The Road to Ratchet Creek

by J. T. Edson

  Weighing slightly over two thousand pounds, the coach could carry up to fifteen passengers and around a ton of baggage. It would cover at least twenty-five miles in a full day’s travel, given reasonably decent trails. Leaving Promontory at noon, it would reach Ratchet Creek in two and a half days, each night being spent at a company way station.

  Seeing Calamity and John examining his coach and team, the driver ambled toward them. Naturally such a magnificent vehicle as a Wells Fargo Concord stage from the “Big Run” could not be driven by any ordinary mortal, so all the drivers tended to show a certain eccentricity in their choice of clothing. Unlike many of his colleagues, who tended to be stylish if not outright dandified in their dress, the short, wiry old timer wore fringed buckskins in the fashion of the departed Mountain Men. White hair hung shoulder long from beneath his coonskin cap and a long moustache curled its ends like the horns of a buffalo. Indian moccasins covered his feet. His wampum-coated gunbelt carried a bowie knife at the left and a Walker Colt swung its long, heavy weight at the right. Trailing from the belt were five hanks of hair believed to be scalps taken from Indians or outlaws foolish enough to interfere with his coach.

  “Come to see a real rig, Calam gal?” he asked.

  Slowly the girl turned and studied the speaker. Despite his belligerent and war-like bearing, she snorted her deep disgust.

  “Near on twenty cents a mile and they give us a creaking packing-box lousy with dry-rot to ride in,” she told John in a loud voice, “‘navvies’ to haul it and a worn-out ole goat who’s blind as a snubbing post to drive it.”

  John gulped and prepared to duck for cover. Handling the ribbons of a “Big Run” stagecoach was not work for a meek, mild-natured man and those who did it developed a pride of occupation second to none. No driver worth his salt would tamely accept adverse criticism of his vehicle or person; while to refer to his highly-prized team as “navvies”—short for Navajo Indian ponies, by repute the poorest specimens of horse-flesh on earth—was as risky as accusing the average Texan of voting Republican. However the old-timer merely eyed Calamity up and down in a superior manner, only to be equalled by the captain of a U.S. Navy first-rate battleship studying the skipper of a small, unimportant coastal boat.

  “Don’t pay her any mind, boy,” he told John. “It’s only envy ’cause she’s never handled nothing but a bunch of lead-footed hauling hosses and a stove-up ole wagon. Why’n’t you come along and see what it feels like to ride behind a bunch of real hosses, Calam?”

  “I would,” she replied. “Only I’ve got to come with you instead. Which same I’d thought twice about it had I known you was to be on the box. Johnny, this here’s Pizen Joe. Joe, get acquainted with young Johnny Browning from Ogden way.”

  “Know ye pappy, boy,” the old timer greeted, extending a gnarled old hand which still possessed a powerful grip. His sharp eyes raked over John’s face and he went on, “You been in a fight?”

  “Yes, sir,” John answered apologetically.

  “Can’t say as it surprises me, company you’re keeping,” Joe sniffed. “That fool Calamity’d pick a fussing with her echo if there warn’t nobody else around. Still, I allus says you can’t judge a feller by the company he keeps.”

  “You’d be a lonely man if folks did,” Calamity put in.

  “Reckon I’ll ask ’em for another shotgun messenger along happen you’re riding with us, Calam,” Joe said.

  “Yah!” Calamity scoffed. “You’re safe. I’d want somebody a whole heap younger ’n’ better looking than you was I hunting a husband.”

  “Which same I’m surely pleasured that I ain’t younger ’n’ better-looking then,” Joe cackled. “Anyways, I can’t spend all day standing here whittle-whanging with you. There’s some of us has work to do.”

  “You must know him real good to talk like that about his coach and hosses,” Johnny remarked as he watched the old timer walk off toward the office building.

  “We’ve run across each other here and there,” admitted Calamity, also following Pizen Joe’s departure and smiling. “He’s as good as the best of ’em, Johnny boy and don’t let his looks fool you. Maybe he’s getting along in years, but his horns ain’t been sawed off by a good country mile.”

