by J. T. Edson
Naturally such an event caused a stir, but the War was drawing to a close, and soon word of Lee’s surrender at the Appomattox court-house gave the soldiers other things to consider. Being concerned with the business of returning to civilian life, Derringer all but forgot the Kotchubez treasure until Banyan’s story recalled it to his mind.
Not that Derringer asked questions, for Banyan had gained a reputation as being real touchy on the subject. There had been rumors of enlisted men receiving beatings, and Banyan had killed another officer in a duel over comments made on his knowing where the money and jewelry might be.
After answering Calamity’s question about how the Countess reacted to the rescue, Banyan went back to the subject of his proposed holiday in Europe. From hints the big man put out, the girl concluded that he was seeking a female traveling companion. Being a sensible young woman, Calamity made it clear that she had neither desire nor intention to leave her native land.
The subject lapsed and they continued on their way. At sundown, having made less distance than expected due to the attempted ambush, Calamity halted her team on the Banyan side of the Smoky Hill River’s South Fork. As the other side had a thick coating of woodland along its banks, she would normally have watered the team and pushed on for a time before making camp. With night coming on and no desire to handle her team’s welfare in the dark, she contented herself with crossing the ford and halted on the edge of the trail at the other side. With the men’s help, she performed her chores and then they settled down for the night. Calamity slept in the back of the wagon, Derringer underneath it. Claiming that he was prone to rheumatism, Banyan made his bed—using blankets borrowed from Calamity’s supply—by the side of the fire.
Before going to sleep, Derringer’s last thoughts were on the Kotchubez treasure, but he formed no conclusions as to its whereabouts.
Seven
Dawn’s gray light crept into the eastern skies as Derringer woke. Looking across at the fire’s dead embers, he saw Banyan still lying under the blankets with the bullet-holed Stetson tilted on his head. Slight noises sounded above Derringer, then the wagon shook a little and Calamity swung herself to the ground.
“Morning, Derry,” she greeted and nodded to the fire. “Looks like ole Sultan’s not used to getting up at the crack of dawn.”
“I’m not what you’d call real keen on it myself,” Derringer admitted. “Only I’ve got used to it recently.”
With that he crawled from beneath the wagon. Sleeping on the ground had not called for much undressing, so all Derringer had removed the previous night was hat, gunbelt and boots. He drew on the boots before emerging, but still held the gunbelt in his hands preparatory to strapping it on. For her part Calamity was dressed, in the western sense, with gunbelt about her middle, holster tip tied to her thigh and the coiled whip rode in its usual place.
“Leave your bed until we’ve ate,” Calamity suggested.
“Su—,” Derringer began.
“Toss the belt under the wagon, tinhorn!” barked a voice from the woods across the river.
Despite the shock he received, Derringer made no sudden moves. Yet he also hesitated to obey the command, for he recognized the voice. More than that, Calamity stood in a position where she could see beyond the gambler and she gave a soft-spoken warning.
“Best do it, Derry. It’s Nabbes and some of his bunch. They’ve two rifles lined on you.”
Much as obeying went against the grain, Derringer could do nothing but comply. Bucking the odds at that moment would be fatal. So he tossed his gunbelt under the wagon, watching it land on the blankets alongside his cane-gun. Then slowly, keeping his hands in plain sight, he turned to look in the speaker’s direction. One glance told him that the situation was not as bad as he expected—it was a whole heap worse.
All but Ferrely of the gang stood among the trees. Throck and Fenn Keebles lined Winchesters, Bud held his Colt, but Nabbes stood with empty hands. When they saw Derringer obey, the men advanced. Even while wading over the ford, they gave no sign of losing the drop. However, Nabbes spoke again as they came ashore.
“Get rid of the gunbelt, Calamity.”
“Go to hell!” the girl answered.
“We’ve no quarrel with you,” Nabbes pointed out. “All we want’s the tinhorn.”
“He’s riding my wagon same’s the load,” Calamity replied.
“Which’s why I’m telling you to take off the gunbelt and drop it,” Nabbes said evenly, knowing that the girl might try to defend her passenger unless disarmed. “Use your left hand to unbuckle it and move slow.”
