by J. T. Edson
Once again the pedlar gave Murat worrying news. Hired guns always meant bad trouble. If Ella Watson had brought in a couple of guns, it might be for the purpose of nullifying the threat Gooch offered to her cow-stealing business—always assuming that Jacobs had his facts right and she did run the she-bang.
Without letting his concern show, Murat slipped another five dollars into Jacobs’s hand. “If you go south, see if you can learn anything about those stage robberies they’ve had down that way,” he said.
“Sure, Cap’n. How about that Caspar fuss?”
“I’ll send word to the sheriff up there and let him do what he wants.”
“Aren’t you sending your men in?” Jacobs inquired.
“Only if the local law asks for them,” replied Murat cagily.
While Jacobs had proved himself a reliable source of information on more than one occasion, Murat did not trust the man. Knowledge of the coming of a Ranger, or a party of Rangers, would fetch a good price from the right area and Jacobs might just as easily sell his news to the cow thieves as he had to Murat. So Murat did not intend to give too much away; not with the lives of his men at stake.
“Don’t reckon he’ll ask,” grinned Jacobs. “Sheriff Simmonds ain’t the best, or smartest, lawman in the West.”
“He getting paid for sitting back and doing nothing?”
“I couldn’t say, Cap’n. Only he’s sure dressing better now than he did last time I saw him, before the cow stealing started.”
“I likely won’t hear anything from him then,” Murat grunted. “Which same I’ve paid out fifteen iron men for nothing.”
“News is always valuable, Cap’n,” answered Jacobs.
“So they do tell me,” agreed the Ranger. “See you, Jake.”
“I’ll be around,” promised the pedlar. “You wanting me to go down south and see what I can find about the stage hold-ups?”
“If you’re headed that way—and afore you ask, don’t. You’ve made fifteen bucks off me for something I might not be able to put to use.”
Turning, Murat walked to his horse and swung into the saddle. Jacobs watched the Ranger captain ride away and then swung aboard his wagon. With an annoyed sniff, the pedlar started his team moving. He felt disappointment at not learning more about Murat’s plans. The Ranger captain most likely aimed to send at least one of his men to Caspar and to be able to identify the man might have proved profitable. Ella Watson would have paid well to know of her danger and be able to recognize it when the Ranger arrived. One thing Jacobs learned early was never to try to sell half information to criminals. While Ella Watson might be interested to know that the Rangers were coming, she was unlikely to pay for the information—at least not enough to make a return trip to Caspar worthwhile—unless Jacobs could also tell who exactly to watch for.
Murat rode between the two buildings and back on to the street once more, turning over the problem and Jacobs’s information in his mind. A worried frown creased his face as he continued his interrupted return to his company’s barracks. One thing was even more sure now. The Governor had been right to worry about the developments in Caspar County. Cow stealing was bad enough; but when both sides started importing hired killers the situation became far worse.
Hoping against hope, Murat swung his horse through the gates into the compound of Troop “G,” Texas Rangers. No imposingly military structure lay before him. The compound had no parade ground, for the Rangers did no drill and wore no uniform. Just an adobe office building and cells, three wooden cabins, a long stable and barn, and a pole corral made up the company’s headquarters. Murat glanced hopefully at the corral, but found it to be empty. The company’s remuda had been taken out on to the range beyond the compound to graze and any horse in the corral would mean that one of his men was back from a chore.
Even as a youngster, one of the trio who acted as wranglers for the Rangers’ horses, dashed up to collect Murat’s mount, a tall man in cowhand clothes and with his right arm suspended in a sling left the office building. The man walked toward Murat and the captain asked:
“No sign of any of the boys, Sid?”
“Nope. I’m near on fit though.”
The injured Ranger knew a summons from the Governor meant something urgent and wondered what further trouble had been heaped on Murat’s shoulders.
“Near on’s not good enough, Sid. I can’t send you out until you can handle a rifle as well as a Colt.”
“Danged spoilsport,” growled Sid, but he knew Murat to be right. A Ranger with a bullet-busted wing sure would be at a disadvantage in handling any risky law work. “It bad?”
