Troubled range

by Edson, John Thomas

  "If that's the way you want it," Johnny replied, throwing a puzzled look at the approaching party.

  "Preacher's in town," Big Tup remarked. "So I sent the boys out to gather in your neighbours. Figured you and the fu—your gal'd like company on the way in to see him."

  By that time the others of the party had arrived and broad grins came to every face as they studied Johnny.

  "Where-at's your gal, Johnny?" asked a stout woman. "We didn't know you'd got here or we'd've come over to lend a hand."

  "Java!" Johnny called.

  The house door opened and Jaya came out. There were mutters of admiration and surprise at her appearance, but what the crowd saw following her really made them sit back and stare.

  "Is that you, Tilda-Mae?" Big Tup gasped.

  His surprise had good cause. The girl behind Jaya was clean, her hair still curly but soft looking and tidy, and she wore a gingham dress of modest pattern. During the morning Jaya had searched through the drawers of the side-piece and found clothes belonging to Johnny's dead aunt; she died some eighteen months before his uncle. For the first time in her life Tilda-Mae wore clean underclothes instead of old flour-sack drawers and she liked the feeling. She also liked the admiring looks several young men threw her way, but remembered Jaya's advice about not throwing herself at men so stood demure and unspeaking.

  "Jaya," Johnny said. "There's a preacher down at Bagley's Corners. Do we want to see him?"

  "Yes, Johnny," she gasped. "Yes, please!"

  And she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him, then moved away with a blush on her cheeks as the watching people laughed. Her embarrassment did not last for the women of the party bore down on her, sweeping her and Tilda-Mae back into the house to do the things women must always do before a wedding.

  It made a pretty picture. The bride standing blushing shyly at the side of the very nervous groom. The best man and bridesmaid in their places, the guests seated on cracker boxes, chairs and the bench brought in from its usual place on the store's porch. Bagley's Corners had not yet grown in size to the point where a preacher could live as a permanent thing, or to where a church became a necessity.

  Standing with his back to the assembled crowd, the preacher prepared to start the ceremony. When the rustling and shuffling died away behind him, he turned to face the congregation.

  First he looked at Java's puffed and swollen left eye and scratched cheek. Next his eyes went to Johnny's swollen nose and almost closed right eye. From there his gaze took in Tilda-Mae who sported two blackened eyes and a lump on her forehead and Mark whose left eye matched Johnny's right and whose top lip looked twice its normal size. After that the preacher looked at the crowd, to Tilda-Mae's three brothers who each bore signs of how the big blond Texan handled them; and finally to a pair of young men who carried more recent signs of a discussion as to who should escort this new, clean Tilda-Mae to town.

  After travelling the Texas range for nearly twenty years in a vain attempt to save unruly souls, the preacher reckoned he could not be surprised any more. If the sight before him had not been a surprise, it would do until one came along. However, he rallied quickly.

  "Dearly beloved," he said. "It sure looks like you had a hard time convincing each other it was time to come to church."

  For a moment Jaya and Mark's eyes met and the girl smiled.

  "We did," she breathed. "But we made it in the end."

  Part Three

  The Kidnappers

  A sudden crash! The batwing doors of the Indian Nations Saloon burst open and the citizens of Guthrie, Oklahoma Territory—or such of them as chanced to be in the vicinity at that moment—were treated to the spectacle of Fatso Kinnear erupting into the street. He came out all doubled over, like a man who had been kicked in the belly by a mule; or hit there by a real powerful fist. On the street he dropped to the hoof-churned dirt and lay writhing in agony upon it.

  An instant after Kinnear's arrival on the street, the batwing doors flew open once more and his partner, Lou Rushton, came into sight running backwards; or so it seemed. At least his stubby fat legs moved as if running, although they continued to do so after he left the sidewalk. Then he lit down on his feet and flopped backwards to crash down across Kinnear's bloated form.

  Again the doors opened, although with less violence, as Mark Counter and his cousin Beau emerged. They halted on the sidewalk and looked down at the recumbent forms of their attackers with dispassionate gaze.

