J.T.

EDSON

Contents

Chapter 1

Bat Gooch’s Mistake

1

Chapter 2

She’s A Mighty Smart Woman

18

Chapter 3

Miss Canary in Distress

35

Chapter 4

You’re Dusty Fog’s Kid Brother

52

Chapter 5

Break Up That Cow Stealing, Danny

69

Chapter 6

Looks Like I Got Here Too Late

86

Chapter 7

The Lawmen of Caspar County

103

Chapter 8

Miss Watson Studies Danny Forgrave

124

Chapter 9

Ella Watson Hires Martha Connelly

143

Chapter 10

Bring Me His Wallet

160

Chapter 11

Miss Canary Involves Mr. Fog

178

Chapter 12

I Want to Steal Some of Your Cattle

195

Chapter 13

Hold Her Until I Get Back

212

Chapter 14

It Won’t Work This Time, Ella

229

Chapter 15

Clean Up in Caspar County

249

About the Author

Other Books by J.T. Edson

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

BAT GOOCH’S MISTAKE

5 %

There were many types of marks by which the

ranchers of the old west established ownership of

their cattle, ranging from straightforward initial or

number brands to John Chisum’s Long Rail, a line

burned along the animal’s side from rump to

shoulder.

A box brand had a square outline around letters

or numbers; a connected brand meant that one of

the letters in it touched the other; barbed brands

carried a short projection from some part of them;

a bench brand stood on a horizontal bracket with

legs extending downward like a bench; a drag

brand carried lines sticking downward from its

bottom; should a brand have a small extension

2

J. T. Edson

from each side it was said to be “flying”; a letter

suspended from or connected to a quarter circle

bore the title “swinging”; a tumbling brand meant

that its letters leaned over at an oblique angle; a

walking brand bore twin small extensions like feet

at its lower extremities; a rafter brand sheltered

under an inverted V-shape; a forked brand carried

a small V-shaped prong on one of its sides; a run-

ning brand meant that flowing lines trailed from it;

a bradded brand had a large termini; a collection

of wings without a central figure bore the title

“whangdoodle.” Hacienderos below the Rio

Grande used such large and complicated brands

that a man might read them by moonlight, but

could make no sense of them. The Texas cowhands

called such brands “maps of Mexico,” “skillets of

snakes,” “greaser madhouses” and other less com-

plimentary names.

A red-hot branding iron alone served the pur-

pose of applying such a mark of ownership to a

man’s stock. This consisted of a three-foot-long

iron rod with a handle at one end and a reversed

facsimile of the outfit’s chosen brand at the other.

Such a branding iron, when heated correctly and

applied to the animal’s hide, left a plain, easily read

sign by which all men knew who owned the critter

bearing it.

While riding the range on their lawful occasions

cowhands often toted along one of their outfit’s

Running Irons

3

branding irons so as to be able to catch, tie down

and mark any unclaimed stock they came across.

It might be a grown animal overlooked in earlier

roundups, or a new-born, late-dropped calf run-

ning at its mother’s side. Either way the applica-

tion of the outfit’s brand set the seal of ownership

upon the animal and added more potential wealth

to the cowhand’s ranch. So a cowhand who car-

ried his outfit’s iron was regarded as being a good

worker, industrious and a man to be most highly

commended.

But when a rider carried a rod without a stamp-

head upon it, man, that was some different.

Known as a running iron, such a rod could be used

to change the shape of a brand, or for “venting,”

running a line through the original mark so as to

nullify it, then trace another brand upon the ani-

mal—done legally this was known as counter-

branding and was used when a critter be wrongly

branded or sold after receiving its owner’s mark.

So a man carrying a running iron was not thought

of as being praiseworthy or commendable. Folks

called him a cow thief.

For almost six months past the range country

around Caspar County, Texas, had been plagued

by cow thieves. Stock disappeared in numbers that

were too great to be put down to inclement

weather or the depredations of cougar, wolf or

bear; besides, not even the great Texas grizzly ate

4

J. T. Edson

the bones of its kills and no sign of animal kills led the

ranchers to blame Ursus Texensis Texensis for their

losses. No sir, a human agency lay behind the dis-

appearances and the ranchers decided it to be long

gone time that something was done. A man who

worked damned hard, faced hunger, danger, gave

his blood and sweat to raise himself above his fel-

lows, and took the responsibility of ownership and

development instead of being content to draw an-

other’s wages did not take kindly to having his

property stolen from him. So the ranchers decided

to strike back.

