The Big Hunt

by J. T. Edson

  “I daresay I could,” Lord Henry replied. “Saw some coming in on the train. Nothing really exceptional though. Where would you say the animals with the best heads are found?”

  “Up in the high country. Old bucks in their last year with a herd, or just been run off by a younger critter.”

  “Which sort don’t often come near to a town, they know better,” commented the Englishman. “That’s what I’m after. An old buck with a really fine spread of antlers, and whose use to the species is about over.”

  Looking at the lean fighting man’s face, Kerry read interest and eagerness on it. There sat a man who loved hunting so much that he did not care for an easy trophy but wanted to take the best specimen available and was willing to work hard to do so. On hearing that the Englishman planned to go hunting, Kerry pictured a luxury filled, leisurely trip across the Great Plains, shooting at everything that came in sight merely to see how many animals could be killed. He noticed that Lord Henry did not mention buffalo and put the omission down to avoiding the obvious. Every dude who comes west wanted to tumble buffalo, either from a stand or by running a herd from the back of a horse.

  “Where’d we make a start at finding big ones, Kerry?” Killem asked.

  “Up the Wind River way’s as good a starting place as any. You’ll be headed into country where you can pick up most of the others, too. I saw some real big old whitetail bucks up there, bighorns too in the real high stuff. Where you get them you’ll find grizzly and cougar.”

  “Do you know it, Dobe?” inquired Lord Henry.

  “Nope, but likely my Army maps’ll show us where to go.”

  “And the antelope,” the Englishman continued, turning back to Kerry. “How about them?”

  “They run pretty much to one size. Trouble with them’s not picking the biggest, but getting close enough to shoot.”

  “Alert, are they?” Lord Henry inquired eagerly.

  “Real alert,” agreed Kerry. “And live in open country. You can try to run them down on a horse, but they’ll get away most times; or wait for them to come down to a waterhole.”

  “Is there no other way?”

  “Stalking them on foot, but it’s not easy.”

  “If it was, I wouldn’t want it. That’s what I’ll try. How about cougar, can one bait them up?”

  “How’s that?” asked the hunter.

  “Stake out a kid or calf and let its bawling attract the cougar’s attention. Then when the cougar comes in, you’re waiting hidden close by and drop it. That’s one way I used to shoot panther in India.”

  “Does it work?”

  “That depends on the panther—and how well one makes one’s hide. Of course, with a man-eater, one tries to have it go for the bait, not oneself.”

  For the first time in his life Kerry began to realize what a hold hunting had on him. Suddenly he wanted to talk; and to listen to this tanned dude who appeared to know a fair bit about hunting.

  “I’ve never heard of anybody trying that with a cougar,” Kerry admitted.

  “How about sitting up over a kill and waiting for the cougar to return?” suggested Lord Henry. “That’s another way we go for tiger and panther in India.”

  “That’s another one I’ve never heard of,” Kerry replied. “Way to get a cougar, run him down with a pack of hounds.”

  “Isn’t that a shade too easy?”

  “Depends. I’ve seen a cougar run for eight, ten miles ahead of a pack afore it treed. And up the Wind River country you’ll not be able to ride a hoss much. So it means running the hounds on foot, trying to keep them in hearing distance.”

  “Now that sounds interesting,” Lord Henry said, eyes alive with interest. “I’ve hunted with the best packs in England and always seen good sport. But that was after fox, not cougar.”

  “One’ll run before hounds, just like a fox,” Kerry answered. “And give the hounds a fight happen they catch it where it can’t tree.”

  “Where would one get the hounds?”

  “There’s an old-timer here in Otley Creek has three of the best cat-hounds I’ve ever seen,” Kerry replied. “Unless that damned fool I had a run in with this morning’s dog jumped them.”

  Remembering the incident, Kerry became sure that the man he mentioned stood at the bar. Glancing across, Kerry found Sharpie’s eyes on him, glowering viciously. Finding himself observed, Sharpie looked away and saw the four skinners had just entered the barroom.

  Kerry also saw the new arrivals, but thought nothing of their presence. The Bella Union made no attempt to keep customers out, although it kept a section available where the visiting silk hats might entertain away from the revelling hoi polloi, so Kerry suspected nothing. None of the four gave him as much as a glance as they crossed the room toward the bar.

