by J. T. Edson
“That’s the living, gospel truth, brother,” Cole replied. “What’s ahead?”
“Much the same as we’re passing through right now, most of the way. Rolling, fairly open country and a good trail that we can make some speed over.”
“How about the bits that aren’t ‘much the same’?”
“There’s a ford maybe three mile on.”
“Hard to cross?” asked Calamity, an interested listener to the conversation.
“Bottom’s firm, level gravel and the water’ll not be more’n a couple of foot deep at this time of the year,” Cultus answered.
“Then what’s wrong with it?” Cole wanted to know.
“We have to roll down a slope to reach it and haul up another when we’re across the other side.”
“There’s no other way over?”
“Not within maybe two miles up or down, marshal. Stream runs through a valley and its slopes go from real steep to straight down. So the Company allowed it’d be cheaper to cut a trail down to the ford instead of building a bridge over.”
Calamity and Cole exchanged glances before the marshal asked the next question. “It’d be a good place for an ambush?”
“Too damned good,” Cultus agreed. “Trail’s not wide on either side and there’re some pretty hefty rocks on both sides of the stream.”
“Then it’ll be best if Joe stops afore we hit the top and lets us scout it on foot afore we roll through,” Cole stated.
“I’m with you on that,” Cultus agreed and raised his voice. “Jump on in, Calam, deacon, you’re keeping us waiting.”
Letting Calamity climb in first, Cole paused and turned to give the surrounding area a careful scrutiny. On following her inside, he found that she had placed John between her and Monique so as to have a seat alongside a window. Calamity directed a questioning stare at the marshal’s rifle as he sat down and caught his almost imperceptible head-shake. So she let her carbine remain in its place above her, the coiled whip hanging from its barrel.
As soon as Cole closed the coach’s door, Pizen Joe started the horses moving. Everything had been done so smoothly not one of the other passengers realized the true position. Monique appeared to have spent her time becoming better acquainted with the drummers and they kept up a cheerful conversation which prevented them from noticing anything changed in Calamity or Cole’s behavior. If John found the girl less receptive to his questions, he attributed it to her becoming tired. One could hardly expect a woman, even Calamity Jane, to stand up to the rigors of a long trip as well as a man, he concluded, and lapsed into silence.
Almost two miles fell behind the coach, with Calamity and Cole searching the surrounding range for the first sign of danger. Then the girl stiffened slightly in her seat and Cole, alert for any hint she might give, followed the direction of her gaze.
Topping a rim maybe a quarter of a mile from the trail, an Indian brave brought his horse to a halt. He turned, swaying visibly on his mount’s back and waved excitedly. Much to Calamity’s surprise, he accompanied the wave with a shout. Other braves rode into sight, milling around the first, pointing at the coach and making enough noise to reach the passengers’ ears.
“Sacre bleu!” Monique gasped. “Indians!”
“They look tolerable excited,” Conway went on.
At that moment one of the Indians hoisted up a familiar-looking stone jug on the crook of his arm and drank deeply of its contents. At least one other of the braves had such a jug slung across his shoulders. The sight of the jugs cleared up a few aspects of the affair which had been puzzling Calamity.
“Excited!” she spat out. “They’re stunk-up drunk.”
In view of the first brave’s casual appearance, lack of caution and general attitude, Calamity had started to hope that his party might be no more than a group of lodge-brothers on their way to some function, or just bucks on a hunting trip. A raiding party only rarely showed themselves so openly or made sufficient noise to alert their victims. Certainly they would not have done so under the prevailing conditions. Reared from birth to be fighting men, the unlettered savages possessed as clear a knowledge of military tactics as any gained by a white officer attending West Point Military Academy. They could assess a situation and would be unlikely to throw away the element of surprise in such a manner. Nor would a party on the warpath be careless enough to leave plain tracks for possible enemies or victims to find.
Of course all that only applied to sober Indians.
