The Road to Ratchet Creek

by J. T. Edson

  J.T. Edson

  The Road to Ratchet Creek

  As my life has on two occasions depended

  upon the reliability of his inventions, I

  gratefully dedicate this book to the memory

  of the greatest, most brilliant and prolific

  designer of firearms the world has ever

  seen, or will ever see:

  JOHN MOSES BROWNING.

  Contents

  Author’s Note:

  Chapter 1

  Young Lady with a Whip

  Chapter 2

  To Err is Human

  Chapter 3

  When Struck, Turn the Other Cheek

  Chapter 4

  Yield Not to Anger

  Chapter 5

  Stop Others Doing Unto You

  Chapter 6

  Old Joe’ll Bust a Gut

  Chapter 7

  I Wish You was a Doctor

  Chapter 8

  It’s so Easy You Can’t Lose

  Chapter 9

  I’m Not a Nice Gal

  Chapter 10

  He’s One of the Sedgewell Gang

  Chapter 11

  Thou Shall Not Blow a Hole in a Cheating Skunk’s Head

  Chapter 12

  Don’t Nobody Else Get Clever

  Chapter 13

  It Was His Gun

  Chapter 14

  Consider the Gilded Lilies in that there Saloon

  Chapter 15

  He Wants Me to Go Away with Him

  Chapter 16

  If You Weren’t Holding that Gun

  Chapter 17

  Quit Loafing and Come

  About the Author

  Other Books by J.T. Edson

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s note: I apologize to John Berns of Berns-Martin for Solly Cole’s gunrig and ask him to regard it as a tribute to his own holster which is, in the words of “Davo” Davidson, “a real fine piece of work.”

  Chapter 1

  YOUNG LADY WITH A WHIP

  STANDING ON THE SIDEWALK, HUGHIE RINTEL nudged his companion, Chub Farn, in the ribs and nodded toward a boy of their own age who came along the street in their direction. The chubby, sullen-faced fifteen year old boy darted a precautionary glance to make sure that his father stood with the other loafers idling their time before Promontory’s Wells Fargo office. Assured of parental protection should the need arise, Hughie prepared to commence what had become his favorite sport since settling in Utah Territory.

  “Yah, John Mormon!” he yelled at the boy. “How many wives’s your pappy got at home?”

  “Bet it’s four or five at least,” the tall, gangling Chub went on loudly. “And maybe ten-fifteen each brothers ’n’ sisters.”

  A burst of laughter far in excess of the humor of the two remarks burst from the grown-up loafers. Stocky, surly-looking Bernie Rintel—an older, even more truculent version of his son—nudged his nearest crony in the ribs and grinned approval of Hughie’s actions. Much of Rintel’s bullying nature had passed down to his offspring, to flourish unchecked under parental condonation and protection against the consequences of numerous misdeeds. Being a man of some influence in his section of the community, Rintel smothered any protests about his son’s behavior; a fact Hughie made the most of.

  Without his father’s presence, Hughie would probably have thought twice before picking on that particular Mormon boy, even given Chub Farn’s backing. Possessing a broad streak of discretion, Hughie preferred to take as few chances as possible in his bullying activities and the Mormon looked like he could prove a tough nut to crack.

  An inch taller than Chub, the Mormon boy had a broad-shouldered and muscular frame. The round-topped black hat perching on recently-trimmed brown hair was, like his shirt collar and tie, clearly an item of clothing not usually worn. His young frame appeared to be rapidly outgrowing the home-spun brown suit. A carpetbag swung from his left hand while his right gripped what looked like an old, long-barrelled Kentucky rifle. Sufficient similar weapons could still be seen around in the early 1870’s for it to attract no interest. Yet an observant onlooker might have noticed that it did not carry a ramrod under the barrel, or might have thought the aperture in the breech’s sidewall unusual for what appeared to be a muzzle-loading weapon. For the rest, the gun had its hammer on the underside just ahead of the triggerguard, and looked well-used but as though it received careful maintenance and attention.