  “Say, we’re empty,” Kerry said. “I’ll go get another round.”

  Before any of the others could object, the hunter rose and walked from the table. Killem and Lord Henry watched him go and then exchanged glances.

  “You’ve got him interested,” Killem stated hopefully.

  “I hope so, he could make this trip a success—no offense, Dobe.”

  “None took. I know what you mean. Sure I’ve done some hunting, but my work’s freighting, and I don’t claim to know hunting like he does.”

  “Hey, boys,” Potter said in a carrying tone as Kerry approached the bar. “Just take a look at who’s here.”

  “It’s that high-toned skin-hunter, Mr. Kerry Barran,” Rixon went on, showing signs of having taken enough drink to become truculent. “He’s a big man now, though, doesn’t want to go skin-hunting any more.”

  Of all the quartet, Kerry disliked Rixon the most. Filled with an embittered spirit at knowing himself to be a failure, hating everybody who showed any sign of success, Rixon was cruel, vicious and untrustworthy. Sober, he practiced minor cruelties that revolted Kerry; drunk, he became fighting-wild and dangerous when backed by the other three.

  Wishing to avoid trouble, Kerry swung away from the quartet. Rixon weaved across, keeping before the big hunter, his face twisted in lines of hate.

  “Big man, that’s Kerry Barran,” the skinner went on. “Real important. All he does is ride out and shoot buffaloes in the morning, then leaves the dirty work to us. Only he’s made so much money at our expense that he don’t aim to work any more.”

  Suddenly the hunter sensed danger, feeling it as a deer knows when a bear is hungry and must be avoided. He recollected that none of the trio looked in his direction on their arrival. If it came to a point, they took pains to avoid turning their eyes in his direction. Along the bar he noticed that Deputy Marshal Sharpie stood with his back to the skinners, staring with fixed intensity at a vingt-un game in progress across the room.

  The last thing Kerry wanted at that time was trouble. All day he had thought hard about his future and swore to reach a decision that evening. Until his arrival at the Bella Union bar, he had been almost decided to try his hand as a horse-breaker. However, the Englishman’s offer sounded mighty tempting, even to a man grown tired by the wanton slaughter of hide hunting. So the last thing Kerry wanted was to become involved in a brawl.

  Again he tried to avoid the man, moving the opposite direction, but Rixon followed him, still blocking his path.

  “Get out of my way, Rixon,” Kerry said quietly.

  “Listen to that, boys,” Rixon yelled. “He’s still giving us orders. He reckons he’s the big boss man, even after he quit and run out on——”

  Laying the palm of his hand on Rixon’s face, Kerry shoved hard and the man shot backward to crash into the bar.

  “Tough against a little feller, ain’t he?” demanded Potter in a mock sympathetic voice.

  Kerry realized that he had been edged around so that Potter and Wingett stood just before him. Only two of them. No sign of the hulking Schmidt. He read the threat on the two men’s faces as they started to move in his direction. Alert for danger, Kerry caught a flicker of movement fr
om the corner of his eye. Arms outstretched to enfold the hunter in their grasp, Schmidt lunged forward from where he had moved while Kerry watched Rixon and the other two.

  Chapter 5

  A LADY FORGETS HER REFINEMENT

  WHILE WELL PLANNED, CONSIDERING THE SOURCE from which it sprang, the attack failed to achieve full success due to Kerry’s lightning-fast reactions and the knowledge of savate he picked up during the War. Not the graceful, stylish savate practiced by the rich French-Creole bloods of New Orleans, but the raw, basic, pure-fighting variety of the Cajun swamp-dwellers of the South.

  Swiftly Kerry kicked sideways, balancing himself on the right leg while the left aimed at a point on Schmidt’s body calculated to make him lose his aggressive tendencies if caught. Unfortunately, in his haste Kerry aimed just a mite high. His foot, rock-hard under the moccasin, caught Schmidt in the belly and stopped the German’s rush. Giving a grunt, Schmidt reeled back a couple of paces, his face showing the pain he felt.

