by J. T. Edson
At last the meal ended and cigar-smoke clouded the air. Calamity finished her coffee and stubbed out the end of the cigar which she took along with the men. Giving a grunt, she stretched her arms and winced a little at the pain it caused.
“When you bunch’re tired of whittle-wanging,” she said, “there’s a sick and sore lil gal here just dying on her feet for want of loving care.”
“Come on then, Calam,” Mark replied. “I’ll walk you along to Ma Gerhity’s place after you’ve collected your gear from the wagon.”
On leaving the dining-room, Calamity first went upstairs and into the English couple’s suite. She found the doctor fussing around Beryl, but the blonde appeared to be recovered without any serious damage or effects. So Calamity took her gun-belt and whip, wished Beryl good night, and rejoined Mark in the hall. There she also saw Big Win and watched the other suspiciously. However, it proved that Win felt no hostility and even grinned amiably.
“Say, that blonde gal’s really something, Calam,” Win said. “Do you know what she’s done?”
“Nope.”
“Squared things with the boss for us—and offered to pay for anything we had lost or damaged in the fight.”
“She’s a real lady and all right in my book,” Calam commented.
“And mine,” agreed Win. “I’ve told the others that anybody who tries to put the bite for more than she lost’ll answer to me.”
“Thanks, Win,” Calamity said.
“She’s playing square with us. Tell Dobe I’m sorry for hitting him.”
“You tell him when he comes out of the dining-room. Maybe he’ll feel like throwing a party.”
Win groaned. “Right now a party’s the last thing I want.”
“I know just how you feel,” grinned Calamity. “See you around, Win.”
“Same old Calamity,” Mark said, taking the girl’s arm and walking from the hotel with her. “Neck deep in fuss like always.”
“I tell you, Mark,” she replied. “This’s one I didn’t start.”
“And didn’t walk two short inches to avoid, either. You’d make a hell of a wife for a man, Calam.
“If that’s asking me——”
“It’s not,” Mark hurriedly assured her.
“You had me worried there for a minute,” grinned the girl.
“You’d make a hell of a husband for a gal, too—and I should know.”
The two wagons had been left at the rear of the livery barn, between the big main building and a half-circle of corrals. Pausing only to look in on hers and Killem’s wagon teams, housed in one corral, Calamity walked toward the wagon, still on Mark’s arm.
“Fair bunch of horses in the big corral,” Mark commented. “They’re some for Henry’s buying, aren’t they?”
“Sure. Wainer’s holding them for a mustanger who caught them. Henry’ll be coming down to take what he wants in the morning.”
On reaching the rear of Calamity’s wagon, Mark gripped her under the arms and swung her up to its bed with no more effort than shown by a nurse lifting a baby. However, before entering the wagon’s covered-over section, Calamity paused and looked down at him.
“What now?” asked Mark.
“I’m scared of mice.”
“So?”
“So happen I see one inside, I might scream.”
“And then what?” grinned Mark.
“Just think what folks’d say happen they heard me screeching—cause I was scared of a mouse—and found you stood outside the wagon. Why it could plumb ruin you socially.”
“A man has to watch his social standing,” admitted Mark, and swung up alongside the girl.
Expecting to spend the night at Ma Gerhity’s place, Calamity had not troubled to open out her bedroll, or take it along. Striking a match, she crossed the bare floor of the wagon and lit the lamp which hung from the roof. From there she went to the front of the wagon, knelt down and unfastened the buckles of the bedroll. A shove opened it, tarp blankets and suggans flopping out to form a ready-made bed with her war-bag in the center.
“I’m too tuckered out to walk right down to Ma’s place,” she said.
“So what do you aim to do?” asked Mark.
“I’d stay on here, but it’s too scary for a poor, defenseless lil gal all alone.”
“Reckon it would be,” Mark agreed.
“A Texas gentleman ought to know the right thing to do,” Calamity commented.
“A Texas gentleman’d go fetch a chaperone to watch over you.”
“He would?”
