by J. T. Edson
A number of horses occupied the corral, but Derringer gave no thought to taking one as a means of escape. For one thing they did not look to be saddle-stock, being large, powerful animals bred for hauling wagons. Another, more vital reason was that anywhere west of the Mississippi River horse stealing carried a penalty of death; the punishment generally being administered promptly and without recourse to the legal courts. While only the one cabin showed signs of life, Derringer did not intend to take a chance.
So he started forward, meaning to twist between the buildings in the hope of confusing and eluding his pursuers. The route he took led him toward the covered wagon beneath the oak tree. So far the three men had not come into sight, but he heard the sound of their feet drawing closer.
Then he saw something which momentarily drove all thoughts of the trio from his head. A movement by the lighted cabin caught his eye and he looked in that direction. Coming through the gap between the two buildings, a big dog started to turn on to the cabin’s porch. Then it halted, head swinging toward where Derringer had come to a stop. Feeling the wind behind him. Derringer knew it must be carrying his scent to the dog. Confirmation came from the animal as it cut loose with a deep-throated hound-bay and started forward.
Every professional gambler learned to think and act fast, not only studying the immediate answer to a problem but also how its solution might affect the future. He knew that he could not carry out his original plan with the hound coming for him. Even if its baying did not bring people from the occupied cabin, the noise would guide the Keebles and Throck to him. However, although the dog posed a threat to his safety, it offered him a slender chance to escape.
Darting to the rear of the wagon, he prepared to toss his grip and cane underneath. Then he saw that the rear flaps of the canopy were hanging unfastened and inside stood a number of boxes. Swiftly Derringer tossed the grip along the top of the wagon’s load and heard it fall to the bed beyond the boxes. Swinging himself up on to the gate of the wagon, he slid the cane-gun into the gap between the side and the load. Then he hauled himself to the top of the canopy and stood on it. Already the hound was drawing nearer, its ringing bugle bawl shattering the night in no uncertain manner. At the other side, the three pursuers turned into the alley which led Derringer to the freighter’s yard.
Derringer did not remain on the canopy, but swung himself into the branches of the oak. Carefully he eased himself around the trunk, standing on a stout limb concealed by the leaves, but just able to see what went on. Peering downward, he saw the hound—a large bluetick from all appearance—drawing closer. Never, not even when sweating out the draw for a possible straight flush with two thousand dollars of his money in the pot, had Derringer felt such tension. Coming toward the tail-gate of the wagon, the hound slowed down. In a moment it would catch his scent and, if used for the normal kind of hunting after semi-arboreal creatures, work out where he had gone. Then it would rear up on hind-legs against the wagon and send its “treed” song ringing through the night air.
“Come on, you three!” Derringer breathed. “Where the hell are you?”
A larger pool of light glowing drew Derringer’s attention to the cabins. He saw two shapes leaving the building and heading toward the hound. Then he turned his eyes back to the dog beneath him. Even as it slowed down, the three men came into sight through the alley. Instead of stopping, the hound acted just as Derringer hoped it might and headed, baying loudly, toward the trio.
In the lead of his companions, Fenn Keebles saw the approaching hound and skidded to a halt. Even the impetuous and truculent Bud stopped abruptly at the sight before him and Throck appeared to be frozen in his tracks. Standing on stiff legs, tail poker-rigid in the air, powerful eighty-pound frame braced in muscle-rippling readiness to spring forward, the big bluetick hound presented a mighty threatening aspect, and one few men would care to risk challenging.
Balancing carefully on the limb and avoiding any movement that might rustle the surrounding foliage, Derringer watched the two figures from the cabin pass beneath him. While the bigger, bulky shape armed with a twin-barreled shotgun moved forward, his smaller, more slender companion halted against the tree’s trunk almost directly below the hidden gambler. Standing there in the shadows thrown by the branches, the second figure held a revolver ready for use and watched the intruders.
“Hey!” yelled Fenn, looking under the tree and not up at its branches as he would if he knew of Derringer’s hiding-place. “Call off that dawg, will you?”