  Coming into the attack, Potter saw Schmidt’s part of the plan fail and threw a long looping blow at Kerry’s head to catch the hunter on one leg. Kerry went into the bar, hitting it hard. Out whipped Wingett’s fist, smashing into the side of Kerry’s head. Pain and dizziness whirled through Kerry and he fought to keep on his feet. Once down, he knew he would be completely at the quartet’s mercy—and they would show him none. Rixon sprang forward, kicking viciously to drive his boot toe into the side of Kerry’s shin and sent further pain through him. Once more Potter hit, then Wingett ripped another blow into Kerry, further preventing him from recovering. Given a few seconds’ respite, Kerry could have fought back, but the sustained attack prevented him from gaining it.

  At his table, Lord Henry watched the opening moves of the attack. The moment it became obvious that a multiple attack was being launched, the Englishman sent his chair over and came to his feet. Clearly Wheatley knew what to expect, for he also rose and took the jacket which Lord Henry peeled off and accepted the watch that the other removed from his vest pocket. With that done, Lord Henry crossed the room in the direction of the bar. So quickly had the Englishman moved that Dobe Killem just sat and watched.

  “Fair play, you blighters!” Lord Henry balked. “Give him a chance.”

  Hearing the voice, Wingett glanced around and saw the tall Englishman approaching. Noting the white shirt, stylish vest, immaculate collar and sharply creased trousers, Wingett decided he could handle the interference and swung to do so.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he ordered and started to throw a punch.

  Lord Henry adopted a fighting style favored by the fast-growing school of boxers who wore padded gloves, disregarded wrestling moves, and used the three-minute round system of following the old rules. While the upright stance, foot placement and method of holding the hands looked fancy to eyes used to the old toe-to-toe, swing-and-take school, the new style proved mighty effective.

  Deflecting Wingett’s blow with his right wrist, Lord Henry stabbed out his left. Three times, almost quicker than the eye could follow, the Englishman jabbed his left into Wingett’s face. While the blows lacked the power of a single solid roundhouse swing, their cumulative effect proved even more effective when taken with the right cross that Lord Henry whipped over to the amazed man’s jaw. Shocked immobile by the three rapid, painful punches which each jerked his head back, Wingett took the fourth and shot sideways to crash into the bar.

  Sharpie had turned, wanting to see the beating handed to Kerry Barran. When receiving his orders, the deputy was told that he must only intervene if it seemed the quartet could not handle things. Much as he wanted to take his part in hammering bloody revenge out of the hunter, Sharpie knew better than to disobey orders. However, the Englishman’s interference gave him the opportunity he desired. Thrusting himself forward, he advanced toward the struggle.

  Hearing the sound of Sharpie’s rush, Lord Henry pivioted to meet the attack. He saw the badge of Sharpie’s jacket and relaxed, for he retained the Englishman’s respect for law and order. Out drove Sharpie’s fist, catching Lord Henry full in the mouth and staggering him. Catching his balance, the Englishman slipped Sharpie’s next blow, delivered a right hook into the deputy’s belly and clipped his jaw with a left as he doubled over. Jerked erect again, Sharpie reeled away and tried, successfully, to keep his feet.

  Turning from where he landed blows on the dazed Kerry, Potter lunged for and locked his arms around Lord Henry from behind. Along the bar, Schmidt had recovered from his kick and hurled forward, thrusting Rixon aside in his desire to get at Kerry. Spitting blood and curses, Wingett forgot the hunter in his eagerness to take revenge on the man who hurt him, and sprang toward Lord Henry, who struggled to free his arms from Potter’s grasp.

  Dobe Killem knew that he must take a hand. Odds of five to two were more than anybody could manage, no matter how fancy one of them handled his fists. Before the big freighter could go to the other’s assistance, he saw Sharpie halt and reach for a gun. Leaving his chair in a dive, Killem tackled the deputy around the waist and they both went crashing to the floor. In falling, Sharpie lost his hold on the half-drawn revolver and his landing threw it from its holster. Seeing the gun and noting Sharpie’s hand reaching toward it, Killem swung his arm and sent the weapon sliding away across the floor to halt almost at Big Win’s feet.

  Still smoldering with rage at Killem’s dismissal of her offer, Big Win bent and picked up the revolver. However, sanity held her enough to prevent her using the revolver as a firearm in her vengeance attempt. To do so would be cold-blooded murder and no jury could allow it to pass unpunished. Running forward, Win halted alongside Killem as he knelt astride the deputy. Her first blow with the gun’s barrel landed on the freighter’s head, but his hat broke most of its force. Realizing why she achieved so little, Win dragged that hat away with her free hand, then swung up the gun again. A yell of warning came to her ears, she heard the sound of feet rushing behind her, then two hands caught her by the raised wrist.