  Which meant, as John knew, that Pizen Joe still retained the means to defend his fiery nature and peppery tongue despite the advancing years. Then the boy’s eyes went to Calamity and he smiled. Between her and the old driver, unless John missed his guess, the ride to Ratchet Creek ought to be a trip to be remembered.

  Chapter 3

  WHEN STRUCK, TURN THE OTHER CHEEK

  DESPITE HER FRIENDSHIP WITH PIZEN JOE AND PROFESSED faith in his ability as a driver, Calamity sat a mite tense in her seat when the stagecoach rolled out beyond Promontory’s city limits. She never felt completely at ease when riding in a vehicle that somebody else drove.

  Although the coach rocked and swayed over the uneven hooves-and wheel-rutted surface of the trail, the effective springing of its thorough-bracing saved the passengers from the spine-jarring bumps of less well-designed vehicles. There were only five other passengers making the first leg of the trip, allowing plenty of room to sit in comfort. Their baggage rode on top, or in the boot at the rear. However the Wells Fargo Company did not expect its paying guests to be separated from their weapons, so the company fitted racks above the seats to accommodate such rifles, shotguns or carbines as the passengers might have along, saving them from the necessity of sitting and holding the shoulder arms throughout the trip.

  To help ease her tension, Calamity turned her attention to the other occupants of the coach. At her right side sat John Browning, on her left a small, petite young woman. Facing them were Marshal Solly Cole and a pair of travelling salesmen, tall, heavily built men wearing check suits, darby hats, cravats with imitation diamond stickpins, their reddened faces bearing expressions of professional joviality calculated to put prospective customers at ease and in a buying mood. So far there had been little or no conversation. Cole gave no sign of knowing Calamity or John and the drummers spent their time eyeing the girls with frank interest.

  Calamity did not object to being studied and admitted that the other girl rated male interest. Unless Calamity missed her guess, being stared at by men was no novelty to the other female traveller. A dainty, impractical hat perched on piled-up black hair. With just sufficient make-up to emphasize its best points, the girl’s beautiful face had a continental appearance. Small she might be, but the figure under the elegant, if slightly risque travelling suit appeared to be rich and full. Calamity was willing to bet that the girl had theatrical connections and expected to hear either a real or assumed French accent when she spoke.

  From the girl, Calamity turned to Marshal Cole as he sat under his Winchester Model 1866 rifle. After wondering if he was really as sober and religious as he sounded, and also where he recognized her from, she dropped her eyes to his gunbelt and studied the holster in particular. Instead of being cut down to leave clear access to the revolver’s triggerguard, its side rose high enough to obscure it. Another point struck her as she looked—the holster appeared to have split open down its front. Closer examination told her this had been done deliberately, the gun being held horizontally by a finely-tempered steel spring-clip gripping its cylinder inside the leather and its vertical position retained by the muzzle of the barrel resting in a shaped slot in the holster’s bottom plug. Used to the conventional type of gun rig, she wondered what advantages, if any, Cole’s holster offered, but did not raise the point.

  At Calamity’s side John studied Cole’s gunbelt, although his interest centered on the weapon it held. His eyes took in the bell-shaped, square-bottomed, oil-finished black walnut grips, different in shape to the hand-fitting curve of a Colt’s butt. Nor did any holster-size Colt at that time have a solid frame and the gun in Cole’s holster had a metal bar over the cylinder. At first John thought it to be a Remington, then decided it was not. While wanting to satisfy his curios
ity, he wondered how he might obtain the required information without offending its owner. Sucking in a breath, he took the plunge.

  “I’ve never seen a revolver like that before, sir,” he said.

  “It’s a Rogers & Spencer Army Model, son,” Cole replied indulgently. “I needed a gun in a hurry one time and this was the only one on hand. Got to like its hang and balance, so I never bothered to make a change.”

  “Don’t often see a deacon wearing a gun,” the brown haired drummer put in. “I thought you fellers were men of peace.”

  “The Good Book says when struck, turn the other cheek, brother,” Cole answered. “Only if somebody hits that one as well, I reckon a man’s got to do something about it.”

