by J. T. Edson
Leaving the routine details to Cultus, Calamity watched Cole stroll from the building and approach her.
“Changed your mind about coming along, Solly?” she inquired hopefully.
“I wish I’d enough good sense to do it,” he replied. “I’m just going to take my pick of the remuda.”
“Take care then,” Calamity told him. “I’ll be looking for you in Ratchet Creek, unless you catch up with me.”
“I’ll be there,” Cole promised.
Starting the coach and handling the new team commanded all Calamity’s attention at first. By the time she felt that she might relax without endangering the coach or its passengers, the way station lay too far behind for her to make out the people outside it.
“Damn it to hell,” she muttered. “Why’s he have to be so all-fired stubborn and bull-headed?”
“Huh?” grunted Cultus, looking at her and she realized that she must have spoken her thoughts aloud.
“I was talking to me!” she snapped.
However the thought continued to pound at her. She wondered what drove Cole to act in such a manner. Of course any decent, honest lawman would want to stamp out the sale of liquor to the Indians; but Cole appeared to be driven into rashness by his desire to do so. As a trained peace officer he ought to know better than go busting single-handed into a fuss with a bunch of whiskey-pedlars. Damn it to hell, he ought to be taking a well-armed posse along to back his play when he confronted Ehart—
“Calam!” Cultus barked urgently.
Jerking from her reverie, she saw that the trail made a curve ahead and concentrated on controlling the team instead of worrying about Cole. If he did not know what he was doing, he had no right to be wearing a U.S. marshal’s badge. So she settled back and gave her full attention to the work on hand.
The journey went on without incident, covered at a good speed behind the fresh team. Conditions proved so conducive to rapid travel that the sun had not set when they approached the small town of Shadloe. Clearly the arrival of the twice weekly stagecoach headed West rated as an event of importance in the town and most of its citizens stood along the main, in fact only, street to watch. The inevitable crowd of loafers gathered before the Wells Fargo building, prominent among them a soldier and a civilian sporting a cheap version of professional gambler’s attire. Both smoked large cigars and looked to have been celebrating some event.
Seeing Calamity seated on the box, instead of Pizen Joe or one of the other regular drivers, caused some comment among the people. The weather had been warm and she had discarded her jacket. Snug-fitting, her shirt did little to hide what lay beneath, while its rolled-up sleeves showed her tanned, strong arms.
Always inclined to grandstand a mite in the presence of an audience, Calamity swung the coach adroitly to a halt before the Wells Fargo office. Then she vaulted from the box, landing on the sidewalk before the agent, with her whip hanging negligently over her right shoulder.
“Where’s Pizen Joe?” the agent asked, staring as if he did not believe the evidence of his eyes.
“Got his fool self shot by Arapahoes at the dip out beyond Coon Hollow,” the girl replied. “I’m driving until one of your boys can do it.”
“There’s not one here,” the agent told her. “Maybe you’ll find one at Ratchet Creek; that’s where the runs cross each other and they’ve a bigger staff than down here.”
“Whooee, Fred,” whooped the soldier. “Just take a look at how she fills them pants, will you?”
“You should look so good, Wendel,” the other man replied. “I bet you got nothing like that in the Army.”
“If we have, I’ve never seen it,” Wendel admitted. “I’ll bet——.”
The nature of his wager would never be discovered. Calamity felt neither guilt nor shame at her choice of clothing. Handling a six-horse wagon in a dress would be next to impossible, to say nothing of all the other tasks her work presented when on the trail. However she objected to being made a laughing-stock by a pair of half-drunk small town loafers; one was a cheap tinhorn and the other’s pants legs bore the crimson stripe showing him to be an ordnance corporal, a desk-warmer, not a fighting man, and probably on furlough. Experience had taught her that allowing their kind to take liberties in a small way only led them to greater excesses.
So Calamity turned smoothly toward the pair, measuring the distance with her eye ready to teach them the error of their ways. Swinging her whip free, she sent its lash snaking out in the gambler’s direction. Few things in the world were so disconcerting than to have the tip of a bull-whip’s lash strike a cigar clenched between the teeth. In addition to the crack of the whip, tobacco sprayed up as if a charge of dynamite had been touched off inside it. Letting out a startled yelp, which also served to spit away the shattered remains of the cigar, the gambler staggered backward. He caught his balance and started to reach for his gun.
