Trouble Trail

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Fancy outfit,’ she remarked to Killem; Bigelow stood slightly away from them as if wishing to assure the travellers that he did not belong to their outfit.

  ‘Yeah!’ Killem grunted. ‘I’ve seed that red-faced jasper and the blonde someplace afore.’

  ‘She’s a hard-looking cuss,’ Calamity said—just a mite too innocently to fool Killem.

  Especially as he remembered where he had seen that particular bunch of travellers before and recalled how the blonde made her living. The very last thing Killem wanted was for Calamity to learn the blonde’s identity, for Killem liked a peaceful life—and also did not want any of his drivers out of action even for a few days.

  ‘Handle their wagons well,’ he growled, changing the subject.

  Calamity flicked a glance at her boss, knowing him as well as he knew her. From the way he replied, he knew that bunch—and did not want her to know them. In such matters Calamity had her full share of woman’s perversity and curiosity. She reckoned it might be worthwhile to look into the identity of that bunch of travellers, if only to find out why Killem did not want her to know them. Not that Calamity mentioned that to Killem, but gave her attention to watching the handling of the Wagons.

  At last the circle had been formed and the lead wagon came to a halt almost before Killem’s party. Striding forward in the best traditions of U.S. Cavalry’s chivalry, Bigelow saluted the woman on the wagon box and removed his hat.

  ‘Captain Wade H. Bigelow at your service, ma’am. I have the honour to command your escort to Fort Sherrard.’

  Thrusting his hat on again, he reached up and swung the woman down from the wagon box. Calamity watched the move and noticed the way the woman’s hands clung to Bige1ow, testing the power of his biceps while her beautiful face studied him in a calculating, predatory manner.

  ‘My pleasure, Captain Bigelow—or may I call you Wade?’ Mrs. Tradle replied, her voice husky and cultured. ‘You must forget formality and call me Eileen.’

  ‘Thank you, Eileen. May I escort you to the fort. Colonel and Mrs. Ferris will wish to meet you.’

  ‘Of course, Wade,’ Mrs. Tradle replied. ‘Oh, could you arrange to have my baggage transferred to one of your wagons?’

  ‘I’ll send my striker to attend to it,’ Bigelow promised.

  ‘Get my boys to move it over for you, Cap’n,’ Killem said.

  ‘It’s marked with my name, they can’t miss it,’ the woman said, glancing at Killem. ‘I trust the next wagon is more comfortable than the last, Wade. That one was an absolute horror—and the language of the driver!’

  ‘Which shouldn’t be any problem in future, Eileen,’ Bigelow replied. ‘Miss—Canary here will be your driver.’

  Turning, Eileen Tradle looked Calamity up and down in the cold, impersonal manner of a farmer examining some poor quality animal. Always willing to be friendly, Calamity stepped forward, her hand going out.

  ‘Howdy,’ she said. ‘Reckon we’ll get on all right.’

  ‘I’m sure we will,’ Eileen replied, ignoring the hand and answering in her most chilling manner before turning to Bigelow. ‘I believe I know your father, General Haywood Bigelow?’

  ‘My uncle,’ Bigelow corrected, taking the woman’s offered arm. They strolled away chatting amiably and leaving a pot-boiling mad Calamity staring after them.

  Shooting out a big hand, Killem caught Calamity by the waist-belt as she took a step after the departing couple.

  ‘Hold it, Calam gal,’ he warned. ‘You start mean-mouthing her and you’ll find yourself in bad trouble.’

  ‘Danged snooty, high-toned old hag!’ Calamity spluttered, her face getting redder by the second. ‘I’d sure like to kick her right in the tail.’

  ‘Blast your ornery side, Calam!’ growled Killem, scooping her kepi off and running his big fingers through her hair. ‘You’re more trouble than a dozen bull-whackers. Danged if I know why I keep you on.’

  As suddenly as it came the anger left Calamity and she grinned up at her boss. ‘ ‘Cause I’m the best blasted hosshandler you’ve got—and ‘cause if you fire me I’ll tell everybody your real name’s Cecil.’