“Bad enough,” admitted Murat. “Let’s go in and I’ll tell you about it.”
Following Sid into the office, Murat made a decision. Unless at least one of his men had returned by sundown the following day, Murat intended to disregard the Governor’s orders and head for Caspar himself.
Chapter 3 MISS CANARY IN DISTRESS
MISS MARTHA JANE CANARY EXPECTED TO BE raped and killed before fifteen more minutes went by. Already the sweat-stinking fat cuss had finished his food and started opening the drawers of the side-piece, grinning slyly at her and waiting for her objections. The handsome jasper, if you cared for swarthy features and a drooping moustache, the others called Choya still sat eating; his black eyes studying the girl as if trying to strip her with his gaze. After finishing his meal, the short, scar-faced hombre named Gomez had left the cabin on a visit to the backhouse and the fourth member of that evil quartet, Manuel, sat wolfing down a mess of victuals like it was going out of style. When they all had finished eating and no longer required her services as cook, the ball was sure as hell going to start.
From the first moment she saw the four Mexicans riding toward the cabin, the girl expected trouble. One saw plenty of Mexicans in this part of Texas, but the quartet struck her as being wrong. While they dressed to the height of vaquero fashion, they showed a mean-faced, slit-eyed wolf caution which did not go with the behavior of such Mexican cowhands she had seen on her travels. The backward glances, the careful, alert scrutiny of the place as they rode toward it, each told the girl a story. She knew instinctively the four men riding toward her were bad. Outlaws of some sort; maybe Comancheros, those human wolves who preyed on both white and Indian, leaving a trail of carnage wherever they went. All but smashed by the Texas Rangers before the Civil War, a few small bands of Comancheros had avoided capture, or sprung into being during Davis’ incompetent administration. It seemed in keeping with the girl’s general lousy luck of the past few days that she should run across one such bunch under the present conditions.
Way she looked at it, only one good thing could be said of the situation. Those four snake-eyed greasers did not know her true identity. They must take her for the wife or, as she wore no rings, daughter of the house; easy meat for their evil purposes once she had filled their bellies. Most likely they would not have been so relaxed, or taken such chances, had they known her to be Calamity Jane.
Not that Calamity looked quite her usual self. She had seen to that on taking stock of her position in respect of the approaching riders. Her hat, a faded old U.S. cavalry kepi, hung behind the door instead of perching at its usual jaunty angle on her mop of curly red hair. Nothing about her tanned, slightly freckled, pretty face gave a hint of her true identity; the eyes were merry most time, the lips looked made for laughing and kissing, but could turn loose a blistering flow of team-driver’s invective at times. The man’s shirt she wore looked maybe two sizes too small as it clung to her rich, round, full bosom and slender waist, its neck open maybe just a mite lower than some folks regarded as seemly, the sleeves rolled up to show strong-looking arms. However, she wore a black skirt from the waist down, effectively covering her levis pants; the latter, like the shirt, fitted a mite snug and drew sniffs of disapproval from good ladies when Calamity passed by. Not that Calamity usually gave a damn about how folks regarded her style of dress. She wore men’s clothing becau
se she did a man’s job and only donned the skirt as a piece of simple disguise which appeared to have fooled the four Mexicans.
Calamity had been on her way to Austin with a wagon-load of supplies, handling a contract for her boss, Dobe Killem, and decided to call in to visit with her friends, Dai and Blodwin Jones. On her arrival she found the Jones’ had gone into Austin that morning, but with frontier hospitality they left the house open and food around for any chance-passing stranger to take a meal. Being hungry and trail-dirty, Calamity decided to night at the house. After caring for the team which drew her big Conestoga wagon, Calamity took a bath in the Jones family’s swimming hole behind the house—leaving her gunbelt with its ivory butted Navy Colt, Winchester carbine and bull whip in the boot of the wagon. Like a danged fool green kid fresh out from the East, she did not collect the weapons before entering the house and cooking up a meal.