Knowing something of the man’s reputation of vicious temper, the crowd around him scattered hurriedly. Cultus rose on the box, his shotgun swinging up to hip level and aiming in the man’s direction as he drew back the twin hammers. Two clicks sounded, ominously loud despite their lack of volume, and reached the gambler’s ears. Any place west of the Mississippi River that particular noise carried a certain significance. Only back in the civilized East was the shotgun regarded as a toy for the rich sportsman who wished to shoot rapidly-flying birds. Out West the shotgun ranked with the Colt and Winchester as a mighty efficient kind of weapon, a fighting man’s implement unequalled in its particular field. Swivelling his eyes upward, the gambler found that the muzzles of Cultus’ ten-gauge appeared far larger than their .784 caliber. He also refrained from closing his fingers around the butt of the revolver holstered at his side.
“Don’t act any more stupid than you have to, feller,” the guard warned. “You’re tangling with Calamity Jane.”
When most of the crowd had scattered to avoid the possible discharge of the shotgun, they had left exposed to view two men, one of whom would much have preferred to remain in the background and concealed behind the assembled people. Dressed in trail-dirty range clothes, the tall, lean man looked little different from hundreds of others who roamed the western plains. He had a bearded face and his right eye-lid drooped slightly. The second man attracted slightly more attention, wearing a brace of low hanging Colts, as opposed to his companion’s one, dressed in a buckskin shirt, U.S. cavalry pants and boots and with shoulder long hair trailing from under a wide-brimmed Stetson hat.
Possibly if the pair had remained still, they might have escaped Cultus’s notice. However when the crowd moved, the taller spoke to his companion in a soft but urgent manner. Immediately the second man started to turn from the hitching rail where he had been leaning.
Alert for trouble or hostile action, Cultus caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. Darting a quick glance to check on who had attracted his attention, the guard looked straight at the lean man. Recognition came immediately and, as their eyes met, the lean drifter sent his right hand flying toward the butt of his Colt. Maybe he could not rank among the top class, but he showed better than average ability in the matter of drawing a gun. Out licked his Colt, hammer sliding back under his thumb and finger starting to depress the trigger as the barrel cleared leather.
Fast as the man undoubtedly was, but he had to draw his gun and Cultus already gripped a weapon ready to shoot. Nor did the guard hesitate in acting. Every Wells Fargo messenger could claim to be a fighting man from soda-to-hock, skilled in the use of firearms. Nor did the Company place any restrictions on how its employees acted in defense of their lives or property entrusted in their care. Knowing the man intended to kill him, and why, Cultus acted fast.
Swinging the shotgun away from the gambler, Cultus lined it toward a new mark and squeezed the forward trigger. Flame belched from the left side barrel and nine buckshot balls fanned out. At middle ranges—between where a revolver could make a hit sighted by instinctive alignment and the dist
ance at which a sensible man took a rifle if possible—the shotgun reigned as the ideal weapon. Its balls spread just enough to ensure that most of them struck their mark, without the need to take excessive time in aiming, yet would not separate sufficiently for the individual balls of its pattern to pass harmlessly around the enemy’s body. The lean man stood within the ideal distance; but not for long.
Even as his Colt came clear and started to line, seven of the nine balls tore into his chest. He shot backward the width of the sidewalk, cannoned off the wall of the nearest building and went down, the gun clattering from his hand.
For all that he wore two guns, the second man did not stop and make a fight. As soon as Cultus cut loose with the ten gauge, the man deserted his companion by turning to run. Calamity did not know what had sparked off the trouble and wasted no time in asking. Springing forward, she swung her right arm and the whip lash leapt after the fleeing man. Leather coiled around his neck, clamping hold like an anaconda catching its prey. Calamity felt the lash grip and heaved back on the handle. Caught in mid-stride, the man’s feet continued moving while the upper section of his torso came to an abrupt halt. With a strangled yell of surprise, he landed flat on his back. When he tried to sit up, Calamity tugged at the whip and flattened him once again.