  Digging his fingers into her curls, just stinging but not really hurting her, Killem scowled down at the girl. ‘Happen you ever tell anybody that, Calam, I’ll fix your wagon good. See if I don’t.’

  ‘Get your cotton-picking hands offen me,’ she replied with a grin, then her eyes fell on Bigelow’s fishing tackle which she had put down while approaching the wagon train scout’s big Appaloosa stallion. ‘I know one thing for sure. That two-legged man-trap’s not having any fresh trout for supper.’

  ‘Huh?’ Killem grunted.

  Crossing to the tackle, Calamity lifted up the wicker creel and opened it to expose a pile of plump, frying-size brook trout. An appreciative glint came into Killem’s eyes as he looked into the creel and he ran a tongue tip over his lips.

  ‘Now they look nice,’ he said.

  ‘Sure are,’ the girl answered. ‘Get them cleaned and I’ll.fry them up for supper tonight.’

  ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘Back to the river to put the rod and this fancy box down where he left ‘em,’ grinned Calamity. ‘They do say the mink in this area’ll steal a man’s fish plumb away, happen he leaves it lying around unwatched.’

  ‘Darn it, Calamity,’ Killem chuckled. ‘There’s a mean streak in you when you’re riled.’

  ‘Why sure,’ she replied and glanced at where Beau Resin rode towards them. ‘But I can be right loving with it.’

  Saying that, she took up the fishing tackle and strolled off in the direction of the river.

  At about the same time Bigelow was promising Eileen a treat, a speciality of the area which was a gourmet’s delight, fresh-caught brook trout fried in butter.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MISS CANARY MEETS A SCHOOLMARM

  WHILE strolling through the wagon train camp in search of Beau Resin, Calamity thought she detected a faint hint of disapproval from the womenfolk. While the men at the various fires and attending to their chores looked at Calamity with open admiration, the women clucked their tongues and gathered in peeking, talking groups after she passed by. Not that Calamity cared, she had met with disapproval in better places than a wagon train camp on the North Kansas plains. She dressed the way she did as being practical for her work and did not give a damn what other folks might think about it.

  In passing Calamity studied the rat-faced man’s outfit. They appeared to be accepted by their fellow travellers as being part of the train, but not of it. All the women looked to be busy setting up their camp, but the man sat on a box and watched them work. Even while Calamity passed, the plump blonde laid hold of a heavy-looking box and toted it to the wagon without raising any sweat. She looked to be a tolerable strong gal, Calamity mused, then regretfully decided the folks of the train would not approve of a female brawl. Not wishing to make any trouble for Dobe Killem, Calamity passed on without stopping to speak with the blonde.

  After making almost a tour of the camp, Calamity decided Resin must be out of the circle. Most likely he might be visiting the fort, talking with the Army scouts and learning of conditions ahead. Calamity felt disappointed for she figured Beau Resin to be a man worth getting to know better. With that in mind she had planned to invite him to supper; working on the belief that the best way to a man’s heart was through a mess of well-cooked brook trout.

  Just as Calamity was about to return to Killem’s outfit, she heard a considerable commotion among the trees outside the camp. Turning, she passed between two of the wagons and headed in the direction of the sound. She came into view of the cause of the commotion and one look told her she ought to insert her presence.

  School should have been in progress among the trees. A small, very pretty blonde girl in her early twenties stood at the side of an erected blackboard and easel, trying to attract the attention of and bring order to a class of youngsters. Some twenty or so children aged be
tween ten and fifteen were in the clearing, although not taking advantage of the educational facilities offered to them. All appeared to be making some kind of noise and the ring-leaders, a boy and girl alike enough to be fifteen-year-old twins, encouraged the others. With his thumbs hooked into his belt, the boy swaggered around and leered at the teacher, while the girl twisted a younger girl’s ear and made her screech.

  ‘Children!’ the teacher called, her face showing desperation almost as she tried to control her unruly class. ‘Children, sit down and take your slates. Come on now, please.’

  Politeness got her nowhere and so Calamity figured to cut in and help the schoolteacher bring order to her class.

