Trouble Trail

by J. T. Edson

  Many stories were told of Calamity’s achievements in various fields, some of them exaggerated. One thing Hack did know for certain sure. If that red-headed girl was Calamity Jane—and he had every reason to believe she was—he had never been more fortunate than when Captain Bigelow arrived and prevented his trying to line his gun.

  ‘You heard my orders, Sergeant?’ Bigelow barked, scowling at Hack.

  ‘Y-yes, sir, Cap’n Bigelow!’ Hack answered, tearing his fascinated eyes from the girl and throwing up a salute which came straight off the pages of the drill training manual and disregarded the fact that his hat floated away on the river’s current.

  After Hack took his hurried departure. Bigelow turned and faced Calamity. A flush came to his cheeks as his study of the girl reached the undershirt and what lay beneath it. With an effort that showed the high standard of will-power West Point instilled in its cadets, Bigelow jerked his eyes up to the girl’s face. Like Hack, Bigelow had heard stories of Calamity Jane, but he discounted most of them as being mere fallacies built up around a rather unsavoury frontier woman. If anyone had asked Bigelow to describe what he imagined Calamity Jane looked like, he certainly would not have been within a good country mile of getting her right.

  ‘And what, may I ask, are you doing out here?’ he asked, fighting to keep his eyes on her face. ‘I gave orders that nobody was to leave the post.’

  ‘Figured to take me a bath,’ Calamity replied. ‘Only lard-guts back there thought I needed somebody to wash my back, which same I don’t.’

  ‘And what are you doing at Fort Connel?’

  ‘Driving for Dobe Killem.’

  ‘You! A woman!’

  ‘Me,’ Calamity grinned. ‘And I reckon that by now you’re sure I’m a woman.’

  The flush deepened on Bigelow’s face as he jerked his eyes guiltily upwards once more. Being a red-blooded young man, under the Manual of Field Service Regulations, he found it hard to resist the temptation to glance downwards.

  ‘I’ll not have it!’ he barked.

  ‘Mister,’ Calamity replied, ‘you’re some too late to stop me being born a woman.’

  ‘I mean I’m not having Killem taking along his camp foll—’

  ‘How’d you like to go into the river?’ Calamity interrupted, anger glowing in her expressive eyes.

  ‘I’m senior off—’ Bibelow began. having been fed respect for his rank back east and reckoning it to be his God-given right.

  Once again Calamity chopped off his pompous words. ‘Dobe pays me as a wagon driver and that’s what I’m here to do. No less—and no more, as that barrel-gutted shiny-butt just found out!’

  Being a ‘shiny-butt,’ as the combat soldiers impolitely termed all office staff of the Quartermaster Corps, like Hack, Bigelow did not care for the name. A scowl creased his brow and he pointed in the direction of the fort.

  ‘Get back to your wagons!’ he barked.

  While Calamity was an obliging girl most times, she had a well-developed streak of mule in her when riled. She sure did not care for the way that bow-necked shiny-butt officer talked to her and objected to his giving orders to a civilian.

  ‘I’ve not took my bath yet,’ she stated.

  ‘Damn it, woman!’ Bigelow bellowed. ‘Get g—’

  Slowly, never taking her eyes from his face, Calamity drew the undershirt from her pants and began to raise it. For a moment Bigelow thought her to be bluffing and aimed to call her bet, However, the undershirt lifted to expose her navel and an even-widening strip of bare flesh. Give him his due, he stood his ground like an officer and a gentleman until the bottom of the undershirt almost reached the lower slopes of Calamity’s breasts. Then he turned and headed into the trees as fast as his legs would take him, leaving his fishing tacle behind him.

  Calamity watched him go, then grinned and continued her undressing. Somehow she did not figure there would be any further interruptions to her bath.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MISS CANARY MEETS AN OFFICER’S LADY

  AN hour later, on her return to the circle of six big Conestoga wagons which stood outside the log-walled confines of Fort Connel, Calamity found that some business must have detained Captain Bigelow, for the young officer stood with Dobe Killem and had just commenced the discussion on the subject of Miss Martha Jane Canary’s return to wherever she came from.