  "It looks like they're plump tuckered out, Cousin Mark,"

  said Beau, calmly setting right his grey cutaway jacket, for he was a professional gambler and always liked to appear neatly dressed when his funds ran to it.

  "Looks that way, Cousin Beau," Mark agreed. "I take it you'd won some and they didn't like losing."

  "Amazing deduction. They sat in the game half an hour back and I warned them I intended to pull out at ten o'clock. But when the time came they objected to my going."

  Beau's accents sounded different to Mark's deep south drawl for he had spent several years in England and picked up the speech of the upper-class folks he mingled with.

  "Happen they'd known you, they'd've been pleased to see you go," grinned Mark. "It might have given them a chance to win."

  "My dear old cousin, that pair couldn't count to eleven without taking off their shoes—I won't say socks, they probably don't wear any. Come along the street a piece, I've something for you."

  A few people had gathered around, looking at the groaning shapes on the ground. One of the crowd wore the badge of a deputy town marshal, but he made no attempt to stop Mark and Beau as they walked away. Bounty hunters had never been held in respect by lawmen of the better kind. Kinnear and Rushton were even viler than most of their breed. The deputy knew they had come into Guthrie the previous day bringing in three dead outlaws, two of whom had been shot in the back, to make collection on the bounty their heads carried.

  Being unmoved by public disapproval, Kinnear and Rushton took their blood money to the Indian Nations Saloon and found a big stake poker game in progress. They sat in and found Beau among the players. Not being skilful poker players, their money soon faded away, most of it going in the mistaken belief that Rushton could fill an inside straight on the draw.

  Which was when the trouble started. Beau had already announced his time for quitting the game, both knew of his decision. Yet when the appointed hour arrived they raised

  violent objections to his going. Their objections brought Mark into the affair for his cousin faced odds of two to one in numbers and almost three to one in weight.

  Actually Beau could probably have managed the two men single-handed. Mark definitely could, for neither Rushton nor Kinnear had the courage of cornered rats when put to the test. However, Mark cut in and rendered Kinnear incapable of enjoying his food for some time to come, while Beau demonstrated his fistic prowess on the no more able Rushton.

  Seeing the local law did not appear to have the intention of taking their part, Rushton dragged himself to his feet. He wore an Army Colt at his side but did riot touch it. Not that his scruples would have prevented him shooting a man in the back, but he knew the deputy would intervene should he try.

  Helping the moaning Kinnear to his feet, Rushton half dragged, half carried him from the street.

  At the hotel Mark and Beau prepared to go their separate ways. Beau intended to catch a stage and Mark wished to collect his horse and head down trail on his business.

  "About that thousand you lent me to sit in the game, old son," Beau said, taking out his wallet. "I rather improved on it. Here."

  Mark accepted the sheaf of hundred dollar bills and riffled them through his fingers.

  "Feels like there's more than a thousand here," he remarked.

  "Two actually. Call the other interest on your loan."

  "You don't need to pay me interest, Cousin Beau."

  "I know. But take it anyway," Beau replied. "I'm always luckier if I show a bit of generosity,
and I couldn't have got into the game without your help. So put it away and don't argue. I'd force it on you, only I'd get licked."

  Grinning at his cousin, Mark put the money into his own wallet and slid the wallet under his shirt to the special pocket built inside.

  "I don't feel like licking anybody today," he said.

  "Where are Dusty and the Kid?" Beau asked.

  "They headed straight down to the O.D. Connected.

  What with the delay we had on the way up, with that trouble on the Lindon Land Grant,* and running the law in Mulrooney, they wanted to get back fast. But I heard Pappy was bringing a herd up the west trail and came this way to see him."

  "If I was staying in town for the night we could whoop things up a bit. 1 know a couple of young ladies who're just pining for the company of a brace of fine, fit and frolicsome Southern gentlemen. But I've booked a passage on the northbound stage and there's a big game I want to catch due to start in Mulrooney so I can't cancel it."

  "Sure," Mark drawled. "I want to be riding myself. See you, Cousin Beau."