Shoving open the stagecoach’s door and ignoring Monique’s advice to stay inside, John sprang out holding Calamity’s carbine. Already the crowd, even the gambler and soldier, had taken whatever cover they could find, leaving the boy an unrestricted view. Any youngster raised in the frontier country stood a chance of seeing the occasional dead man, which did not make John any the less susceptible to the horror before him. Seven .34 caliber buckshot balls played havoc when tearing into human flesh and the lean man’s chest was far from a pleasant sight. Gulping and feeling sick, John moved to Calamity’s side.
“Here!” he said, offering her the carbine.
One glance at the boy’s peaked, set face told Calamity all she needed to know. Releasing the whip handle, she took the carbine from him and swung toward her captive.
“Stay down!” she ordered, throwing the lever down then up. “Get back inside, Johnny—and thanks.”
“Mais oui!” Monique gasped from the door. “Come back, Johnny!”
Calamity spared the girl a quick look and found her pale but composed. Nodding gratefully to the little singer, she then gave her full attention to the second man.
“Keep him covered, Calam!” Cultus requested.
“He’s covered good,” she replied.
Resting his shotgun on the seat, Cultus sprang down from the box. As he landed, the Colt slid from his holster. Armed to meet any emergency, he converged with Calamity on the scared-looking man. Running along the street, the town marshal formed the third part of a human triangle gathered about him.
“Maybe now somebody’ll tell me what the hell’s happening,” Calamity said.
“I know that feller I shot,” Cultus replied.
“Which same I never figured you took him for a prairie chicken,” the girl assured him.
“He’s one of the Sedgewell gang.”
Calamity could not hold down a low whistle of surprise at the news. Maybe the Sedgewell gang of outlaws did not receive the publicity accorded to the Reno brothers, the James boys or Belle Starr, but they rated higher in the opinion of Utah citizens by virtue of being closer to hand. Ranging through Utah and to the West, Van Sedgewell and his men robbed on a large scale and with considerable planning skill. Unlike lesser gangs, they picked their marks, selecting only such as would show a good profit. One thing they never did was perform a casual robbery that might net them nothing more than eating money.
“What in hell’s he doing here?” growled the marshal, worriedly darting a glance at the town’s small bank.
“Maybe this gent here’d like to give us the answer,” Calamity suggested.
“I’ll haul him down to the pokey and ask,” promised the marshal.
“We’d best get the box and mail inside,” Cultus told Calamity. “I want to be on hand when this feller talks.”
“And me,” Calamity went on, thinking of Cole’s comments about the possibility of a big hold-up being planned.
However the prisoner could give no helpful information. A small-time outlaw, he knew his companion to be a member of the Sedgewell gang and hoped to be taken along to meet its leader. Apart from saying that a man had been headed for Ehart’s trading post to collect an important message, the prisoner could add nothing further.
“You reckon he’s telling the truth?” the marshal asked as they left the man in a cell.
“I’d reckon he’s too scared to do anything else,” Calamity replied. “How’d you recognize that other jasper, Cultus?”
“He rode as inside man on a coach I guarded and Sedgewell robbed,” the guard explained. “Sat inside like a regular passenger, then threw down on the folks when the gang jumped us. He whomped my head with his gun butt for no reason. So I never forgot what he looked like.”
“Getting whomped on the head makes me feel the same way,” Calamity admitted. “Only that don’t tell us why he came here.”
“Maybe he, Sedgewell I mean, aims to rob our bank!” yelped the marshal. “I’d best see about taking on some extra deputies.”
“Try that soldier and tinhorn I tangled with,” the girl sniffed.
“Hell, Wendel’s on furlough and his brother’s not civic-minded enough to help out,” the town marshal replied.
“Could be that he was just passing through, marshal,” Cultus pointed out.
“There’s that,” the peace officer said in a relieved tone. “I’ll just keep a watch on any strangers as come in, though.”