  Not being observant, Hughie saw only the bare essentials. He ignored the rifle as a factor, feeling sure its owner would not dare make use of it. After rapid thought, he concluded that between them he and Chub ought to be able to handle the other boy; and Pa could be relied upon to step in should the going get too rough.

  Although his tanned face reddened slightly, John Browning gave no sign of hearing the two boys’ comments. The last thing he wanted was to become involved in any trouble. Even a boyish scuffle could have serious consequences if Mormon and Gentile be involved. So he continued to walk along the street, eyes fixed firmly on the sign over the Wells Fargo office building.

  Encouraged by the lack of response, Hughie swung off the sidewalk so as to block John’s path. Chub followed him down, the two boys standing side by side and leering at their prospective victim.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Mormon?” Hughie demanded.

  “To catch the south-bound stage,” John answered evenly.

  “What you got in the bag?” Chub asked.

  “That’s my business.”

  “Maybe it’s ours too,” Hughie sneered. “There’s been a heap of things go missing around town.”

  “So we want to look what you’ve got in that bag,” Chub went on. “My paw always says anybody that’d take four or five wives can’t be trusted.”

  “You just open up that bag, Mormon,” Hughie continued, advancing in a threatening manner. “We want to make sure you’re not stealing anything.”

  John came to a halt, balancing lightly on his feet and watching the other two as they fanned out with the intention of taking him from either side. Still he held down his anger, although doing so took an ever increasing effort.

  “I’m not looking for trouble,” he warned. “All I want to do is go get a ticket and catch the stage.”

  “And all we want to do is look in that bag,” Chub replied. “Or have you got something to hide, you stinking Mormon thief?”

  “Take a look and see!” Johnny spat, swinging up the bag and tossing it into Chub’s chest. Judging by the way the skinny youngster reeled backward, the bag had a fair weight and arrived with some power.

  From dealing with Chub, Johnny pivoted smoothly and launched a punch at the advancing Hughie. The sudden, effective aggression took both Gentile boys by surprise, past experience having led them to believe Mormons a meek, mild race following a policy of pacifism. So shock as much as hard knuckles colliding with some force against his chin sent Hughie staggering backward.

  Swiftly Johnny stepped to the side of the street and rested his rifle against the sidewalk. Throwing aside the carpetbag, Chub leapt at John, caught him by the shoulder and turned him. For a member of a basically pacific religious creed John seemed to have considerable knowledge of defending himself. As he came around, his hand lashed out. Travelling faster than the blow Chub swung, John’s fist hit its mark first and rammed its knuckles solidly against the other’s nose. Although Chub’s punch landed against John’s cheek, pain in his nasal organ caused it to lose most of its power. It did, however, distract John long enough for Hughie to sneak in and thump him savagely across the back, propelling him into Chub’s arms.

  While John and Chub struggled with each other, Hughie ran forward
, sprang into the air and landed with both feet on the rifle. Not a new weapon, its cherrywood stock could no longer take such an abuse. With a crack it split across the small of the butt and then broke in two pieces held together only by the screws of the triggerguard.

  John let out a howl of rage, hurled Chub away from him and flung himself at Hughie. Reaching over the hitching rail, Rintel Senior caught John’s collar in passing to halt his forward progress. With a twisting heave, the man sent John staggering into the center of the street. Bounding after him, Chub turned and hit him. The blow knocked John back toward Hughie who locked both arms around him from behind. Pinning John’s arms to his side, Hughie clung on grimly and yelled for Chub to fix his wagon good.

  After wiping at his nose and studying the blood on the back of his hand, Chub advanced to rip a punch into Johnny’s belly. As a grunt of pain rose from the trapped boy, Chub drove his fist into John’s face. Knowing the reputation of Hughie’s father, and the general feeling of the audience where Mormons were concerned, Chub expected no interference while beating the helpless youngster up. So feeling a hand clamp hold of his shoulder and heave him backward came as something of a surprise.