“After you’ve told us what brings you here,” the larger figure rumbled in a deep voice, keeping his shotgun aimed hip-high at the trio.
“Get it away, or I’ll blow its fool head off!” Bud howled.
“You just try it, son,” warned the big man under the tree, “and I’ll right soon be doing some ‘blowing’ on my own account.”
“Stand still and keep your blabber closed, Bud!” Fenn ordered, conscious that they offered a clear target out in the open, while the same did not apply to the two shapes under the oak’s branches. So he continued in a conciliatory manner. “He’s only a fool kid, mister, and don’t mean nothing by his talk.”
“What’re you doing ’round here?” demanded the big man, neither relaxing nor lowering the shotgun.
“A feller tried to rob the Talbot Hotel and we chased him down this ways,” Fenn explained. “We figured he’d come through here and followed him, only the dawg stopped us.”
“Maybe he’s hid in that there wagon,” Bud went on, and made as if to move toward the vehicle.
Although the bluetick had fallen silent on hearing the big man’s voice, it let out a low, menacing growl which brought Bud to an immediate halt.
“That’s better,” said the big man. “Ole Bugle here don’t let nobody go near my wagons after dark. Which same he’d’ve stopped that feller you’re after had he come through here.”
A point which the trio, even Bud, could understand. Remembering where they were, Fenn Keebles looked harder at the shadowy figures beneath the tree. While he could see little of the second shape, other than the fact that it held a gun, Fenn decided that he could identify the big man.
“You’ll be Dobe Killem, I reckon, mister,” Fenn announced in his most winning manner. “This here’s your local depot.”
“I’m Killem,” confirmed the big man, but his companion still took no part in the conversation.
“You’re not often here, that’s why we didn’t recognize you,” Fenn continued. “Say, maybe that feller managed to get to the wagon and hid inside.”
“He’d have one helluva tight squeeze to do that afore Bugle got to it from the porch. Even if there was room in back. The wagon’s loaded ready for pulling out in the morning.”
“There’d not be time for him to do it, Fenn,” Throck growled. “He must’ve come into the alley, then snuck back out again in the shadows so’s we missed seeing him go.”
“Or gone along the cabin here and out the next one,” Fenn went on. “We’d best get after him. While we stand here jawing, he’s putting distance between us.”
“Let’s go, then!” Bud suggested, seeing his chances of revenge on Derringer fading.
“Hold it!” Fenn snapped urgently, nodding to the watchful hound. “Mind if we get on our way, Mr. Killem?”
“Feel free,” the freighter replied. “Leave ’em be, Bugle, Lie down.”
Obediently the bluetick stretched itself on the ground. Not until then did Fenn offer to move. Turning, he led his companions off along the alley at a fast walk. Neither Killem nor the other figure beneath the oak spoke until after the sound of the departing trio’s footsteps faded away.
“Wonder who they’re after?” Killem remarked. “Maybe somebody their bunch’ve slickered and’s going to tell the marshal.”
“Could be,” replied his companion. “Say, Dobe, I allus allowed that fool Bugle wasn’t worth a cuss as a tree-dog.”
“How’s that?” grunted Killem.
“You
can come on down now, feller,” the other said, ignoring the question and directing the words toward the branches of the oak. “They’re gone and I’d sure admire to know how the hell you got close enough to the wagon to climb up there without ole Bugle getting to you first.”
Being a professional gambler taught a man to control his emotions and only show such feelings as he desired others to see. For all that, Derringer could not hold down an involuntary movement in his surprise. In addition to the shock of learning that one of the pair below knew of his presence, something further caused surprise. Maybe the second figure wore male clothing and had acted mighty competently all through the preceding events—but the voice was that of a young woman.