Of course there were ways and ways of striking

back. Vic Crither’s hiring of Bat Gooch struck

most folks as going maybe a mite too far, even

against cow thieves. Few bounty hunters ever

achieved a higher social standing than Digger Indi-

ans and the Digger was reckoned as being the low-

est of the low. Bat Gooch had a name for being

worse than most of the men who hunted down fel-

low humans for the price their hide carried. For all

that, Bat Gooch came to Caspar, called in by the

mysterious, but highly effective prairie telegraph.

Crither let it be known that Gooch would receive

a flat wage for prowling the Forked C’s range and

a bonus of two hundred dollars each time he

brought in a proven rustler—alive or dead.

The threat appeared to be working, for Gooch

had ridden the ranges of the Forked C each night

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5

during the past fortnight without finding any sign

of the cow thieves who preyed on the other

ranches. While Vic Crither felt highly pleased with

his strategy, the same could not be said for Gooch.

So far his trip did not meet with his idea of the fit-

ness of things. The potent quality of Gooch’s name

appeared to have scared the cow thieves from

Forked C and not a single two hundred dollar

bounty had so far come his way.

Being a man who liked money and all the good

things it brought, Gooch decided, although he had

never heard of the term, that if the mountain

would not come to the prophet, then he would

danged well go right out and find it for himself.

So it came about that on a clear, moonlit night

Bat Gooch left the Forked C range and rode into

the Bench J’s domain. There was something about

Gooch which warned of his chosen field of en-

deavor; a hint of cruelty and evil about his dark

face and strangely pale eyes; the perpetual sneer on

his lips, that silent way of moving, all hinted at

something sinister. He wore dark clothing of cow-

hand style and Indian moccasins on his feet. In his

saddleboot rode a Sharps Old Reliable buffalo rifle

with a telescopic sight, but no bison had ever tum-

bled before its bullets. An Army Colt hung at his

right side, a sheathed bowie knife on the left of his

belt. Men had died through each of his weapons.

In many ways Gooch was a man ideally suited to

6

J. T. Edson

his work. He could move in silence through the

thickest bush; shot well and possessed that rarest

ability of being able to squeeze the trigger and kill

another human being without a single hesitative

thought. In addition to keen eyesight and excellent

hearing, Gooch possessed a nose as sharp as a

hound dog’s.

On this occasion it was the nose which served him

first. For four hours he had been prowling the Bench

J land, eyes and ears alert for any sound that might

guide him to a cow thief engaged in illegal operations.

Once found, the cow thief would die and be taken on

to the Forked C’s range where his body commanded

a price of two hundred dollars. Yet, though he

searched with care and used a considerable knowl-

edge of the working of cow thieves to direct him,

Gooch found no sign during the first four hours.

Then it happened!

The wind carried a scent to him. Not the pleas-

ant aroma of jasmine or roses, but one just as

sweet to Gooch’s keen nostrils. Raw, acrid and un-

mistakable it came, the stench of singed hair and

burning cow hide as a branding iron seared its ir-

removable mark on to an animal. Yet no sound fol-

lowed the stench. No sudden bleat of pain such as

one heard when a brand was applied in normal cir-

cumstances. Not that folks branded cattle by night

under normal circumstances—especially on a

range troubled by cow thieves.

Running Irons

7

Two things were plain to Gooch: first, from the

stench of burned hide somebody had just branded

an animal upwind of him; second, the fact that the

branders worked at night and took the trouble to

muffle the branded critter’s head and stop its bel-

low of pain told that they had good reason for not

wishing to attract attention to themselves. Add one

and two together, and the answer came out as a

chance of picking up at least two hundred fine old

U.S. dollars over and above Gooch’s regular

wages.

Keeping his big, wild-looking dark roan horse to

an easy walk, its hooves hardly making a sound in

the hock deep grass, Gooch rode up wind like a

blue-tick hound going in on a breast-scent instead of

running the line by the smell on the ground. Faint

sounds came to his ears, then he saw a small glow

of light flickering through the bushes and down a

slope ahead of him. Once again his nostrils detected

the smell of burning flesh and he brought his horse

to a halt. Swinging from the saddle, he moved for-

ward on foot. The big horse followed on his heels,

stepping with all the silent caution of a whitetail

deer in hard-hunted country. Give Gooch his due, he

could train a horse and the roan ideally suited his

purposes. Moving silently through the bushes, man

and horse came into sight of a scene which did

Gooch’s money-hungry heart good to see.

At the foot of a small hollow six hundred dol-

8

J. T. Edson

lars worth of cow thieves worked at their trade.