  "Sure, Cousin Mark. Don't take any wooden women." "I leave that to your side of the family, Adios." With that Mark turned and headed for the livery barn where his horse waited for his pleasure. Beau entered the hotel to collect his belongings. Neither noticed the two girls who had followed them along the street, listening to every word they said.

  Riding his seventeen-hand stallion at an easy trot along the winding trail from Guthrie, Mark made for the western slope of the cattle drives which came up from Texas. Somewhere on the western trail he would meet his father's herd, visit for a spell, then head back to the O.D. Connected.

  The noose of rope came flying from the side of the trail, sent out in a hooley-ann throw to drop over Mark's head and around his shoulders, then draw tight. Although taken by surprise, Mark did not panic. Allowing the reins to fall, he stopped his horse. His right leg kicked free of the stirrup, over the saddlehorn and he dropped to the ground. With a sudden heave of his enormous biceps, he opened his arms. The rope jerked and he heard a startled feminine yelp, then a thud as the one who roped him shot out of the bushes. Mark started to turn, the rope still on him and slowing his move towards his guns.

  ♦Told in Trigger Fast by J. T. Edson.

  A bullet kicked up dirt between his feet. The shot, a flat bark of a Winchester carbine, came from the opposite side to where the rope came.

  "Just freeze solid, big boy!" warned an unmasculine voice.

  Keeping his hands still, Mark turned towards the speaker. She stood at the side of the trail, having stepped from concealment. Working the lever of her carbine, she kept Mark covered.

  The girl wore a white Stetson on the back of a mop of close cut, curly black hair. She was a good-looking girl, probably not more than eighteen years old at most, with her skin tanned by much time spent in the open. The tartan shirt she wore, and the jeans with their turned back cuffs, emphasised a slim, but not bony build. She wore high-heeled cowhand boots, and a gunbelt, with a Navy Colt in its holster at her right side, hung around her waist.

  Just as slowly, Mark turned to look at his captor. She stood in the trail where his sudden jerk had heaved her, the rope still gripped in her hands. In height she came maybe to her pard's shoulder, but did not have a slim build. Rather there was a rubbery plumpness about her, not fat, but the kind of build which allowed its owner to be as agile as many a slimmer person. Her hair style copied her friend's, was mousey brown, and if anything more curly. Her face bore a warm, vibrant, merry, if naive charm. Mark put her age at maybe a year less than the other girl's. A black Stetson hung by its storm strap on to her back. The blue shirt fitted tightly to her body, and the jeans looked stretched almost to their limits. At her left side, the holster and gun looking like mates to the one her friend wore, hung a Navy Colt. Her face showed amazement at having been plucked out of her hiding place with no more effort than if she had been a feather.

  "Haul that rope tight again, Britches!" the slim girl ordered. "One wrong move'll see you limping, big boy."

  "Annie could do it, too, mister," warned the chubby girl, her voice a little high with excitement.

  The chance dropped names, if it had been by chance, puzzled Mark. Sure he had heard of Cattle Annie and Little Britches, but he always discounted them as being no more

  than camp-followers of the Doolin gang. Messengers or lookouts kept around to amuse the male members with their pose of being desperate lady outlaws.

  Having met Doolin on two occasions, not connected with the outlaw's professional life, Mark liked the man. It did not fit in with Mark's ideas of Doolin's character that the outlaw would allow Cattle Annie and Little Britches to do the dirty and risky work of hold-up while he and the other men stayed hidden. In fact it seemed highly unlikely that Doolin would waste time robbing chance-passing strangers. Finally, apart from their friendship, Doolin would not risk antagonising a man as dangerous as Mark Counter; a man with capable, tough and good friends to back him, or take the vengeance trail should Mark be shot in a robbery.

  He allowed the rope to tighten, for Cattle Annie held the carbine like she knew how to use it. Remembering Doolin boasting about the girl's sighting eye, Mark knew better than to object.

  "Now ease your hands round in front of you," Annie ordered and Mark obeyed.

  Showing skill in the handling, Little Britches sent two coils of rope flipping out to settle around his arms and draw tight. Now Mark remained very still. Given a chance and a few minutes to work up to it, he might have snapped the three strands of hard-plaited Manila rope around him, but not in time to stop the girl in front planting lead into him.