  “Hallelujah!” grinned the other salesman. “The world’d sure be a heap safer place if nobody had guns.”

  “Now that’s the living truth,” agreed Cole and directed a wink in John’s direction. “Only as long as thieves can lay hands on ’em I reckon there’d be nothing more foolish than stopping honest folks owning one.”

  On hearing Cole addressed as “deacon,” John felt indignant at the thinly-veiled mockery of the speaker and opened his mouth to correct the drummer. He caught Calamity’s elbow in the ribs hard enough to halt the words unsaid. A glance at the girl told him that her move had been no accident. Looking at Cole, he realized that the marshal not only saw but approved of Calamity’s action.

  Once started, the conversation continued and the passengers introduced themselves. As Calamity expected, the other girl spoke with a slight, but attractive, French accent. She told them her name was Monique de Monsarrat, that she worked as a singer, lived in Ratchet City and had been appearing in the Bon Ton Theater at Promontory. The brown-haired drummer claimed to be Wally Conway and represented a St. Louis cutlery manufacturer. His companion was Lou Thorbold, selling gentlemen’s toilet goods. While Calamity and Johnny gave their correct names, Cole let the others believe him to be a travelling deacon called Rand.

  Toward three in the afternoon Pizen Joe brought his team to a halt by a small stream. Telling the passengers to light and rest their butt-ends, with a muttered apology to Monique for mentioning such a subject in a lady’s presence, the old timer and his guard set about watering the horses.

  “He never apologized to me,” grinned Calamity.

  “Maybe he’s done like the Good Book says,” Cole replied. “Thou art weighed in the balances and sure been found fit to ride the river with.”

  “Could be,” she answered. “Or he don’t think I’m a lady.”

  “There’s that,” admitted Cole and walked off into the bushes.

  After the marshal disappeared from sight, Calamity drew John away from the other passengers and lowered her voice so that only the boy could hear her.

  “You near on did a fool trick back there a piece,” she told him. “Don’t you ever again go butting in and telling folks when they’ve made mistakes. Especially when they make ’em about a gent in the marshal’s line of work.”

  “I just thought he’d want them to know who he is,” John replied.

  “If he had, he stood right capable of telling ’em his-self.”

  “Gee! Do you reckon he’s after them two drummers?”

  “How’d you mean?” asked Calamity.

  “Because they’re wanted by the law,” John clarified.

  “I don’t know what, or who he’s after and ain’t meaning to start guessing,” Calamity told him. “And don’t go getting all kinds of ideas that might come out wrong. One thing’s plain as a crow on a snow drift though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The marshal don’t want folks to know who and what he is. Now there’s nobody talks worse’n a drummer, that’s how he makes his living. So most likely all the marshal don’t want them to know him for is so’s they can’t spread word around that he’s in this neck of the woods.”

  Put in such a manner Johnny could see that he might be doing the two salesmen a serious wrong. He also felt grateful to Calamity for steering him right in the matter. On the previous occasions when John had travelled, his father had always been along to give advice. With any other girl not more than three years his senior he would have felt irritated at receiving unrequested counsel, but not when it came from Calamity Jane.

  “I’ll remember it, Calam,” he promised. “Say, do you reckon the marshal’ll let me look closer at his gun?”

  “Maybe. Only not while he’s travelling. Ask him tonight at Coon Hollow way station and he might.”

  “We’ll be moving off real soon, folks,” called the guard, a tall, lean young man in range clothes and backing his low-hanging Army Colt with a twenty-inch barrelled ten gauge shotgun.

  “If you want to go; Johnny boy,” Calamity told the youngster, “now’s the time to do it and among them there bushes’s the place. I’ll go further along.”

  While hitching up her pants after the process of “going,” Calamity heard a rustle among the bushes. Even as she held up the garments with her left hand and reached for the Navy Colt, hung conveniently from a branch, Cole’s voice came to her ears.

  “We’re all cast in the same mold, sister.”

  “Only the bits stick out in different places on some of us,” she replied, putting both hands back to the work of adjusting her clothing.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Cole said. “Not having looked.”