“Surely would. Only I’m no gentleman.”
“I just wouldn’t have it any other way,” sighed Calamity. “I’ll get some of that soothing oil I got from that old Pawnee medicine woman. It sure works for stiffness and aches—if I can find some way of putting it on.”
“There’s always a way—happen you look,” Mark told her.
The inside of the wagon lay dark, warm, and the not unpleasant scent of the Pawnee medicine woman’s soothing oil permeated the air. Snuggled up against Mark’s side, Calamity awoke and felt him stirring slightly.
“Somebody just went by,” she whispered.
“I heard them,” Mark replied and rolled free from the blankets.
Range habits caused Mark to retain his trousers, even though removing his shirt when he went to bed. He reached out, drew on the shirt and then slid the right-hand Colt from its holster. Moving with just as much speed, and in equal silence, Calamity slipped into her shirt, but laid her defensive emphasis on the long bull whip rather than her revolver. Side by side, they moved to the rear of the wagon and Mark drew up the cover to let them look out.
“Down by the big corral gate!” Calamity breathed.
A quarter moon gave them just enough light to make out the dark shape which made its stealthy way along the side of the big main corral. Swiftly Mark swung himself over the tail gate of the wagon, dropping soundlessly to the ground. Wise in such matters, he tossed the Colt from his right hand to the left on landing. He figured he might need the gun, but wished to avoid becoming an open target.
No man sneaked in a suspicious manner toward the gate of a corral containing valuable unbranded horses at night if he had innocent intentions. With the penalty for horse-stealing being death, it did not pay to take chances at such a moment.
At least two people walked by the wagon and only one of them made his way toward the corral gate. However, Mark did not have time to look for the other. Already the man had reached the gate and fumbled with its fastenings. Once the gate opened, the sound of shooting would spook the remuda and allow it access to the open range. So Mark had to prevent the gate opening if he could; and chance the second man not being in a position to interfere.
“Hold it!” he snapped.
A snarling curse sounded from the man at the corral gate and he whirled to face Mark. Flame spurted from the man and lead slapped the air close to Mark’s body. The blond giant did not hesitate. Up slanted his Colt, its hammer falling as his powerful forefinger depressed the trigger. Although partially blinded by the muzzle-blast, Mark heard the distinctive sound of lead striking human flesh. Even before he could move from his position, another shot crashed out; this time from the side of the corral. Only one thing saved Mark. Unable to see the blond giant against the background of the wagon, the second horse-thief aimed at the Colt’s flame, sending his bullet to where a right-handed man ought to be. Mark held his Colt in the left hand, which made enough difference to save him.
Calamity saw the second shape just an instant too late to warn Mark, or stop the shot being fired. Springing forward, she shook loose the whip’s coils and let fly at the very limit of its range as time did not permit her to go closer. Specially made for her, the whip’s lash was lighter than usual, but no shorter; and the slightly thinner lash proved no less effective than would its heavier male counterpart. Nor did it lack accuracy, as was proved by the screech which followed on the rifle-crack of the whip in action. Caught by the
very tip of the lash, the man felt as if his face had burst into flames. He gave a scream, let his gun fall and turned to flee. Calamity let him go, not knowing that he had lost his gun. While a mite reckless at times, she was no fool and knew better than to go chasing an armed, desperate man when carrying only her whip; effective weapon though it might be. Instead, she swung around and gave her attention to the horses in the corral.
Spooked by the shots, the remuda milled around restlessly. Mark ignored the light which appeared at one of the barn’s windows and dashed toward the corral gate. At any moment one of the frightened horses might hit and force open the gate, then the whole remuda would stampede. If that happened, Lord Henry’s hunt would be delayed until fresh mounts could be gathered in.
Hurdling the still shape sprawled out on the ground, Mark landed by the gate and thrust it closed just as one of the milling horses struck it. He had heard the shot, crack of Calamity’s whip and scream, so did not expect any further trouble from that side. Swiftly he slammed home the gate’s bolts and then looked around.