  Jerked away from John, Chub felt himself swung and released with sufficient force to be sent sprawling across to the center of the street. He landed on hands and knees, twisting around to see who dared Rintel Senior’s wrath and to go against public opinion in such a manner. What he saw handed him almost as great a shock as the unexpected assault.

  Although clad in male clothing, Chub’s assailant was a woman. Mighty unconventional, maybe, but as female as Eve. A battered U.S. cavalry kepi perched at a jaunty angle on a mop of shortish, curly red hair. Good-looking without being out-and-out beautiful, the young woman’s freckled face might normally be merry and bubbling with a love of life, but right then was set in an expression of grim determination and cold contempt. She wore a fringed buckskin jacket over an open-necked dark blue shirt that, like her levis pants, looked to have been bought a size too small and shrunk in washing. Both items clung to her shapely body in a manner calculated to dispel any lingering doubts as to her sex. From the kepi to the low-heeled riding boots on her feet she was all and every inch a woman despite the way she dressed. Around her waist hung a gunbelt with an ivory-handled Colt 1861 Navy revolver riding butt forward in its contoured holster at the right side. A freighter’s bull whip, its long lash coiled neatly, was thrust into a loop on the left side of her waist belt.

  If Chub had been older he might have felt more appreciation for the rich swell of the girl’s breasts as they forced against the material of the shirt, its neck open low enough to allow a tantalizing glimpse of the valley between them. Five foot seven or so in height, she had a robust figure that slimmed naturally at the waist then curved out to shapely hips and legs that would not have disgraced many a female theatrical performer. Being at an age which did not yet feel the allure of female pulchritude, Chub regarded the girl as no more than a nosey interloper who ought to be taught the error of her ways.

  Hughie reached the same conclusion as his friend. Shoving John aside, he flung himself at the girl. On the sidewalk Rintel’s scowl at the girl’s intervention changed to an indulgent grin, although his son acted in a manner to which most parents would have strenuously objected. With the Mormon boy sunk dazed on to his hands and knees, Chub and Hughie between them should be able to hand the interfering girl her needings. So Rintel stood back and did no more than comment to his friends that “this” should be worth watching.

  And so it proved, although not in the way Rintel anticipated.

  On a couple of occasions Hughie had seen hair-yanking brawls between saloon-girls and they did not leave him with much respect for feminine fighting ability. Unfortunately the girl he attacked did not follow the general female trend. Before Hughie could lay hands on her, she side-stepped him with the ease of a matador avoiding the charge of an inexperienced bull. As he blundered by, she hit him in the stomach. Not a dainty tap, nor a wild, girlish swing, but a full-bodied punch as good as many a man could deliver. Hughie’s breath burst from his lungs as he jackknifed over, reeled past the girl and collapsed to his knees, clutching at his mid-section.

  With a bellow of rage, Rintel bounded from the sidewalk and gave the girl a shove which sent her staggering.

  “No lousey lobby-lizzy’s going to rough-handle my boy!” he roared and started after the girl with the view of emphasizing his point.

  While still reeling from the push, she sent her right hand across to grip the whip’s handle. Catching her balance, she slid free the whip and loosed its lash in a significantly competent manner. If Rintel believed that he merely faced a freight-outfit’s camp-follower, dressed in male clothing for some obscure reason, he rapidly discovered his mistake. As she came to a halt, the girl measured the distance separating her from Rintel, took certain other factors quickly into consideration and acted. Life came into the bull whip’s twenty foot lash and it curled toward the man like a diamondback rattlesnake hunting a jackrabbit, wrapping around his right ankle. She could hardly have timed her move better, for Rintel stood on his right leg, the left raised in a forward step. So he was in no position to resist the sudden tug she gave on the whip handle. His right foot also left the ground and he lit down flat on his back with a satisfactory thud.

  With a yell that sounded three-parts fear, Chub charged toward the girl. At the same time John thrust himself to his feet and dived forward to tackle Chub around the waist and they went down in a wild, fist-flying melee.