“Who’s the feller by the fire?” Fenn put in.
“Just some drifter I picked up yesterday,” Calamity answered, wondering if Banyan would wake in time to help.
“Go wake him, Joe,” ordered Nabbes and turned to the girl, his voice taking on a harder tone. “I’m not asking again.”
“Do it, Calam!” Derringer advised. “All they want’s their money, then they’ll pull out.”
Yet he knew that he lied. Maybe Nabbes would be content with just retrieving their losses. Possibly Fenn might want no more, or restrict his revenge to a fist-beating. Most likely Throck had no thoughts on the matter, being willing to follow Nabbes whichever way the little man went.
That left Bud. The youngster’s face showed his intentions. Still smarting under the knowledge that his folly had caused the trouble, blaming Derringer for his humiliation, Bud meant to leave the gambler dead. Nothing less would satisfy the young man’s bruised ego. However, Derringer wanted Calamity unarmed, so that she would not be tempted to make a foolish play.
Giving a shrug, the girl obeyed the order. Using her left hand only, she unfastened the holster’s pigging thong, then unbuckled the belt. With a resigned expression, she swung the belt so that it fell beyond Derringer and away from the wagon. Coming back, in what appeared to be an accidental manner, she freed the whip’s lash and sent it behind her, straightening along the ground as it fell. All the time, Nabbes and the Keebles brothers drew closer.
“I’ve been waiting for this!” Bud snarled, starting to raise his Colt.
Lying by the dead fire, Banyan appeared to be asleep. Yet he was watching from under his hat’s brim. Having woken up just too late to make some effective move, he remained still to await his chance. From what he heard, the newcomers seemed to want Derringer. Why, Banyan could not guess. If the other had been a known card cheat the answer would have been obvious, but Derringer’s reputation was good.
One thing Banyan did know. He must do what he could to help. Unless he misjudged Calamity, she would not stand by to see her passenger robbed or abused. Even if he did not owe the girl a debt for saving his life, a sense of chivalry would have made him cut in on her behalf.
Like Derringer, Banyan read Bud’s intentions. When the youngster committed a cold-blooded murder, his companions dare not leave behind living witnesses. Which meant that the quartet posed a threat to Banyan’s life.
Never given to deep thinking, Throck paid no attention to the manner in which Banyan was dressed. Not that he could see the other’s clothing for the blankets, but the hat and saddle used as a pillow should have struck him as being mighty expensive items in the possession of a mere drifter picked up on the trail.
Walking up, his rifle held slanting toward the blanket-draped figure, Throck kicked Banyan in the ribs with enough force to bring a grunt of pain.
“Ge—!” he began.
Like a flash Banyan threw off the blankets. Out stabbed his left hand to catch and tug at Throck’s nearer ankle. At the same moment the right hand came into view holding a cocked Remington.
Jerked off balance by the unexpected attack, Throck staggered and his forefinger tightened involuntarily on the rifle’s trigger. Winchester and Remington spoke at the same instant, the reports merging into one. Agony ripped into Banyan as he felt the impact of the bullet. Ranging upward, his own lead caught Throck under the chin to burst out of the top of the head, thr
owing the derby hat into the air. Then everything seemed to start happening at once.
At the sound of the shots, Nabbes and the Keebles brothers could not help looking to see what was happening. Wavering aside just as the trigger reached its rearmost point, Bud’s revolver barked. Even then it might have struck its target, but Derringer took advantage of the diversion and flung himself aside.
Going down in a rolling dive, Derringer caught hold of Calamity’s Colt in passing. His fingers closed on the hand-fitting curves of the butt. With a heave, he pitched the belt away and the holster slid smoothly from the gun. As he landed, Derringer started to fan the Colt’s hammer. Three shots slashed upward, driving into Bud’s chest as the youngster tried to return his revolver to its target. Maybe the Navy Colt lacked its big Army brother’s shock power, but three bullets from it carried more than enough impact to do their work. Spinning backward, Bud lost hold of his gun and measured his length on the ground.
