the workers and supply their needs, or to hold stores. Most of them appeared to be empty as the girl rode nearer. That could be accounted for by the twenty or so horses in the pole corrals, most of which looked more suitable for draft-work than riding. Beyond the other buildings, backing on to a creek at the upper side of the gorge, was the sawmill itself, a large plank-built structure with chimneys for its steam-engines rising from the roof. Smoke curled lazily from one of the chimneys, and the sound of a circular saw working reached the girl’s ears.
“Looks like the boss’s fixing to take herself a ride,” Poole remarked, nodding to where a fast-looking bloodbay gelding stood saddled, its reins looped on the hitching rail of a cabin clear of the others and close to the side of the gorge.
“She’s fetching the rest of the boys in from Burwell most likely,” Vandor answered, then raised his voice. “Torp!”
Coming from what would be the cookshack, followed by three more gun-hung hard-cases, Torp eyed the girl malevolently before turning his gaze to Vandor.
“See you got her.”
“That’s what I was sent to do,” Vandor replied. “Where’s the boss?”
“Her ’n’ Logger’s up at the mill, testing the gear,” Torp answered. “Reckons they’ll be starting work real soon.”
“Could be she’s right,” Vandor grinned and dropped from his mount. “Bunjy, take my hoss and toss my saddle on another. Rest of you, get your rifles and go watch the trail.”
“Somebody coming?” asked one of the men.
“A bunch from town,” Vandor explained. “If Trinian’s with ’em, the boss’ll pay five hundred dollars to the feller who downs him.”
Removing Calamity’s gunbelt and draping it across his shoulder, Vandor went to the girl. He released first one foot, then the other, while the men disappeared into the cabin. Knowing that she could not hope to escape at that moment, Calamity swung her right leg up and forward to drop to the ground. Five men came from the cabin, carrying rifles, and moved off toward the trail. Taking hold of an arm each, Vandor and Poole hustled the girl toward the sawmill. Muttering under his breath, the man called Bunjy led off all three horses toward the corral.
Halting inside the doors of the mill, the men and Calamity watched and listened to the scream of the whirling circular saw as it ripped down the center of a sizeable tree trunk.
“Miss Eastfield!” Vandor called.
Looking over her shoulder, Florence smiled at the sight of the girl between the men. Like Calamity, she wore moccasins and had on a man’s shirt and an old black skirt. With her sleeves rolled up, she showed a powerful pair of arms. Signaling to the burly man at the controls, she walked toward the newcomers. The man pulled on a lever, halting the log carriage which held another large trunk ready to be put through the saw.
“We’ve got her, Miss Eastfield,” Poole announced.
“You wouldn’t’ve showed your face back here if you hadn’t,” Florence answered coldly. “Was she carrying any papers, Mr. Vandor?”
“No,” Vandor replied.
“It doesn’t matter,” Florence decided. “After we’ve dealt with her, we’ll go over to Burwell and bring back the rest of the men. Then we’ll visit Hollick City and have you elected sheriff.”
“Maybe you’ll have trouble getting the folks to vote for him,” Calamity remarked, praying silently to have her hands free and a clear run at the blonde.
“I don’t think so,” Florence replied. “A town’s only as tough as its leading citizens. Without Leckenby and maybe ten others, Hollick City is full of sheep. When I ride in, it will be with enough guns to make sure they know who’s running things.” Her eyes went to Vandor. “Is the Texan dead?”
“He left town last night, soon’s he found out the sheriff’d been shot,” Vandor replied. “Gal says he run out on her.”
“Looks like we both had lousy luck with the fellers we hired to help us,” Calamity remarked to Florence. “Mind if I sit down?”
Without waiting for the blonde to agree, Calamity went and sat on the bench by the doors. There was only one hope for her, to keep her captors occupied and talking. She must play for time in the hope that she could hold off whatever Florence intended to do with her until the Kid arrived. That he would come, Calamity did not doubt. Given luck, he ought to be on his way by that time. Every minute, second even, that she gained increased her chances of survival.
Going by the scowl Vandor directed at Calamity, he did not care for her references to the inadequacies of the male help. Turning from the girl, he diverted Florence’s attention by pointing to the log at the far end of the carriage.
“Looks like everything’s working properly, Miss Eastfield.”
“The mill’s been ready to go for a week or more,” Florence answered. “So’s all the other gear. But none of it’s any use unless we ca
n float the logs in.”
“So that’s why you want my ranch!” Calamity ejaculated.
“What do you mean?” asked the blonde.
“You want it in case you can’t make this game up here work!”
It seemed that Calamity’s mocking words struck at a sore spot. Spinning around, Florence glared furiously at the girl.
“How do you mean, can’t make it work?” the blonde spat out. “Maybe I don’t run around dressed like a man, but I know more about the timber business, every part of it, than any damned logger you’ll ever meet.”
“If you’re so all-fired smart,” Calamity scoffed, “why’d you need the ranch?”
“I don’t want, or need your ranch.”
“That’s not what you was saying in town.”
“The ranch doesn’t mean a thing to me!” Florence insisted.
“Then what the hell do you want?” Calamity asked.
“Timber.”
“I’ve been riding for three or more hours through it,” the girl pointed out. “Haven’t seen the deeds to my place yet, but I don’t reckon it takes in much of the wood country. And there’s not many trees on the ranch.”
“I agree,” Florence replied.
“Maybe we ought to get going, Miss Eastfield,” Vandor put in. “It’s a fair ride into Burwell.”
“Go check that the men are watching the trail, Poole,” Florence ordered. “I won’t be long, Mr. Vandor.”
Calamity watched Poole turn and slouch away. That left Florence and Vandor in her immediate vicinity, the sawmill hand being at the far end of the building. So the girl determined to make a try at escaping, but knew that she must plan things very carefully if she hoped to succeed.
“I still reckon you want that ranch ’cause you know you can’t make a go of this timber game,” Calamity stated.
“Like hell I do!” Florence answered angrily. “It’s just that the Loup and a few other streams run through your range.”
“So?”
“So I need that water. I have to throw a dam across the bottom end of the gorge there to make the water back up and raise the level of the creeks and streams that run into it, so that we can float the timber here. And I can’t do that unless I own the Rafter C.”