Four
Realizing that he would gain nothing by ignoring the girl’s words, Derringer started to climb around the tree’s trunk and down on to the wagon. Suddenly a low curse broke from Killem and he moved forward to draw open the canopy’s flaps, then peered inside. Letting the flaps fall together, the big man withdrew to leave the way clear for Derringer to descend. The girl walked to Killem’s side, twirling away the Colt Navy revolver with casual, practiced ease. Standing in the open, she and Killem gave Derringer his first clear look at them.
Although the owner of a large, successful business, Dobe Killem still dressed like a working freight driver, in buckskin jacket, open-necked shirt, with pants tucked into calf-high, low-heeled boots. All in all he gave the impression of rugged capability, controlled hardy toughness and being a man who would stand no nonsense. Standing balanced lightly on his feet, he studied Derringer with an air of suspicion only to be expected under the circumstances.
Not that Derringer devoted much attention to Killem, being more intent on confirming his suspicions about the girl. Bareheaded, her mop of short, curly red hair framed a tanned, freckled face that, while not out-and-out beautiful, was good-looking, merry and very attractive. Maybe she wore men’s clothing, but a feller would have to be near on blind to imagine it covered a male figure. Five foot seven or so in height, the fringed buckskin jacket she wore hung open to still any lingering doubts as to her sex. Under it the tartan shirt clung to her frame, its neck open low enough to show the commencement of the valley between the full swell of her breasts. Like the shirt, her blue jeans—ending in flat-heeled boots—looked to have been bought a size too small and shrunk further in washing. She trimmed down to a naturally slim waist, no corset could hide itself under that shirt, then curved out to rich, well-formed buttocks and shapely legs. Around her middle hung a gunbelt, the Navy Colt’s ivory handle turned butt forward in the fast-draw holster. A coiled, long-lashed bull whip was thrust into her waistband at the left side.
Some folks might have thought the girl’s appearance a touch bizarre, or regarded her armament as mere ostentation. Derringer did not think of either clothing or weapons in such a light; in fact, he knew them to be anything but that.
“Just keep your hands in plain sight, mister,” Killem ordered, swinging his shotgun into line the moment Derringer dropped to the ground and before the gambler could catch his balance. “How’d you manage to get the flaps open afore Bugle got across here?”
“I didn’t have to,” Derringer replied. “They weren’t fastened when I came.”
“The hell you say!” snapped the girl. “Is everything all right inside, Dobe?”
“Didn’t look to be anything missing,” the freighter answered. “But you’d best take a walk up to the house with us, anyways, mister.”
Faced by the shotgun, Derringer could raise no objections. Not that he wanted to, being eager to get out of sight in case Throck and the Keebles brothers returned. He felt sure that he could calm the other two’s suspicions, but wished to be under cover while doing so.
After the girl had gone to the wagon and lashed down its covers, she joined Killem in herding Derringer toward the cabin. Although it followed them to the door, the bluetick did not enter the building. Instead it settled down on the porch as if used to doing so regularly.
The room Derringer entered looked much like a ranch’s bunkhouse, except that harness and bull whips took the place of lariats and saddles on the beds. Coffee bubbled in a pot on the stove, but neither Killem nor the girl offered to pour the gambler a drink. Derringer decided that the time had come to make himself known to his captors. So he grinned amiably at the girl and began:
“If you didn’t leave those flaps unfastened—”
“Which I for sure as hell didn’t!” she interrupted.
“And I didn’t unfasten them,” Derringer continued. “That means some person or persons unknown did it.”
“That’s real smart thinking, mister,” Killem put in. “Or would be if ole Bugle hadn’t been laid on the porch since nightfall.”
“Only he wasn’t on the porch when I come through the alley,” Derringer replied. “He came from between the cabins across this way just before I got near the back of the wagon.”
“Maybe something made him go around the back,” the girl remarked.
“He’d not stop away long enough to let anybody sneak in here and unfasten the wagon flaps,” Killem objected. “Even if this gent did scare ’em off afore they could steal anything.”
“I dunno,” the girl said. “He was away for near on a day once.”
“That was when he went after some passing pilgrim’s bitch!”