  Swinging free her whip, Calamity flipped its lash forward, the end exploding with a gun-shot crack a couple of inches from the boy’s left ear. Letting out a startled squawk, the boy clapped a hand to his ringing ear and leapt into the air as if stung by a bee.

  All eyes turned towards Calamity as she walked forward, coiling the whip’s lash one-handed. For a moment the twin sister stared open-mouthed, then considered her audience and stepped forward with the intention of making a grandstand play to show the others that nobody pushed her or her brother about. She was a big, plump girl with a mean glint in her eyes and a sullen twist to her mouth.

  ‘What do you think you’re do—!’ she began.

  Bringing up her left hand, Calamity laid it palm-first against the girl’s face and pushed hard. Taken by surprise both by Calamity’s temerity and strength, the girl staggered back a few steps and landed flat on her rump with a thud which gladdened at least one watcher’s heart.

  Springing forward, the boy yelled, ‘Hey, you can’t d—!’

  Calamity showed him she not only could do that, but could also improve on it. Swinging her right arm, she gave him a flat-handed slap across the face which knocked him staggering and made him howl in pain. Both he and his sister headed for the trees in the direction of the camp, screeching like they had been scalped.

  A flush of red crept into Molly Johnson’s cheeks as she watched Calamity’s arrival and the hurried departure of the twins. Being on her first post as schoolteacher, Molly wanted to make a good job of it, but had found the theory gained in college proved little practical use when it came to handling the Bloom twins. From the start they had been the bane of her existence and although she approved of Calamity’s actions in part, both her training and knowledge of the twins’ mother made her wish the red-haired girl had not interfered.

  ‘All right, you slab-sided, mis-shaped, yowling. caterwauling bunch of milk-soaked half-pints!’ Calamity barked, swinging to face the class. ‘Get sat and stay sat before I tan the hides off you!’

  Never had Molly seen her class take their seats with such speed and silence. Almost before the words died away, every member of the class had taken a seat upon the ground and sat nursing slate and chalk in becoming humility.

  ‘Want the other two back?’ Calamity asked, turning to the teacher.

  ‘I—I think you’d better go,’ Molly replied, trying to hold down a smile. There was something refreshingly different about Calamity and Molly had not been long enough out of college to lose her fascination for anything or anybody new and unconventional. ‘Mrs. Bloom doesn’t approve of anybody punishing her children.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Calamity said dryly. ‘I could see that.’

  From the start Calamity liked the look of Molly Johnson. The girl stood at most five foot two, but had a shapely figure that a severe gingham dress and tightly taken back hair could not hide. Molly affected the dress and hair style to try to make herself look older and more in keeping with the popular conception of a school teacher.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ Molly went on, glancing nervously at the camp.

  ‘Shucks, these half-pints don’t know what they’ve got, having a chance at book-learning.’ Calamity replied, ignoring the glance and pleading look Molly gave her. ‘Mind if I set a spell and listen to the lesson?’

  At that moment Mrs. Bloom made her appearance, advancing through the trees like the battle-ram Albemarle steaming to war, and followed by the full conclave of her cronies. Since leaving St. Louis, those half-dozen women had ruled the train and put fear into the hearts of all the men. Mrs. Bloom led them, a commanding figure almost six foot tall and with a hefty build. When she bore down bust-first on some offender, the offender’s heart quaked at the sight—usually. When she yelled, it sounded like the crack of doom and as a last resort she commanded a fine and spectacular burst of hysterics which drove her mild-mannered husband almost frantic with worry.

  Are you the one who struck my children?’ she demanded in her finest aggressive manner, glaring at Calamity with an eye that had never failed to quell.

  ‘Reckon I am,’ answered the un-quellable Calamity calmly. ‘You struck my little Rodney with that whip?’ bellowed Mrs. Bloom, patting her son fondly upon the top of his head as he clung tearfully to her skirt at one side, his sister at the other.

  ‘Nope, I popped it clear of his ear.’

  ‘He said—’

  ‘If I’d wanted to hit his ear, I’d’ve done it—only he wouldn’t have any ear left now,’ Calamity interrupted.

  ‘How dare y—!’