Not until she heard the hooves of the Mexicans’ horses and looked from the window did Calamity realize the full gravity of her mistake. One glance told the range-wise Calamity all she needed to know about the visitors and she did not like the thought. The Jones’ had taken their weapons with them when they headed for town. Nobody left guns, ammunition, powder and lead around an empty house. Even so close to Austin, capital city of the State of Texas, there was always a chance of an Indian raid and no Texan wanted to present a bunch of hostiles with free firearms. Calamity did not even consider using one of the butcher knives to defend herself. Mexicans were a nation of knife-fighters and she would have no chance against them using cold steel. Nor did she commit the folly of dashing out to her wagon. Before she could make it, the Comancheros would be on her.
Thinking fast, Calamity headed for the Jones’ bedroom and grabbed one of Blodwin’s skirts. Blodwin stood a few inches taller than Calamity and the extra length of the skirt hid the fact that Calamity wore men’s pants and Pawnee moccasins, then she waited for the Mexicans to arrive.
On their arrival, the four men had been all politeness. Choya, he appeared to be their leader, greeted her in fair English, asking if the señorita could feed four poor travellers. All the time he spoke, his three men scanned the place with careful eyes, searching for sign of the male members of the household and sitting with their hands on gun butts. On receiving Calamity’s permission to enter, the Mexicans left their horses standing outside, not fastened but with trailing reins to prevent the animals straying. Calamity cooked up a meal of ham and eggs, conscious of the evil, lust-filled eyes watching her every move. There had been a knowing, mocking sneer on Choya’s lips as he listened to her remarks about the ranch’s crew being due back at any moment; he knew her to be alone and, as he thought, real helpless.
Carefully avoiding turning to where the fat man searched the side-piece’s drawers, Calamity watched and waited. With the meal all but over, she figured it would not be long before the men decided to make their play. If she hoped to come out of the affair with her life, she must act soon, fast and right.
“There’s nothing here, Choya,” the fat man stated in Spanish. “No money, no guns. Nothing for us.”
“She may know where there is something,” Choya answered. “It will be amusing to find out, hey, Manuel?”
Swallowing a mouthful of food, the fourth member of the party ogled Calamity with evil eyes. “It will,” he agreed. “Who is first?”
“Me,” said the fat man.
“You was first last time, Ramon,” Manuel objected.
Calamity knew it was now or never. While the conversation had been in Spanish, which she did not speak, her instincts warned her of its meaning. One did not need the powers of a Pawnee witch-woman to figure out what lay in the Mexicans’ minds, it showed too plainly on their faces for that.
Slowly she lifted the lid of the coffeepot, as if to check on the level of its contents. Among other unladylike things, her freight outfit friends had taught her a thorough working knowledge of the game of poker, including the art of hiding the emotions; and she used all her skill to prevent herself giving any hint of her intentions. Ramon still stood at the far side of the room by the side-piece and, if Calamity be any kind of judge on such matters, his holster did not look to be the type from which a Colt could be drawn speedily. Of the two men at the table, Choya struck Calamity as being the most dangerous and the one to be taken out of the game first.
With that thought in mind, Calamity acted. Suddenly, and without giving a hint of her intentions, she hurled the contents of the coffeepot into Choya’s face. Almost half a pot full of very hot coffee caught the man, temporarily blinding him. Jerking back, hands clawing at his face, Choya threw over his chair and crashed to the floor.
Manuel gave an explosive Spanish curse, shoving his chair back and starting to rise. Even as the man’s hand went toward his gun, Calamity, moving with the speed of urgent desperation, turned from Choya and met the fresh menace. Pivoting around, Calamity swung her arm at and crashed the bottom of the coffeepot into Manuel’s face. Calamity had worked hard ever since her sixteenth birthday and had real strong arms. So as she hit to hurt, Manuel knew the blow landed. Blood gushing from his nose, Manuel went over backward smashing the chair under him and sprawled on to the floor.
With the two men at the table handled, Calamity gave Ramon her full and undivided attention. The fat man had been taken completely by surprise by the unexpected turn of events and, as Calamity figured, could not get out his gun with any speed. Not that he bothered; instead his hand dropped and drew a wicked, spear-pointed knife from its boot-top sheath. Whipping back her arm, Calamity hurled the coffeepot at Ramon’s head and for a girl she could aim mighty straight. Even at the width of the cabin, the flying coffeepot landed hard enough to hurt and slowed down Ramon’s attempt at retaliatory measures. The coffeepot’s blow did little actual damage, but it brought Calamity a vital couple of seconds time—and at that moment every second gained was precious.