The ground at the bottom of the small basin was

clear of bushes, although its sides and the range

around was liberally dotted with them and offered

good cover which hid the light of the fire from all

but the closest inspection. If Gooch had not

caught the tell-tale smell of burning hide, he might

have ridden right by the place without noticing

anything. Instead he looked down at the three

shapes around the fire. All wore cowhand clothes,

although Gooch could only see two faces, the

other having a wide-brimmed hat that effectively

shielded the features. The two Gooch could see,

he identified as young cowhands who worked for

the Bench J; a brace of cheery, happy-go-lucky

youngsters typical of hundreds across the length

and breadth of the Texas range country. Although

both of them wore holstered Colts, Gooch did not

figure them as dangerous with the weapons—even

if he aimed to give them a chance to fight. The

third figure was smaller, not more than five seven,

and slim under the wolf-skin jacket. Gooch stud-

ied all three noticing first that the slim, boyish

third member of the party did not appear to be

wearing a gunbelt.

Bending, the third figure thrust a running iron into

the flames of the fire where a second iron lay heat-

ing. One of the other pair released a freshly branded

calf and stripped the slicker from around its head.

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9

“Go get another,” said the third cow thief, nod-

ding to where half-a-dozen calves stood hobbled.

Excitement appeared to be affecting that one,

making his voice almost as high pitched as a so-

prano woman’s. Gooch gave little thought to the

voice, being more concerned with deciding what

course of action to take and which of his arma-

ment best suited his purpose. The single-shot

Sharps would not serve, nor the bowie, so he must

handle things with his Colt. At that range, with

his targets illuminated by a fire, he figured to be

able to down all three. If he knew them, they

would panic when the first one went down, giving

him a chance to tumble the other two before they

could make for the trio of horses standing at the

far side of the clearing. He reached down a big

right hand, drawing the 1860 Army Colt from its

holster.

“I don’t like this,” the taller of the trio stated,

standing with his back to Gooch—although he did

not know of the bounty hunter’s presence.

“Nor me,” the second cowhand went on. “Buck

Jerome’s been a good boss.”

“Shucks, he’ll not miss a few head, and any-

ways you know you can slap a brand on any un-

branded critter you see,” the third member of the

party answered.

“Sure,” agreed the second rider. “Only this

bunch were with Bench J cows.”

10

J. T. Edson

“So?” snorted the third cow thief. “That doesn’t

mean they had Bench J mammies. And anyways,

how’ll you and Dora ever save en——”

The words ended unsaid as flame spurted from

the darkness of the bush-dotted slopes around the

basin. Caught in the middle of the back by a .44

caliber soft lead round ball—so much more deadly

in impact and effect than a conical bullet—the

tallest member of the trio pitched forward and

just missed the fire as he fell. Just as Gooch fig-

ured, the second cowhand showed shocked inde-

cision for an instant before trying to turn and

draw his gun. By that time Gooch had cocked the

Colt on its recoil and, before the young cowhand

completed his turn or made his fumbling draw,

fired again. Lead ripped into the cowhand’s head,

dropping him in a lifeless heap on the ground, his

gun still in leather.

At which point Gooch saw that his plan had

partially gone wrong. Instead of being in a state of

panic, the third member of the party acted with

speed and a show of planned thought. Spinning

around, the figure left the fire and sped toward the

horses in a fast, swerving run. Twice Gooch’s Colt

roared, but his bullets missed their mark. With a

bound, the escaping cow thief went afork one of

the horses. Range trained, the horse had been

standing untied, its reins dangling before it. Scoop-

ing up the reins, the cow thief set the horse run-

Running Irons

11

ning, crashed it through the surrounding bushes

like they were not there.

Still holding his Colt, Gooch turned and vaulted

into his saddle. Knowing its work, the roan leapt

forward, racing down the slope and across the

open ground. A glance in passing told Gooch that

he had earned four hundred dollars and that if not

already dead the two cowhands soon would be.

Knowing he could safely leave them where they

lay, and find them there on his return, Gooch gave

his full attention to riding down the last member of

the trio.

Through the bushes and out on to the open

range tore the horses, one ridden by a cow thief

with the fear of death, the other carrying the same

death in human form, wearing range clothes in-

stead of a night-shirt and toting a .44 Army Colt in

place of the more conventional scythe. For almost

half a mile Gooch chased the cow thief, his roan

closing the gap with every raking stride, although

the other’s mount was not exactly slow. While the

bounty hunter held his Colt, he did not attempt to

shoot. Gooch knew the folly of trying to shoot

from the back of a running horse, at least over any-

thing but short range. Sure, he had two loaded

chambers left, but recharging a percussion-fired re-

volver could not be done from the back of a racing

horse, and he had no wish to approach the other

when holding an empty gun. So he aimed to get

12

J. T. Edson

closer in and cut loose from a range where he

could not miss; or if the worst came to the worst,

take the fleeing rider from the ground and using

his heavy caliber rifle.