  Although Bigelow was a tall man, Killem towered over and bulked out on either side of him, The freighter stopped six foot three and weighed around two hundred pounds—none of them flabby fat either. He shoved back his dust-covered black Stetson hat; his whisker-stubbed face showed a kind of benign innocence that never left it even when anger filled him, From the hat, through his fringed buckskin shirt, levis pants and boots, Killem looked a typical hard-case freighter. A gunbelt hung around his waist, a James Black bowie knife, sheathed at the left side, an 1860, Army Colt in a contoured holster at the right.

  Behind the two men stood a grinning quintet of drivers and Chan Sing, the outfit’s cook whose lapse from grace gave Calamity her first chance of staying with Killem’s crowd. All had heard enough to know, or guess what had happened at the river, and waited to hear how their boss dealt with the situation.

  ‘So you figure Calamity’s got no place out here,’ Killem said mildly as Bigelow finished his demand for the girl’s eviction.

  ‘I do. Of course, the Army will pay her return fare to the East. But as commander of the train—’

  Poor Bigelow, it appeared to be his day for having folks interrupt his well thought-out speeches and trample all over his flaunted military authority. Before he could state what he, as commander of the train, thought, Dobe Killem interposed a statement.

  ‘Mister, without my outfit, you don’t have no train to command.’

  Which, bitter and unpalatable as the thought might be to Bigelow, was the truth. While Bigelow had all kinds of important orders and instructions pertaining to the removal of his supplies from Fort Connel to Fort Sherrard in the Dakota Territories, he still needed those half-a-dozen civilian-owned Conestoga wagons to do the actual carrying. Nor could he get tough and commandeer the wagons. Handling a big six-horse Conestoga wagon took specialised training and even if his escort could supply men with that knowledge, he was not in a position to spare them.

  ‘You signed a contract to deliver the supplies,’ Bigelow pointed out in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation.

  ‘And to supply six wagons, teams and drivers,’ Killem answered calmly. ‘Which same, Calamity’s one of my drivers. And afore you say she’s a woman—don’t. That gal handles a team as good as any man. If she don’t drive, then my outfit goes back where we come from, there’s work in plenty there.’

  No man could ask for a plainer answer than that. However, Bigelow did not care for the idea of civilians laying down the law to him. While he must get the supplies to Fort Sherrard, he was just bow-necked enough to half-decide to make a stand and refuse to take Calamity along. In which case things would reach an hopeless impasse, with neither side willing to back down from the stand taken.

  Fortunately, a face-saving sight made its appearance. A rider topped a distant rim, coming down the slope towards the fort. Then first one then more white-canopied wagons lurched up into view and trundled down in single file after the rider. A few women and children walked at the side of the wagons and men rode herd on a small remuda of working and saddle horses, or hazed along a bunch of cattle. There looked to be around forty wagons in the party, a good-sized, well-equipped bunch which amounted to being a complete town on the move.

  ‘Looks like an immigrant train headed west,’ Calamity remarked, strolling forward to join Killem and Bigelow.

  ‘Now that’s a real good guess, for a woman, ain’t it, Cap’n,’ drawled Killem, squinting at the leading rider. ‘Feller up front looks kinda familiar.’

  Bigelow could hardly make out more than the fact that a man rode at the head of the party. However, he had seen enough of the lo
ng-sighted ability of western men to know the freighter was not trying to job him.

  ‘Looks like he’s in a tolerable hurry to get acquainted,’ Calamity went on.

  A few seconds later Bigelow could see that the rider had spurred his horse and was galloping down the slope towards them, leaving his wagons to make their steady pace in his wake. The captain wondered why the man hurried, but felt it under his dignity to ask for suggestions from Calamity or Killem.

  ‘Yep!’ Killem remarked with satisfaction. ‘Thought I knowed him. That’s Beau Resin there.’