“Are you all right, Calam?” he called.
“Sure. How about you?”
“I’ll do.” Mark assured her, then grinned as he wondered what the livery barn’s owner would make of his and Calamity’s barefoot and untidy appearance.
Chapter 7
A NIGHT FOR MAKING PLANS
“I DON’T WANT TONIGHT TO INFLUENCE YOU IN any way, Kerry, or have you under the impression that I think you’re beholden to me,” Lord Henry said after Calamity left on Mark’s arm. “But if you feel like changing your mind, my offer is still open. I would like you along as my guide.”
“I’d near on decided to go before they jumped me,” Kerry answered. “Seeing the way you can fight didn’t weaken me any.”
“Then you’ll accept?”
“Sure will.”
“Look, we can’t stay on down here. I see the waiter giving us ‘Why-don’t-you-go-to-bed?’ looks. Let’s go up to my suite and have a natter about this and that, shall we?”
“You’re the boss,” Killem agreed.
Watched by a relieved waiter, who had seen too many late-hours sessions develop to miss the signs, the three men rose and walked from the room. On the way upstairs, a thought struck Kerry.
“Your sister will be asleep,” he said.
“She’s a heavy sleeper,” Lord Henry replied. “Especially after tonight. I bet she’s stiff in the morning.”
“Calamity’s got something that’ll cure it if she is,” Killem remarked. “I hope she’s enough of it for all of us.”
Wheatley stood in the sitting-room of the suite when the men entered. “The doctor has left, my Lord, and her ladyship is sleeping. I’ve put the drinks on the table ready for you.”
“Three glasses?” commented the surprised Kerry.
“I’ve seen too many hunting gentlemen not to know the signs, sir,” Wheatley explained. “Your face told me you would accept Lord Henry’s offer.”
“Don’t you want to play poker with me, friend?” warned Kerry.
“No, sir,” Wheatley replied seriously.
“I’d like you to look over my battery, old chap,” Lord Henry remarked. “And don’t look so surprised, Wheatley’s always doing it. Come on over and see if I’ll need anything more in the gun line.”
Crossing the room, Lord Henry unfastened the reinforced leather box. Its top and front side both opened and exposed eight guns securely racked in two rows. At the peer’s side, Kerry could hardly hold down a whistle of admiration. With two exceptions, the guns in the case showed the superb workmanship for which Britain in the mid-1870s was famous.
Reaching into the case, Lord Henry freed and took out the uppermost gun. He held it out for Kerry to study the short twin barrels, superbly carved woodwork and general excellence of its design and construction. The gun showed signs of considerable use, but not abuse.
“It’s a fine piece,” Kerry admitted, “but I like longer barrels in a shotgun.”
“So do I,” agreed Lord Henry. “But if you have longer than a twenty-four-inch barrel, an eight-bore rifle weighs too heavy for use.”
“That’s a rifle?” asked Kerry, staring at the twin muzzles, each larger than the mouth of a ten-gauge shotgun.
“Of course. William Evans made it for me. I first used it while elephant hunting in the Transvaal. It stopped a charging bull with over two hundred pounds of ivory in its tusks.”
“I reckon it’d stop near on anything,” Kerry conceded. “Can I——”
“Of course,” Lord Henry replied, breaking open the rifle and showing its empty barrels; an elementary precaution taken instinctively.
Despite its somewhat squat appearance and heavy weight, Kerry found that the rifle possessed such superb balance that it snapped naturally to his shoulder and handled with the ease of a top-quality shotgun. Glancing along the rib between the barrels, over the V of the backsight to the blade of the foresight, Kerry wondered what sort of sensation went with shooting a rifle that had a larger caliber than most shotguns he had seen.
“It’s a touch heavy,” he said, returning the rifle.
“You only notice that until you touch off your first bullet,” Lord Henry answered. “With twelve drams of powder shoving eleven hundred grains of lead out, you need something to absorb the kick—not that even sixteen pounds of gun stops it all, but the weight helps.”