  Considering their vastly different up-bringings, Calamity Jane and Lady Beryl Farnes-Grable got along remarkably well. After an enjoyable afternoon buying clothes for the trip, including a few items which Beryl wondered whether her brother would approve of her wearing, the girls rejoined the men at the hotel and had a meal. Beryl’s presence prevented Calamity from going with the men when they set out to interview Kerry Barran, so the girls remained in the Englishman’s suite of rooms for a time. Becoming bored, they decided to take a stroll along to see Ma Gerhity, but on reaching the hotel’s lobby heard the sound of the fight and went to investigate.

  They arrived just as Win took a hand and Calamity did not even wait to think before charging off to her boss’s rescue. Gunbelt and whip had been left upstairs, which did not worry Calamity in the least. If she could not deal with a lard-fat calico cat using her bare hands, she ought to give up freighting and take up a seat in some ladies’ sewing circle.

  Darting forward, ignoring the yell of warning let out by one of the girls, Calamity caught Big Win’s upraised wrist. Then Calamity jerked and swung, heaving the other girl away from Killem. Pure luck and nothing more caused Calamity to release her hold in just the right position to send Big Win reeling across the floor in the direction of the door leading from the bar into the lobby. Before Calamity could follow up her attack, Win’s friend charged in, crashing bodily into the red-head and knocking her staggering. Never one to ignore a challenge, Calamity gave her full attention to handling the new assailant and found that the other could handle her end in a brawl.

  Just before she reached the door, Big Win managed to regain control of her rushing body. Wild with anger at being frustrated in her vengeance bid, she wanted to take it out on somebody and was not particular who. Normally she would never have thought of offending or assaulting a well-dressed female guest of the hotel, for its owner insisted on all the courtesies being showed to his clientele on the rooming side of the business. However, in her current st
ate of temper, Win did not give a damn what the boss wanted.

  Halting her rush, she swung around a slap that rocked Lady Beryl’s head to one side and staggered the blonde. Then Win realized what she had done and cold apprehension filled her. A woman as well dressed and rich-looking as the blonde would have enough pull in Otley Creek to see a calico cat who attacked her thrown into jail, or run out of town. Then Win saw an expression of fury take the place of the shock which wiped the calm regality from the blonde’s face. Stepping forward, Lady Beryl hit Win. Not a gentle slap, but a round-arm swing that caught the big brunette’s jaw and sent her backward. At that moment all Beryl’s breeding and refinement left her, turning her into pure angry woman—than which no more dangerous creature exists. Hurling herself forward, Beryl drove one hand’s fingers into Big Win’s hair and with the other slashed a savage blow at the other’s face. Pain shot into Win and she fought back. Spinning around, tearing at hair, Beryl and Big Win crashed to the floor to churn over and over.

  Being a man with some considerable knowledge of such matters, the bartender leapt along the bar and tugged on a fancy thick tassel which trailed down in front of the big mirror’s center. Decorative the cord might be, but it served a very useful purpose, being attached to a peg sunk into the wall over the mirror. The pull jerked out the peg and allowed a wooden shield to slide down along grooves until it covered and protected the Bella Union Hotel bar’s prize possession. With that precaution taken, the bartender turned and hurriedy shot along the bar, scooping up bottles and glasses as he went. With all portable property rescued, he turned and gave his full attention to the fight.

  Granted a momentary relief, Kerry recovered enough to last around a backhand slap that flung Rixon away from him. Avoiding Schmidt’s rush, Kerry pivoted and as the German crashed into the bar, interlocked fingers and delivered a smashing blow to the back of the other’s neck. Before Kerry could do more, he heard a warning yell from Lord Henry and twisted his head to learn what fresh danger threatened him. Rixon had come to a halt by a table. Grabbing a chair by its back, the small skinner rushed forward, swung up the weapon and launched a blow. Kerry twisted aside and the chair crashed into the bar, shattering its legs off. Again Kerry back-handed Rixon away and tackled Schmidt.