Attention brought back by the commotion, Fenn saw his brother go down. With a snarl of rage, he began to swivel the rifle around toward the gambler. By the fire Banyan fought down the pain which tore through him as he saw Derringer’s peril. With an effort, he lined the Remington and squeezed its trigger. Lead slammed into Fenn’s ribs, deflecting his rifle just a shade as it cracked. Derringer felt a searing sensation as if somebody had raked his left thigh with a hot iron. However, he swung the Colt and thumbed a bullet into Fenn’s chest, seeing the man collapse and let the rifle slide from limp hands.
Letting out a hiss of fury, Nabbes snaked his hand under his jacket and brought out his Remington Double Derringer. At which point Calamity also took a part in the affair. Although Derringer held her Colt, the girl did not count herself unarmed or helpless. In fact, she carried on her person a weapon just as deadly and efficient in its way as a revolver. Flashing across, Calamity’s fingers closed on the handle of her whip and slipped it free. With the lash lying partially extended behind her, she did not need to waste a single motion. Around and forward curled the length of carefully plaited leather, whistling through the air like a living, thinking thing.
Even as Nabbes brought out the hide-out gun, he felt something wrap around his wrist with crushing, agonizing force. While slightly lighter, although not shorter, than the average male freight-driver’s whip, Calamity’s packed plenty of power. A cry of pain broke from Nabbes as the wrist-bones snapped. Nor did Calamity allow the impact alone to incapacitate the little man. Tugging back on the handle, she increased the agony to the injured arm. The Derringer fell from useless fingers at the pull.
Broken wrist or not, Nabbes attempted to continue the fight. Still held by the whip’s lash, he dropped to his knees and tried to reach the gun with his left hand.
“Leave it!” Derringer yelled, turning the Navy Colt in the little man’s direction after helping to drop Fenn.
The order proved needless. Once again Calamity gave a savage jerk at the handle of her whip and fresh pain caused Nabbes to forget his intention. Shaking free the lash, Calamity brought it snaking back ready to strike again. Under the combined threat of whip and Colt, Nabbes knew better than continue his attempt.
“Are you hit bad, Derry?” asked the girl, seeing blood on his leg.
“I’ll do. But Sultan’s caught it hard,” the gambler replied. “You’d best see to him. I can handle Nabbes.”
Looking around quickly, Calamity saw that only the little man of the gang needed supervision. Then she turned and headed to where Banyan was sitting, a hand clasped to the right sight of his chest. Even as she looked, the Remington slipped out of Banyan’s hand. Leaving Derringer to watch Nabbes, she darted forward.
Hooves thundered and a man tore into sight astride a fast-running horse. Noting his town-style clothing, Calamity bent and scooped up Banyan’s Remington. She did not know who the newcomer might be, but aimed to take no chances.
“Boss!” the man yelled, bringing his horse to a rump-scraping halt and leaping from its saddle at Banyan’s side. “Boss, how bad is it?”
“Lemme get to him!” Calamity ordered.
“Who’re y—?” began the man, turning an angry, protective face to her.
“Sh-She’s all right, Turk,” Banyan croaked. “S-…Saved m-my life yes’day.”
Instantly the newcomer’s plain, somewhat stupid cast of features took on a different aspect. An expression of concern came as his eyes went to the blood which was spreading over the front of Banyan’s shirt. Clearly Banyan’s explanation satisfied him that Calamity could be trusted, for he raised no objections as the girl knelt at the big man’s side.
“How bad is it?” Turk asked.
“Damned bad,” admitted the girl frankly. “Can that hoss run?”
“Real good.”
“Then get on it and head for town as fast as you can go. Bring a doctor out here soon’s you can.”
“Bu—”
“Do it, Turk,” Banyan groaned.
“Sure, boss. Is she the ga—?”
“For Tophet’s sake ride!” Calamity snapped.
Throwing another very worried look at Banyan, the man ran to his horse. He went into the saddle at a bound and set spurs to work. After watching the man head back in the direction from which he had come, Calamity turned to look at Banyan. Striking at close range, the bullet had torn straight through the big man’s chest. Calamity knew that only a miracle might save him. Yet she wasted no time in idle thought.