“Yeah,” grinned the hunter. “Say, this’d be hell to shoot lying down.”
“Only ever knew one chap who tried.”
“What happened to him?”
“The recoil broke his collarbone.”
“How’d you use it then, Henry?” Killem inquired.
“Standing up, shooting off-hand. Of course, you won’t get accuracy at anything like two hundred, or even a hundred yards. But you don’t pop off at an elephant or buffalo at that range anyway. When either a tusker or a Cape buffalo comes at you with blood in his eye, you really need something that will stop him in his tracks.”
“I’ve never yet been charged by a buffalo,” Kerry remarked.
“There’s a difference between a Cape buffalo and one of your bison, Kerry—you don’t mind if we dispense with formalities, do you?”
“I reckon not, Henry. How’re they different?”
“I’ve photographs of——”
“The album is here, my lord,” intoned Wheatley, materializing with a large, leather-bound book in his hands.
While the two Americans examined photographs of what, to them, were strange animals, Lord Henry unpacked the rest of his battery. In addition to the big bore, he had three Express rifles, one .577 in caliber and the other two .405, a brace of magnificent Purdey twelve-gauge shotguns, a Remington Creedmoor single-shot rifle and a Winchester Model ’66 repeater, both new-looking compared with the worn condition of the others. He handled the guns with loving care, as befitting the old and trusted friends all but the two American guns had proved to be. While removing and checking the battery, he answered questions about the various pictures which aroused his companions’ interest.
“That’s a man-eating tiger from the Assam Valley of India. Killed fifty natives and two white chaps who went after it. Gave me the devil of a time before I finally bagged him.”
“How about this critter?” Kerry inquired. “I never saw a bull with horns like that afore.”
“You wouldn’t have. That’s a Cape buffalo and he gave me some of the worst moments of my life. Some blighter had wounded him and left him alive. Pain drove him mad, but didn’t make him act stupidly. When he took to terrorizing the natives, he had to be stopped.”
“Just take a look at that elephant, Kerry,” breathed Killem, tapping one photograph. “I sure as hell never saw one that size in any travelling circus.”
“You wouldn’t. They use Indian elephants, but no man has ever trained an African elephant. I needed that big double when he came at me.”
Kerry sat entranced as the pages of the album tur
ned. Some of the animals he had read about, a few he had seen in travelling circuses, many were unknown to him. The more he saw, the more he knew that the lean, tanned Englishman and he shared the same interest in life. Lord Henry Farnes-Grable took far more pleasure in matching his wits against a really fine specimen than in shooting inferior or average creatures. Taking him out ought to prove real interesting.
From what Lord Henry said, Kerry realized that the other knew much about all aspects of hunting. Without boasting, the peer told of his hunts and the listening men guessed that he left much of the actual hardships and danger unmentioned in his clipped, to-the-point stories.
“How about my battery, Kerry?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’ll need the eight-bore for,” the hunter answered. “Grizzly, maybe, but you don’t need that much gun to drop a buffalo—one of our kind, that is.”
“It wouldn’t be a hunt without it along,” Lord Henry explained. “We might find a use for it.”
“How about the others?”
“These are Evans’ Express rifles,” Lord Henry explained. “Beryl uses one of the .405s, and she’s a pretty good shot. They make pretty good second guns. After all, a chap out after sport doesn’t want to use a big bore all the time, especially on the small stuff.”
“How’d they shoot?”
“Well enough up to around three hundred yards. Although I must admit that the combination of a heavy powder charge and light bullet leaves much to be desired in the killing line. Chum of mine took a shot at a tiger and the bullet burst apart when it hit the blighter’s skull. Dazed it somewhat, which wasn’t exactly the idea. Anyway, I bought the Remington for long-distance work.”
“It’s a straight-shooting gun and carries well,” Kerry admitted. “What happened to your pard?”
“Luckily he had an eight-bore along. When the tiger bounced up and charged, he shot it from a range of eight feet. I must say that he stopped it that time.”