  One thing was for sure; the man who rode towards them knew how to handle a horse. No immigrant traveller he, but a man born to the West. He rode a sixteen-hand, spot-rumped Appaloosa stud horse—one of the much sought-after breed reared by the Nez Perce Indians of the Pelouse River country and highly prized for speed, stamina and hardy nature. A wide-brimmed, low-crowned black Stetson hat trailed behind him on its storm strap, leaving his straw-coloured hair exposed to view. A scarlet bandana, tight-rolled around his neck, trailed long ends over his fringed buckskin shirt. He wore levis pants tucked into knee-high Sioux moccasins. Around his waist hung a gunbelt, a walnut-handled Remington Army revolver at the right balanced by an Ames Rifleman’s knife with a spear-pointed, eleven and three-quarter-inch long blade sheathed at the left.

  Watching the man come forward, Calamity noticed that he had wide shoulders that tapered down to a lean waist; and looked about as handsome as a girl could ask a rugged weatherbeaten plains scout to be.

  On approaching the party, he dropped from his horse’s saddle and left the big Appaloosa standing with trailing reins. Calamity noticed that he rode a low-horned, double-girthed saddle of Texas cowhand pattern, with a coiled rope strapped to the horn and a Spencer carbine in its saddle boot.

  ‘Howdy you-all,’ he greeted, coming forward with a long-legged, mile-eating stride. ‘Was I asked, I’d say you was Cap’n Bigelow.’

  ‘I am,’ Bigelow agreed stiffly, very much on his dignity as became an Army officer when dealing with a mere civilian scout; and a Southerner to boot or his voice lied badly.

  ‘Got me a letter for you from General Sheridan. Lil Phil told me to look out for you and pass it on.’

  Bigelow stiffened like somebody had poked his. butt-end with a red-hot iron at the irreverent manner in which the scout addressed him and made use of General Sheridan’s first name. Before he could make any comment, the scout reached into his shirt and extracted a much-crumpled, none too clean envelope from an inside pocket. Taking the envelope with a cold expression, Bigelow opened it and removed an official-looking sheet of paper.

  ‘Says for you to give this train of mine an escort up as far as you go,’ Resin remarked.

  ‘I can read!’ Bigelow answered.

  ‘Yeah,’ drawled the scout. ‘I reckon you can at that.’

  Turning, the scout left Bigelow reading the letter and walked towards Killem. The big freighter gave a broad grin and said, ‘Howdy, Beau, ain’t seed you—’

  ‘Hey!’ Resin yelled, interrupting his old friend’s greeting as he saw Calamity walking towards his Appaloosa. ‘He’ll chaw your hand off up to the shoulder happen you give him half a chance.’

  ‘Mister,’ the girl replied, ‘ain’t nothing but something that’s worsen me could do that—and that I ain’t met yet.’

  ‘That’s a lot of thats, gal,’ grinned Resin, expecting to see his horse chase Calamity half-way back to the wagons.

  Then the smile died off his face and surprise took its place. Calamity walked straight up the stallion without any hesitation at all and gave it a confident slap across the neck. Her very lack of fear warned the big horse to attempt no such liberties as kicking or biting. Also knowing better than take liberties. Calamity contented herself with just the one pat. Turning from the horse, she, walked back to its amazed owner and her grinning employer.

  ‘Don’t reckon you’ve met Calamity, have you, Beau?’ Killem inquired.

  ‘Can’t say I—are you Calamity Jane, ma’am?’

  ‘Happen I’m not, somebody’d best watch out, I’m wearing her clothes,’ Calamity replied.

  ‘And you sure look good in ‘em,’ answered Resin. ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.’

  ‘Then take hold and get pleasured some more,’ grinned the girl, holding out her right hand. ‘And for Gawd’s sake stop calling me “ma’am.” ’

  ‘What I like about Dobe here’s the polite way he introduces folks,’ Resin drawled, taking her hand. ‘Anyways, I’m Beau Resin—.’

  ‘Best danged Injun scout, fighting man, poker player and gal chaser I ever come across,’ Killem went on. ‘Specially the last.’

  ‘That I can well believe,’ Calamity grinned. ‘Happen a gal’d any sense at all, she wouldn’t run too hard to get away.’

  ‘Mind one time down to Kansas City—’ Killem began.

  At that moment—and before Killem could go into further details, probably to Resin’s relief—Bigelow finished the letter. Folding it almost reverently, it being his first personal communication from anybody as high up in Army circles as General Phil Sheridan, Bigelow turned towards the westerners.