Once a buck carried a belly-full of the white-eye brother’s rotgut whiskey, none of the normal behavior patterns remained. The only thing one could be certain of when dealing with drunken Indians was that they could be relied upon to be fully primed and ready for any devilment.
Clearly Cole’s thoughts followed much the same line as Calamity’s deliberations on Indian behavior. Reaching up, he lifted his rifle free from the rack and worked its lever to throw a bullet into the chamber. Calamity took down her carbine and let the whip drop on to the seat. Good weapon that it might be under the right conditions, she could not make use of it in the confines of the coach. Then a thought hit her and she grinned at the marshal.
“What was that about letting the other feller hit you first and turning the other cheek?” she asked, feeding a bullet into the carbine’s chamber.
“A good thought, sister,” Cole replied. “Only it don’t apply to red varmints who’ve been sinning by drinking strong likker. Then you should stop ’em afore they hit the first che—.”
Any more he might have wished to say on the subject was chopped off abruptly as one of the bucks threw up a rifle and fired at the coach.
Chapter 4
YIELD NOT TO ANGER
AS THE INDIAN’S BULLET STRUCK THE TOP OF THE stagecoach and whined away in a screaming ricochet, Pizen Joe took the appropriate action. Letting out a howl like a scalded cougar, the old timer made his whip crack over the heads of the two lead horses. Bred for their work, the spirited team responded with such a will that the force of their forward surge jerked the coach’s wheels off the ground. From a steady trot, the pace increased to a fast gallop.
Letting out wild yells, the Indians sent their horses charging down the slope. Watching them, Calamity found any remaining doubts she might have felt about their sobriety wiped away. Every brave rode with an extra abandon and recklessness that went far beyond a mere desire to count coup on the hated white occupants of the stage coach. Even the faint hope that the bucks had no other intention than a little harmless fun, like cowhands charging into town on pay day, died with the certainty that all had been drinking. While hard liquor affected white men in various ways, from joviality to aggressiveness or maudlin sorrow, it only served to turn an Indian savage and fighting wild.
Only in one respect did the braves’ inebriated condition help Calamity’s party. Instead of following the wise course of descending the slope and taking up the chase along the trail, they tried to come down on it at an angle. Converging with the stage down the slope slowed the Indians’ horses and made controlling them difficult, which in turn prevented the use of weapons with any hope of accuracy. Had the braves been sober, they would never have taken such a course.
“What are the, Sioux?” Thorbold demanded, producing a Smith & Wesson No. 2 revolver from under his jacket.
“Arapaho,” Calamity corrected and eyed the .32 caliber handgun with faint contempt before turning to Conway. “Are you heeled, mister?”
“Sure,” he replied, taking a three-inch barrelled Colt Pocket Pistol out.
“That’ll spook ’em for sure,” Calamity sniffed. “How about you, sister?”
“I have a Deringer in my reticule,” Monique replied.
“Keep a hold on it then and use it if you have to,” Calamity ordered.
“Darn it, I knew I shouldn’t’ve left my rifle back at Promontory!” John groaned.
“It wouldn’t’ve been much use with that busted butt,” Calamity pointed out and drew her Colt. “Do you know ho
w to use this?”
“Yes’m.”
“Then get to the other window and be ready to do it.”
“They’re on this side,” John protested.
“I’ll ask a few of ’em to come round,” Calamity promised with a grin.
After completing the organization of the stage’s defense, Calamity turned her attention once more to the Indians. She caught an approving nod from Cole in acknowledgment of her actions, which had allowed him to concentrate on keeping the enemy under observation. Neither of them offered to start shooting, wanting to conserve their ammunition until it could be put to profitable use.
Still charging recklessly at an angle down the slope, the braves must cover almost a mile of rough ground before they converged with the stagecoach on the trail. Under Pizen Joe’s skilled handling the team horses ran fast and, even hauling the Concord coach, managed to build up their lead a little. Of course no harness horses could hope to out-run the Indian ponies in a long chase, especially once the latter also reached the good going of the trail. Joe knew that and intended to gain as much ground as he could. A lengthy pursuit might damp down the braves’ desire for war, especially if they had more whiskey to drink.