  Calamity believed him and his pose as a deacon had nothing to do with the decision. Having completed fastening her pants, she swung the gunbelt around her waist and buckled it into place. Then she walked from the bushes to Cole’s side.

  “I figured it might be one of that pair of drummers when I heard you and just recalled that I’ve left my whip in the stage.”

  “You wouldn’t be forgetful enough to have forgotten to load that Colt as well, would you?” he replied.

  “Happen you’d been one of them, or somebody else with wrong ideas about why I went into the bushes, you’d’ve right soon learned the answer to that.”

  “Is that carbine of your’n in the coach full-loaded, sister?”

  “Unless some danged fool’s been and emptied all the bullets out it is,” she assured him. “What’s up, marshal?”

  “Saw a fair slew of hoss tracks down that ways. Just hoof marks, nary a sign of a shoe among the whole boiling of ’em.”

  “Owlhoots?” asked Calamity hopefully and her hope did not rise from a desire to help fight off an attempt at robbing the stage.

  “Not unless they went in for wearing moccasins,” Cole replied. “And walked toeing in a mite.”

  Although Calamity showed no sign, she knew just what the marshal’s words meant. While white men occasionally wore moccasins, they never walked with the toes pointing slightly inward as did every Indian. Unshod horses also pointed to the makers of the tracks belonging to one of the Indian tribes.

  “Let’s go lump them folks into the stage and get the hell out of here, if you’ll excuse the word, pastor,” said Calamity.

  “It’d be best, sister,” agreed Cole.

  “Say,” Calamity remarked as they started to walk in the direction of the stagecoach. “How’d you recognize me back in town? I’d remember you had we met.”

  “A kinsman of mine told me some about you. Said to watch out for a red-topped, freckle-faced hump of perversity wearing men’s clothes and toting a bull whip,” Cole explained. “He allowed you to be more trouble than ten drunken Texas cowhands celebrating the Battle of San Jacinto in a Kansas trail-end town.”

  “Who’d he be?” grinned Calamity, having seen Texans celebrate the battle which ended Mexican rule of their home State, then a province of Mexico. “It sounds like he knows me real well.”

  “Now I wouldn’t want to be the one to judge that,” Cole said dryly. “His name’s Mark Counter.”

  “Ole Mark’s kin of your’n?”

  “Our side of the family’s been trying to hide it for years, sister,” Cole replied in his most solemn
way, like the local preacher apologizing for his brother being the town drunk. “You know him?”

  For all the solemnity Calamity caught a twinkle in the marshal’s eye and felt even more certain that his entire appearance was no more than a pose. Unless her considerable knowledge of men went sadly wrong, she figured Solly Cole could be just as lively as his illustrious cousin under the right conditions.

  “Let’s say we’ve met,” she answered tactfully. “Yes sir, marshal, let’s just say that.”*

  Before they could go any further into details of Calamity’s first hectic meeting with Texas cowhand, gun fighter and dandy, Mark Counter,† the stagecoach came into view. To one side of it Monique de Monsarrat stood talking with the drummers and Johnny appeared from among the bushes. Pizen Joe was checking his team’s harness, a precautionary measure Calamity approved of and the guard studied the fastening of the loaded boot.

  Catching the old timer’s eye as he approached, Cole mouthed one word in barely more than a soft whisper.

  “Injuns!”

  For all the difference it made to his outward appearance, Joe might not have heard the word, or understood its meaning. Yet he turned from the horses and called, “All in, folks. We’re rolling.”

  Having ridden shotgun alongside the old timer for over a year, Cultus, the guard, knew his ways. Without waiting for a further explanation, Cultus went toward the passengers. He started to move them in the direction of the stage’s door with all the polite efficiency of a bouncer in a high-class saloon easing its influential customers out at closing time. Drawing back after the drummers followed Monique and John into the coach, he glanced inquiringly at Cole and received the same one-word, but sufficient, explanation.

  “We’ve had no trouble with ’em down this ways for a spell,” Cultus remarked quietly. “Which same, afore you tell me, don’t mean a thing.”