Snarling with rage, Ramon sprang forward. Not at the girl, but toward the door of the cabin; meaning to block her way out for Calamity was heading toward it. Only Calamity had already thought of and discarded the idea of using the door as a means of egress. Instead she headed for the window nearest to her. Covering her head with her arms, she hurled herself forward, passing through the window and taking both glass and sash with her. The way Calamity saw things, the Jones’ window could be far more easily replaced than the damage those four yahoos would inflict should they lay hands on her.
Sailing through the window, Calamity lit down rolling like she had come off a bad horse. She went under the porch rail and landed on her feet beyond it. Wasting no time, she headed on the run for her wagon. From the corner of her eye, she saw the cabin door fly open and Ramon appeared. The Mexican came knife in hand, a trickle of blood running from his forehead where the coffeepot struck him.
Calamity reached the wagon and despite the awkwardness of wearing a skirt, leapt for the box. Even as she swung on to it, a glance to the rear told her how little time she had to save herself. Ramon had halted and already changed his hold on the knife, gripping it by the point of the blade instead of the hilt. While not the brightest of men, he could figure out that the girl did not head for the wagon in a state of blind panic. She must be after a weapon of some kind and he aimed to throw the knife, downing her before she reached whatever she sought in the wagon.
Grabbing for the nearest of her weapons, Calamity caught up the long bull whip’s handle. Even as Ramon prepared to throw his knife, Calamity struck out. Her right hand rose, carrying the whip up and flicking its lash behind her. Down swept the arm, sending the whip’s lash curling forward. An instant before Ramon made his throw, the tip of the lash caught him in the face, splattering his right eyeball as if it had been struck by the full force of a .44 bullet. Ramon screamed, the knife falling from his fingers as they clawed at his injured face.
For a moment Calamity thought that her luck had changed for the better. While she could handle her bull whip real well, there had not been
time to take a careful aim. She just let fly and hoped for the best. Having a bull whip give its explosive pop within inches of one’s head did not make for steady nerves or accurate aim when tossing a knife; so Calamity merely hoped to put Ramon off his aim, causing him to miss his throw, and give her the short time needed to change whip for carbine. From the way that fat jasper screeched and blood spurted between his fingers, she had done a whole lot better than just put him off by a near miss.
A bullet ripped the air by Calamity’s head even as she swung around to drop the whip and grab up her Winchester. Once again, as she had several times before, Calamity decided there was no sound in the world she hated as much as the flat “splat!” sound of a close-passing bullet. Throwing a glance at the shooter, Calamity found she was not yet out of the woods. Gomez stood at the corner of the cabin, holding up his pants with one hand, lining his gun at her with the other. He stood well beyond the range of her whip and handled that smoking Starr Army revolver like he knew which end the bullets came from. What was more, he took careful aim, not meaning to miss again.
Letting the whip fall, Calamity prepared to make a grab that would see the twelve-shot Winchester Model ’66 carbine in her hands—unless she took a .44 Starr bullet between the shoulders first. It had been her original intention to make the wagon, collect the carbine and fort up some place where she could have a clear field of fire at the front of the cabin. If the plan had succeeded, Calamity reckoned she ought to be able to hand those jaspers their needings.
Only she had forgotten Gomez and it seemed that her lack of foresight would cost her dearly. She doubted if he aimed to miss a second time. Nor would there be time for her to grab the carbine and stop him.
Even as death stared Calamity in the face, while the Mexican aimed his revolver and pressed its double-action trigger, a shot rang out. Not the deep boom of a handgun, but the crack of a Winchester rifle. For an instant Calamity thought her unseen rescuer had struck a flour-sack, for something white sprayed up from Gomez’ head. Then she realized that the Winchester’s bullet, on striking the skull, had shattered the bone, spraying slivers of it and pulped out brains flying into the air. The Starr fell from Gomez’ hand as his body collapsed in a limp, boned-out manner to the ground.