“All right, so there’s another bitch in heat around catching his eye. You men’re all alike when it comes to that. You hear anybody pulling out in a hurry as you come through the alley, mister?”
“Nope,” admitted Derringer and, considering that he must establish his identity, went on, “Maybe he, the feller who opened the flaps, hid in the possum belly of your wagon—like Belle Starr did when you sneaked her out of Elkhorn.”
Surprise showed on the girl’s face. “You know Belle?”
“I’ve never had the pleasure,” Derringer replied. “Mark Counter told me about it one night while we were making the rounds in Mulrooney.”
Stepping forward, the girl reached out a hand to draw open Derringer’s jacket and run a finger down his vest front. With that done, she turned to Killem and gave a nod.
“Pinholes, Dobe. He’s worn a badge and if it was with Mark in Mulrooney, I’d say that makes you Frank Derringer, friend.”
“I’m Frank Derringer,” agreed the gambler, knowing that his reference to the incident with Belle Starr would convince the girl. “Mark kept allowing that you’d likely be along to Mulrooney visiting, but Cap’n Dusty said we’d enough fuss and trouble on our hands without Calamity Jane showing up.”
“All those floating outfit bunch think real high of me,” grinned the girl called Calamity Jane. “They just try to hide it.”
In many ways, Calamity Jane could claim to be just as much a living legend as Dusty Fog, Mark Counter, the Ysabel Kid and the rest of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit, or any other of the Westerners who received acclaim in the Eastern Press. Born Martha Jane Canary, few people would recognize her by that name. As Calamity Jane, she had gained and attracted notice; although some of the stories about her parentage—as daughter of a notable Plains Indian princess—or reason for heading West and becoming a female freight-wagon driver—as the beautiful and talented daughter of a wealthy Eastern businessman seeking to forget a dead fiancé—bore little resemblance to the truth.
Wishing to go west and start a new life, Charlotte Canary had left her family in the care of a St. Louis convent. There had been too much of her mother in Martha Jane for her to settle down to such a restricted life. So she ran away, hiding in one of Dobe Killem’s west-bound wagons. A variety of circumstances prevented Killem from returning the girl. Regarded as a lucky charm among the drivers, she gained an unconventional education; yet one designed to help her in a new way of life. From the drivers she learned to live off the country, care for, harness and drive a six-horse wagon team, handle firearms with considerable efficiency, use a long-lashed bull whip as an extensio
n of her arm. She picked up a skill in self-defense from the same source. The latter came in useful, for Calamity went into saloons with the other drivers. On occasion the female employees objected to her custom, so Calamity learned to hold up her end in a hair-yanking brawl. Living a healthier life than the average saloon-girl, she had yet to meet defeat at one’s hands. Happy-go-lucky, living each day to the full, Calamity Jane had won the admiration and friendship of many people. Looking at her, Derringer could imagine why.
Although the introduction calmed Dobe Killem’s suspicions, he still felt that the matter called for clarification.
“What’s it all about, Derry?” he asked, while Calamity collected the coffee-pot and started to fill cups. “Why were that bunch after you?”
“For robbing the hotel—they said.”
“Since when did that bunch of cold-decking, four-flushing pikers start helping the law?” Calamity snorted. “Neb, our straw-boss here, pointed the Keebles out to me in the street yesterday. Allowed them and their bunch fleeced one of our drivers a piece back. That’s why I kept quiet about you when I saw who they were. Did they try their game on with you?”
“You might say that,” Derringer smiled.
“Way they were acting,” Killem put in, “I’d say you won.”
“Let’s say I was a mite trickier than them,” Derringer replied and told the others all about the game.
“Well I’ll swan!” chuckled Killem at the end of the recital. “Ain’t you the nervy one?”
“Thing being, they’ll not give up that easy,” Calamity stated. “How’d you figure on leaving town, Derry?”
“On tonight’s train.”
“They’ll be watching the depot for you,” Killem warned.
“Sure. So I figure to go out of town and jump it on the slope to the east.”