  "Cover him, Britches!" Annie ordered, leaning her carbine against a bush. "And keep that rope tight."

  Stepping forward, Annie lugged a pair of old Bean Giant handcuffs from her hip pocket. Mark tensed himself, but felt something hard and round gouge into his back. Something about right for the size of the business end of a Navy Colt. Doolin allowed Britches to be fair with a carbine and handy with a light calibre Colt. Even if she could not shoot like Dusty Fog, the girl would be highly unlikely to miss at that range, and Mark had heard her cock the Colt as she approached.

  Had there been men along Mark could have acted in a different manner. A man could not kick a girl in the guts, then jump her to get a weapon, which he might have chanced

  with a man. He knew Doolin would soon put an end to such foolishness. Which worried Mark. Where was Doolin?

  The handcuffs clicked on to his wrists. They looked like an old pair, probably stolen from some sheriff's office. He hoped the girls had a key, although it did not worry him a great deal if they had not.

  "Don't tickle," he warned as Annie bent to unlash the support thongs on the bottom of his holsters.

  Yet Mark felt puzzled. He could not see why the girls would take the trouble to handcuff him if robbery was their plan. Nor would they waste time in taking off his gunbelt.

  Slinging Mark's gunbelt around her shoulders, Annie stepped back. Britches removed the rope with the easy speed of a cowhand and stood grinning at the other girl.

  "It worked, Annie," she said. "Just like we planned it."

  "Sure," Annie replied, turning to walk towards Mark's horse.

  "Watch him, gal!" Mark ordered. "He doesn't take to strangers handling him."

  To prove its master's words the big stallion swung its head towards the girl, snorting a warning. Annie showed she knew something about horses. Talking quietly and steadily, she walked towards the horse. Out shot her hand to haul the rifle from the saddleboot, then she sprang clear and avoided a vicious chop from the stallion's jaws.

  "What now?" Mark asked, puzzled at the girls' actions.

  "You're coming with us," Britches replied, stepping around him, having holstered her Colt while she coiled the rope.

  "Why?" Mark asked.

  "Why'd you think?" Annie answered.

  Mark did not reply in words, but his smile brought an a
ngry flush to Annie's face and caused Britches to giggle.

  "Not for thatT Annie snorted.

  "You wouldn't need to hawg-tie me if it was," grinned Mark. "Why then?"

  "We know you, Mark Counter. Your pappy's coming up trail right now."

  "So?"

  "So we figure he'll pay a thousand dollars to get you

  back," Britches explained and Annie frowned at her for stealing the thunder.

  It took Mark almost thirty seconds to get what Britches meant.

  "How long's Bill Doolin gone in for kidnapping?' he asked.

  "Shucks, this isn't Bill's idea," Britches replied. "It's mine—well, mine and Annie's."

  Her amendment came as she saw a frown crease Annie's brow.

  "Sure," Annie agreed. "Bill and the boys went out to pull off a raid and left us at a hide-out. Only we come into Guthrie, saw you, learned who you was and where you was headed. Came out here, laid in wait and caught you. Ole Bill doesn't know sic 'em about this."

  That figured, happen a man came to think about it. Bill Doolin must be far away for the girls to be trying such foolishness. Mark knew Doolin would put an end to the farce quickly enough should he return. So Mark reckoned he might as well go along with the girls. His father's herd would not be close enough for them to deliver the ransom message for several days and by that time anything could have happened to set Mark free.

  "On your hoss, big boy," Annie ordered. "And no tricks, or they'll be calling you Limpy."

  While Mark swung afork his horse, Annie threw a bullet into his rifle's chamber. Britches hurried off to return with a pair of wiry ponies. She mounted one, jerking the carbine from its saddleboot, after strapping on her rope to the horn. Annie booted her carbine and retained Mark's rifle in her hands to help keep the big Texan under control.

  "Get going, and don't try a trick," Britches ordered.

  "Nary a trick, ma'am," replied Mark, now thoroughly enjoying the unusual experience of being kidnapped by a pair of pretty little girls. "Where'd you want for me to go?"