  ‘This says you have an officer’s lady aboard and we’re to offer her transport to Fort Sherrard on the supply train.’

  ‘So Lil Phil told me when he wrote it,’ Resin replied. ‘She’s been using the front wagon, but I reckon she could finish the trip with Calamity here.’

  From the sound of it. Resin would not be entirely displeased to relieve himself of the officer’s lady’s presence. However, his mention of her alternative accommodation brought to mind the subject of Bigelow and Killem’s earlier disagreement. A solution, and a face-saver for all concerned, lay before them and Killem took the first step to grab it.

  ‘Beau’s got him a good idea there, Cap’n,’ he said, unbending sufficiently to give Bigelow his formal title.

  ‘Yes. Mrs. Tradle will need a chaperone,’ Bigelow agreed.

  ‘Is he insulting me?’ breathed Calamity into Resin’s ear. ‘ ‘Cause if he is, I’ll trample his fancy buttons in the dirt.’

  ‘He’s not. He means that she needs a wet-nurse,’ grinned the scout. ‘You’ll get on with her real good. Calam gal.’

  ‘I’d better ride out and meet her,’ Bigelow said, neither confirming nor denying Calamity’s presence with the supply train, but ignoring it in the best Nelsonian tradition.

  ‘Why waste sweat and hoss-lather?’ asked Calamity. ‘She’ll be here in ten or fifteen minutes at most.’

  Giving a sniff which might have meant anything, Bigelow waited; partly because he did not have a horse with him and doubted if he could handle the Appaloosa even in the unlikely event that Resin offered to loan it to him. Without answering Calamity, he turned and watched the approaching wagon train.

  ‘I’ll go tell ‘em to make their night circle down back of your outfit, Dobe,’ Resin said.

  Walking towards his horse, he went afork it in a lithe bound and caught up the reins. Turning the Appaloosa, Resin galloped back towards the line of wagons and called orders to the driver of the first in line, pointing towards the Killem outfit’s circle.

  Bigelow studied the woman seated by the first wagon’s driver. At that distance he could tell little or nothing about her, but as the wagon came closer he discerned more. She looked to be about the same height as Calamity, with a small Eastern-style hat perched on her black hair. There was a haughty imperiousness about her beautiful face and it bore an expression of distaste as the wagon lurched along. The black Eastern travelling outfit she wore looked expensive, had been tailored to set off what must have been a marvellous body, but the clothes looked worse for wear and dust spattered.

  All this Bigelow saw as the wagon rolled towards him, then it swung off to start forming the night circle. The following wagons kept on their leader’s tail, swinging by the watching soldier, Calamity and Killem. With the exceptions of Mrs. Tradle and one other wag
on, the travellers looked the usual kind to be making such a trip across the plains. Dirt farmers ever seeking a land which would sprout crops better than their last home; townsmen and their wives moving West in the hope of finding a land flowing with milk and honey; people in search of a new home and willing to sweat, bake, freeze or die in trying to find it. The other exception to the normal pattern was a smaller, two-horse wagon driven by a thin, short, rat-faced man who wore a derby hat and a loud check suit. No farmer or townsman him. He looked like the kind of jasper who roamed the West selling gold-bricks or peddling secret medicinal brews guaranteed to cure all ills. There were four women in the wagon or four in sight, one seated on the box and the other three standing behind her.

  Calamity studied the women with knowing eyes. All wore low-cut, torso hugging dresses of louder colours than the other women of the train sported. From the way they dressed and made-up their faces, they worked at the saloon-girl’s trade, but none were good looking and all packed considerably more heft than most men would care for—unless of course, there was no other female company to be had. All that applied to the girls in the body of the wagon counted even more so for the blonde on the front seat next to the driver. She was a medium-sized, stocky woman, dressed a mite better than the others, but with an age-coarsened face that rouge and powder fought to make look young. Studying the blonde, Calamity gained the impression that she would be a real tough cuss in a brawl. Calamity tended to study most saloon women on their potentialities as a fighting rival and she decided the blonde would take some licking.