  ‘Wasn’t nothing daring about it. I saw those pair of over-fed lard-heads fooling and making fuss for their schoolmarm instead of buckling down and learning what she could teach ‘em. Figured from the hawg-mannered way they acted that they didn’t belong to anybody to teach ‘em better—so I took ‘em in hand. Which same I didn’t treat ‘em too mean—the first time,’

  Never had anyone stood up to Mrs. Bloom in such a manner. For a full minute she stood with her mouth open and working spasmodically while she tried to decide if physical assault or hysterics would be the best tactics to use. Behind her, the other members of her band stared horrified at Calamity and wondered why lightning did not strike down the girl for her blasphemy to their leader.

  ‘Whup her good, Maw!’ ‘little’ Rodney suggested and then ducked hurriedly out of sight behind his mother as Calamity scowled at him.

  .‘How dare you address me like that,’ Mrs. Bloom gasped, ignoring her son’s words and disappearance. ‘You—’

  ‘Afore you say it—don’t,’ Calamity warned. ‘I can name-call and mean-mouth you and all your crowd to a stand-still without needing to draw extra breath.’

  Just what might have been the outcome had the matter gone further would never be learned. Even as Mrs. Bloom tried to decide what course to follow, there came an interruption which washed all thoughts of taking Calamity to task out of the big woman’s head.

  A pallid-faced youngster maybe two years younger than the twins, but clearly a member of the Bloom clan, staggered out of the trees. He held his left wrist in his right hand, bawled unmelodiously as he came and dripped blood over his right fingers and pants legs.

  ‘Hubert!’ Mrs. Bloom screeched. ‘Hubert! Oh, my Lord! Fetch the doctor, one of you. Fetch help!’

  ‘The doctor’s with Mrs. Schmidt, she’s in heavy labour,’ moaned one of the other women.

  ‘Oh heavens! What can we do?’ Mrs. Bloom wailed, realising her inadequacy to deal with the situation.

  ‘You could try getting the hell out of my way and letting me take a look for a starter.’

  Calamity gave out that sage advice as she stepped forward. Much to the surprise of the other women, Mrs. Bloom moved aside. There was an air of confidence about Calamity that Mrs. Bloom found reassuring at that moment and so the woman stood aside and let the girl take charge of the situation.

  ‘Oooh!’ Hubert howled.

  ‘Shut up, damn you!’ roared Calamity.

  Gripping the suddenly silent Hubert’s left wrist in one hand, Calamity pulled his right hand away from it. A long, shallow gash showed in the flesh of his forearm, painful, messy, but far from dangerous.

  ‘It hurts!’ Hubert groaned.

  ‘Of course it hurts!’ Calamity spat out. ‘Anybody f
ool enough to whittle with the knife’s point sticking inwards asks to get hurt.’

  Surprise caused Hubert to stop his moaning and he stared at Calamity. ‘H-how’d you know?’

  ‘Done the same fool trick when I was ten,’ she replied, looking around her and seeing what she wanted.

  ‘C-can’t you stop the bleeding?’ asked Mrs. Bloom; but for once it sounded like a mild request for help, not a royal command,

  ‘Just now figuring to,’ answered Calamity, hauling Hubert after her towards one of the trees. ‘Where at’s your knife, boy?’

  ‘I dropped it back there.’

  ‘Then soon’s I’ve fixed this scratch, you’re going straight out to find it. Hey one of you fellers loan me a knife.’

  Several young hands darted into pockets and Calamity had the offer of half-a-dozen assorted knives. Taking a jack-knife from one of the boys, Calamity—who could never resist a chance to grandstand a mite—drew admiring gasps by opening its blade with her teeth. The tree had a number of blister-like swellings on its bark and the girl slit one open, allowing a flow of thick syrup-like gum to ooze out. Dipping her forefinger into the flow, Calamity coated the wound with the gum.

  ‘Wh-what is that you’re putting on?’ asked Mrs. Bloom.

  ‘The best damned wound salve you’ll find anyplace,’ Calamity replied. ‘It’ll stop the bleeding and help the wound heal. One of you girls haul up your skirt and tear a strip off your underskirts so’s I can bandage this.’