  Deftly flicking her whip free, the girl looked contemptuously at Rintel Senior and Junior. Hughie remained on his knees, clutching his belly and giving a hideous wail designed to make the onlookers regard him with sympathy. Spluttering curses, the father sat up. Rage turned his normally red face a shade of purple and he glared at his cronies.

  “Get hold of her!” he yelled.

  Most of the assembled men owed Rintel favors and he was a man who expected a return of any service, no matter how small, he rendered. However all but one of them drew the line at repaying favors when there might be some considerable risk of injury to their own persons involved. The exception may have felt himself more deeply in Rintel’s debt than his companions, or labored under the delusion that luck alone guided the whip’s lash to such a providential mark. Whatever his motives, he sprang boldly from the sidewalk and returned to it, if anything, even faster.

  Pivoting smoothly around, the girl again sent her whip’s lash hissing out. If the first effort had been no more than luck, the good fortune stayed with her. With the crack like a revolver shot, the lash ripped the man’s hat from his head and sent it spinning away, causing his rapid withdrawal.

  “Come on then, you stinking, pot-bellied, sidewalk cow-dung droppings!” the girl challenged. “Only it’ll be a damned sight rougher than standing and watching a kid beat up.”

  Male pride and Rintel’s accusing eyes caused another of the party to attempt to accept the challenge. Believing her attention to be elsewhere, he placed his hand on the hitching rail and started to vault over it. The girl’s whip licked around, propelling the popper at the tip of the lash on to the rail not more than an inch from his hand. Even more than the sound of its arrival, the sight of the way it carved a groove into the stout timber made him change his mind. Already in the process of leaping over the rail, he tried to halt his progress and committed the folly of jerking his supporting hand away. With a yell he fell on to the rail and bounced from there to the sidewalk.

  Again and again the whip cracked, until it became apparent to the watching men that the girl handled it with all the skill of an experienced freight-wagon driver. Nor did any of the men regard it as a toy, although it looked somewhat lighter, if not shorter, than the usual freighter’s implement. So effective a barrage of explosive cracking swings did she make that at first none of the men stood a chance of earning Rintel’s gratitude by carrying out his request.

  Snaking forward li
ke a living extension of the girl’s right arm, the tip of the lash struck the sidewalk’s plank and a man stamped on it. Rintel saw his chance and took it. Although he had regained his feet, he too had failed to break through the deadly defense of the whip. Swiftly he lunged, caught hold of the trapped lash and tugged at it with the intention of wrenching it from the girl’s hand. Instead the pull had the effect of dragging her in his direction. That, Rintel concluded, would do just as well, allowing him to get his hands on her. Once he did so, he aimed to teach her the lesson of her life.

  As she advanced toward the stocky, powerful man, the girl let the whip’s handle slip back through her hand until she gripped its upper end. Rintel watched her, but attached no importance to her movement as he prepared to release the lash and grab her. Too late he realized that she had not only figured out his intentions but was ready to counter them. Accelerating her advance, she arrived before Rintel saw the danger. Up and forward whipped her right arm. Caught between the eyes with the loaded butt of the whip’s handle, Rintel reeled back, banged his heels against the edge of the sidewalk and sat down hard. Jumping away, the girl tore her whip free and prepared to use it again.

  Dazed by the blow, Rintel sat for a moment shaking his head. Then he recovered enough to start spluttering curses. Never had he been so humiliated, and the fact that a woman caused his discomfiture made it so much the worse to bear. All thoughts of her sex disappeared from his mind as he started to rise and reached for the revolver thrust into his waistband.

  Before the girl could take any action to defend herself against the new, and more dangerous threat to her well-being, a shot crashed from the back along the street behind her. Its bullet tossed up a spurt of dirt just in front of Rintel’s feet. Taken by surprise, he jerked his hand away from the gun’s butt, retreated into the edge of the sidewalk and sat down involuntarily once more. His eyes went to the shooter and he did not like what he saw.