After they left the marshal’s office, Calamity grinned at Cultus. “It’s lucky that you talked him down a mite. Way he was acting, he’d like blow somebody’s head off when they walked into the bank to put money in.”
“Sedgewell’d have to need money bad to jump a bank like that,” Cultus answered. “It’s a pity we can’t let Marshal Cole know about the message that feller was going to pick up.”
“Yeah,” Calamity agreed.
Her face lost its smile and set into sober, worried lines. All being well, Cole ought to be close to Ehart’s trading post at that moment. She did not like to think of what might happen to him on his arrival.
Chapter 11
THOU SHALL NOT BLOW A HOLE IN A CHEATING SKUNK’S HEAD
STANDING ON THE PORCH AT THE COON HOLLOW WAY station’s main building, Conway scowled unpleasantly after the departing stagecoach. He heard the sound of a horse approaching and turned to see Cole leading up a big, powerful dun gelding.
Not having his own horse along, the marshal had hired the pick of the way station’s saddle mounts and felt satisfied with his choice. When he no longer needed the horse, he would hand it over to the nearest Wells Fargo agent who would return it to Coon Hollow in the course of the Company’s trading.
Anger boiled inside Conway as he studied Cole. Seen in the light of day, the marshal did not appear so imposing and dangerous as when faced over the barrel of a revolver. So Conway felt moved to protest at what he regarded as intolerable treatment.
“The company I work for’s not going to like this, marshal,” he warned.
“Was I a man given to the sin of betting, brother, I’d lay odds that you don’t mention it to ’em,” Cole replied calmly. “They might start asking how come you got run out of Utah Territory.”
“I’m not sure that you can force me out,” Conway snorted.
“I am,” Cole stated firmly. “There’re enough smart card cheats around without amateurs coming in. Anyways, my job’s to keep the peace and stop fools like you getting killed. That’s why I stopped you travelling on the stage.”
“How’d you mean?”
“Happen you’d gone on it, brother, you might’ve been tempted to take another try at young Johnny’s poke. Which same I won’t be around to stop Calamity busting
the sixth Commandment.”
“Huh?” grunted the drummer.
“Thou shall not blow a hole in a cheating skunk’s head, except when he’s going for his gun. And, mister, if you tried going for it against her, that’s just what she’d do. So you just take my friendly and well-meant advice, brother.”
“What’s that?”
“Get the hell back East and clear of temptation,” Cole replied, then his voice took on a harder note. “And don’t let me see you in my bailiwick again.”
Swinging afork the dun, Cole nodded to Conway and rode away from Coon Hollow. Once clear of Wells Fargo’s property he put all thoughts of the drummers out of his head. Despite his somewhat high-handed treatment of them, he doubted if either man would lodge a formal protest against him. Even if they did, there was only one man to whom they could complain. The Governor gave Cole a free hand in all matters concerning his work and, hearing his story, would ignore the drummers’ objections.
While riding, Cole wondered if maybe Calamity had been right and he had acted a mite hasty and rash. Perhaps he was allowing his hatred to make him incautious in his dealings with Ehart. Yet it was always the same. He could take a lawman’s detached interest in most forms of crime, but never when faced with a case of selling hard liquor to the Indians.
As Calamity guessed, more than the normal desire to do his duty and keep the peace sent Cole riding along toward Ehart’s trading post. His whole family and the rest of his small hometown’s population had died at the hands of hitherto friendly Tejas Indians inflamed to killing rage by the white man’s firewater.
From that day Cole had become the implacable enemy of any man who put whiskey into Indian hands. The sights he had seen in the blackened ruins of the town had turned him to look for revenge. Although he belonged to the Texas Rangers, at that time—during the Civil War—it was a semi-military organization less concerned with hunting law-breakers than in defending the homes of the men on both sides who left to join the fighting. The disbanding of the Rangers and its replacement by the corrupt, vicious State Police of the Davis administration did nothing to make Cole like the Yankees, but he still joined the U.S. Secret Service. While its main function was the apprehension of counterfeiters, the organization gathered information concerning many other crimes. Through the contacts he made, Cole brought to swift justice not only the whiskey pedlars who caused his parents’ death but many others of their kind.