In addition to the whiskey, the braves seemed to possess a fair number of bullets, or powder and shot. Even faced with the difficulties of riding on the slope some of them used their guns. A bullet, better aimed or luckier than the rest, passed through the coach’s central window to strike the wall by Conway’s head. Letting out a startled curse, he thrust himself to the window and returned the Indians’ fire.
“Yield not to anger even in the face of provocation, brother,” warned Cole at Conway’s second ineffectual shot. “It’s not the Christian way and sure wastes lead something awful.”
“Why the hell don’t you do something then?” snarled Conway.
“I’m doing it.”
“Waiting for a miracle?”
“A miracle’s what you’re wanting, friend, cutting loose with that stingy gun at well over two hundred yards range and expecting a hit,” Cole replied calmly. “I figure the Good Lord’ll provide, but He expects me to help some by only shooting after I’ve took careful aim and at a range where I can hope to hit something.”
“Hallelujah!” Calamity put in. “Which same the smoke from that fancy hip-pocket cannon’s blowing right into my face, mister. It’s near on blinding me and I’ve got a gun that can hit at two hundred yards, happen the target’s big enough and stood still.”
With an angry grunt Conway returned to his seat and glared through the window at the Indians. Yet he had to admit that Cole spoke the truth. The .31 caliber Colt Pocket Pistol revolver regardless of its name—might be ideal to carry concealed, but it could only be relied upon at close range.
Driven by a man well-versed in such matters, the coach tore along the trail at a good speed. Having passed through more than one Indian attack while on the “Bug Run,” Pizen Joe knew what to expect. Already the braves were trying to shoot one of his team, knowing that to bring a horse down would fetch the coach to a sudden and disastrous halt. So far the combination of long range, hard riding, whiskey and rugged terrain prevented straight shooting, so none of the bullets had struck home. Joe realized that the closer the braves came, the better grew their chances of making a hit.
“Rock ’em a mite, Cultus!” he ordered.
Although paid good wages to fight in defense of the coach and its passengers, the guard had not yet opened fire on the Indians. Neither fear nor neglect of duty, held his hand. The Wells Fargo model shotgun was an ideal weapon for dealing with attackers at close range, but it lacked accuracy at a distance. So Cultus did not waste time or lead. Instead he served an equally important function by scooping up some of the pebbles carried in a box on the driving boot and pitching them at the rumps of the horses as an added inducement to speed. They responded once again, increasing their pace and gaining just a shade more ground.
“The dip’s not far ahead,” Joe reminded Cultus after a short time.
“We’ll lick ’em to it,” the guard replied.
“Unless there’s more of ’em in it. Anyways, they’ll catch up to us on the other side.”
“Yep. I’d best tell the marshal.”
Sliding his shotgun into his boots, Cultus leaned over the side until he hung head down at Cole’s window. While he passed on the information, a bullet flung up splinters close to his suspended body and others whistled by; clear proof that the Indians drew closer.
“They’ve got to be showed the error of their ways,” Cole decided.
“Amen to that, pastor,” said Calamity, like the others having listened to Cultus’ message. “Things now being where, when—and how?” She looked around at the open range. “Not out here, that’s for sure.”
“If we’re ahead of them at the dip——,” Cultus began.
“Brother, we’ve got to be ahead of them at it,” Cole told him grimly. “You told me there’s some cover on either side of the trail down there?”
“Yep.”
“Enough for them to ambush us?”
“More than enough.”
“Then there’s plenty for us to use when we lay for them,” Cole stated, not mentioning the unpleasant possibility of there being more Indians ahead.
“You mean stop the coach down the bottom——,” Cultus commenced, only to be cut off before he could complete the question.
“I mean that the coach goes on and just two of us does the lying in wait,” Cole answered. “Two, with rifles, ought to be enough.”
“It’s a chance,” admitted Cultus, still retaining his uncomfortable position and ignoring the bullets which hissed through the air near him. “When do we jump?”