“Lie down again,” she ordered and dashed toward her wagon. In passing she saw Derringer sitting on the ground at Fenn’s side, holding the man’s rifle and watching Nabbes wade across the stream.
“I sent him on his way,” the gambler gritted. “How’s Sultan?”
“Hit bad. Can you hold out until after I’ve done what I can for him?”
“I reckon so. Give me something to cover the gash with and stop the bleeding, then I’ll do.”
Continuing on her way to the wagon, Calamity climbed inside. When traveling, she always carried cloth for bandages and a variety of herbal medicines the use of which she had learned from an old Pawnee woman who worked for Killem. Gathering all she would need, she returned to Derringer. A low groan from Banyan prevented her from doing more than hand a length of white cloth to the gambler before hurrying to the big man’s side.
After a short time Calamity returned to Derringer’s side. He noticed the pallor under her tan and strain showing on her face. Blood stained her hands, showing that she had been attending to Banyan’s wound.
“I’ll do what I can for you now, Derry,” she said. “Sultan’s unconscious. I hope he stays that way.”
“Yeah,” Derringer agreed.
“Reckon Nabbes’ll be back?” the girl asked, sinking to a knee at his side.
“Nope. He’s had a bellyful.”
“How’d they find us?” Calamity said, reaching to the cloth on the wound.
“Luck, guess-work, could be either,” Derringer answered, realizing that she was talking in an effort to stay calm for the work ahead. “I’d say one of them was ahead of the others and saw us camped here. Only they figured they couldn’t come up in the night without enough noise to wake us. So they waited for daylight and moved in.”
While only guessing to help Calamity, Derringer had unwittingly hit on the truth. After leaving Tribune, the gang had made slow progress due to being unable to hire good horses. For the rest, it had happened much as the gambler suggested.
When she exposed the wound, Calamity let out a low gasp. Running from just above the knee, a bloody furrow laid open the flesh to the top of the hip. Blood still ran sluggishly and Calamity guessed Derringer must be in agony.
“I’m going to have to spoil these fancy pants, Derry,” she said, deftly slitting along the seam with a knife. “Nope, this’s no use either. The pants’ll have to come off.”
“Here?”
“You figuring on walking into town first?”
“No, but—” Derringer spluttered, then he tried
to rise. “I’ll ta—”
“Here,” Calamity said, reaching for his waist belt. “Let me do it.”
“You—But—You’re a—”
Ignoring the gambler’s incoherent gaspings, Calamity unfastened the belt and unbuttoned the fly. Then she carefully worked off Derringer’s trousers and underpants, tossing them aside.
“Can’t see’s you’ve anything to be ashamed of,” she commented. “What I’m going to do, I’ll likely hurt a mite, Derry. Got some bark from a pepperwood tree here. Chew on it to ease the pain.”
“You’re quite a gal, Calamity Jane,” Derringer breathed, accepting the piece of bark she held out.
“I’ve never doubted that,” she answered, with just a touch of the old Calamity back in her voice. “Get to chewing. I’ll cover the nick with powdered witch-hazel leaves to slow the bleeding while I get some other stuff. If there’s a balsam fir, white pine or slippery elm across the creek. I’ll do a better job of fixing.
Before crossing the stream, Calamity built up the fire which Banyan had kept going all night. She set water to heat in a pan and coffee-pot, then headed into the woods where she found a slippery elm tree. Gathering some of its bark, twigs and young leaves, she returned to the camp. Without wasting time, she set to work mashing her gatherings into the water that bubbled in the pan. Behind her, Banyan moved restlessly and she heard him speak. Turning, she saw his eyes remained closed and guessed that delirium caused the words.
“They’re dead at last,” Banyan muttered. “Now I can get ri—Damn it, there’s no pretty French nester gal at Tor Hill.”
Although the words reached Calamity’s ears, they barely registered on her conscious mind. At that moment she found herself with too much on hand to think about what she heard. While waiting for the mess in the pan to boil, she returned and looked at Derringer’s wound. The powdered witch-hazel leaves spread into the furrow had dried up the flow of blood, but she knew it would start to run again when he moved.