“We don’t,” Cole told him. “You’re staying up on top ready to help fight them red devils off happen me and one of these gents don’t stop ’em.”
Startled expressions crossed the drummers’ faces as they realized that Cole’s plan called for one of them to help him. Clearly neither intended to volunteer.
“With their stingy guns?” Calamity scoffed before Cole could take the matter farther. “Because there’s only two saddle-guns here and I sure as hell don’t aim to loan mine to anybody.”
“We need that carbine, Calam,” Cole pointed out.
“Where it goes, I go,” she replied. “So happen you want it out there in the dip, you’ll have to take me with it.”
For a long moment Cole did not reply. Studying the grim determination on Calamity’s face, he knew she meant every word she said. Then his eyes went to the two drummers and still neither offered to side him in his plan. If it came to a point, Cole felt that he would not care to trust himself in a dangerous situation with either Conway or Thorbold backing him. Yelling that they would soon be at the dip, Cultus swung back to his original place. That ended the chance for lengthy discussion; which would probably have been futile anyway in the matter of making Calamity change her mind.
“Cousin Mark allowed you was ornery and stubborn as a Missouri knobhead* once you set your mind to something,” Cole told her sadly.
“And he’s never been righter,” Calamity assured him. “You and me it is.”
“Let me go,” John suggested.
“You’ve a long and useful life ahead of you, son,” Cole replied. “And anyways, I want at least one fighting man backing the guard should things go wrong.”
“Sure, Johnny,” agreed Calamity. “If things go wrong two worthless cusses like me ’n’ the ma—deacon won’t be missed. How’s the land lie in that dip, pastor?”
Quickly Cole told her what he knew of the lie of the land and finished with, “One out of each door when we get across the stream, into the rocks and set tight until they’re close enough to be hit. It’ll be risky as hell, gal.”
“They do say only the good die young,” Calamity replied.
“There’s that,” Cole admitted. “So if you get shot and I don’t, it ought to prove something.”
Fury worked on Monique’s face as she watched Calamity move across the coach to the other door. “Are you going to sit there and let a girl go outside to fight for you?” she demanded, glaring at the drummers.
“It’s her carbine,” Conway pointed out.
“I’ve got a wife and four kids back East,” Thorbold continued.
“Leave ’em be, gal,” Calamity advised. “It’s all fixed up who’s going.” Then she looked at John as he sat with face working in emotion. “You know Ratchet Creek, don’t you, Johnny?”
“Sure, Calam. Can’t I——.”
“Nope. What you can do is this. If something goes wrong, take my gear to ole Harry Tappet’s place. Tell him what he wants’s in the medicine pouch in my war bag. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”
“S—Sure, Calam,” John promised.
“I will help you find him, John,” Monique said and directed another coldly loathing glance at the drummers.
“Thanks,” Calamity replied and turned her attention to the opposite window.
Slowly the knowledge that their chances of catching up on the stage while riding along the slope sank into the whiskey-dulled minds of the Indians. First to realize it, their chief turned his horse and headed by the shortest route toward the trail. By doing so, the braves lost some ground, yet stood a better chance of regaining it with firm going under-foot. The Arapaho did not rank high among the fighting Indian tribes, which was one of the factors Cole had taken into consideration while making his plan. Nor could they claim to be as efficient horse-breeders as the Nez Perce, or Comanche nations. For all that, their ponies started to close the gap separating them from the stagecoach.
A hundred and fifty yards still separated the pursuers and pursued as the Concord approached the valley. More than once Pizen Joe heard the eerie “Whap!” of a close-passing bullet and occasionally lead struck some part of the coach. Refusing to be distracted, the old-timer concentrated on the forthcoming descent into the dip. Normally he would have slowed his horses to a walk, applied the brakes and, if necessary, halted to attach the skid chains to the wheels, then gone down in his own good time. That could not be done with hostile Indians coming up all hot and eager to count coup on his passengers.