Once the fleeing cow thief twisted in the saddle

and looked back, gauging the distance between

them and guessing there was no chance of out-

running that big roan. Turning to the front again,

the rider reached up with a hand to open the jacket

and do something else that Gooch could not see.

The bounty hunter grunted, not unduly worried,

for he knew shooting backward from a galloping

horse to be, if anything, even less accurate than fir-

ing in a forward direction. However, a man did not

care to take chances on catching a stray bullet; he

could be killed just as long, permanently, dead by

a blind-lucky shot as through one taken after care-

ful and deliberate aim.

Before the bounty hunter could make his move, ei-

ther to start using the Colt or stop the roan, dis-

mount and make use of his Sharps, he saw what

appeared to be a stroke of bad luck take the fleeing

rider. Ahead of the cow thief stood a noble old cot-

tonwood; the spreading branches of which no stealer

of cattle ought to look on without a shudder and

thinking of the hairy touch of a Manila rope around

the neck. However, the rider appeared to be mighty

insensitive to atmosphere, for the horse’s course took

it under the low, wide spread branches of the tree.

Running Irons

13

Suddenly the cow thief jerked backward, appar-

ently struck by a branch, and slid over the horse’s

rump to crash to the ground. Gooch brought his

roan to a halt, gun held ready for use as he studied

the shape on the ground. Swinging from his saddle,

Gooch advanced and the shape moved slowly,

rolling on to its back. Gooch’s Colt had lined at the

first movement, its hammer drawn back ready and

his forefinger on the trigger. Before he could send

lead crashing into the near-helpless shape, he saw

something that made him hold his fire and brought

a broader sneer than usual to his lips.

In falling, the cow thief’s hat had gone from his

head and the shirt under the thrown-open jacket

appeared to have been torn apart to expose the

flesh below. The first thing Gooch noticed was

long hair trailing around the head. Hair far longer

than even Wild Bill Hickok sported, and framing a

beautiful, most unmasculine face. Next the bounty

hunter’s eyes strayed downward, to the open shirt

and what it exposed. Apparently the cow thief did

not go in for wearing underclothing and what

Gooch could see rising from the open shirt most

certainly did not belong to any man.

Holstering his gun, Gooch walked forward and

drank in the sight of those round, full and naked

female breasts. Never a pleasant sight, his evil face

looked even more so as he advanced on the moan-

ing, agony-moving figure. While watching the trio

14

J. T. Edson

by the fire Gooch had been aware that this third

member of the party appeared to be the boss.

Maybe she was the boss rustler of the area.

Stranger things had happened and from what

Gooch had seen of her in Caspar, she had the

brains to be the big augur and nobody would ever

suspect her. Only now she had been caught in the

act and would bring in at least two hundred dol-

lars same as the other two—dead.

Only before she died, Gooch figured he might as

well pleasure himself a mite. He had a keen eye for

a beautiful face and good figure; and, man, that gal

on the ground afore him possessed both. Once

dead, which she would be as soon as he finished

his fun, the girl could not tell any tales of what

happened before she met her end.

“Gal,” he said, dropping to his knees besides her

and reaching down toward the open shirt front, “if

you enjoy it, you’ll sure die hap——”

Which same concluded his speech, although he

had not entirely finished it. Suddenly the girl

jerked her right hand into sight, it having been hid-

den under her jacket, a Remington Double Der-

ringer gripped firmly in her fingers. Taken

completely by surprise, Gooch looked death in the

face. Shocked horror crossed his features and

wiped the leering lust from them. Even as he tried

to force his brain into positive, cohesive thought,

to lurch erect, grab out his Colt, try to knock aside

Running Irons

15

the wicked, deadly .41 caliber hideout gun, do

anything at all to save his life, the sands of time ran

out for Bat Gooch.

The Derringer spat once, its bullet taking Gooch

just under the breast bone and ranging upward.

While the Double Derringer’s three-inch barrels,

comparatively weak powder charge and large cal-

iber bullet did not have great carrying or penetra-

tive powers over a range of thirty yards, Gooch

was well within its killing area. A tearing, numb-

ing agony ripped through Gooch, stopping his

hand even before it could claw out his gun. Again

the Derringer roared, its second bullet slicing into

Gooch’s body. Rearing to his feet, Gooch stood for

a moment and then tumbled over backward.

Coming to her feet, the woman reloaded the

Double Derringer and dropped it into her jacket

pocket. Without a glance at the dying man, she

buttoned her shirt and closed the jacket over it.

“I figured you’d fall for that, you lousy murder-

ing skunk,” she remarked, picking up and putting

on her hat.

Her horse had come to a halt a short distance

away and she walked to it. Taking the reins, she set

a foot into the stirrup iron and swung gracefully

into her saddle. Ignoring Gooch as if he did not

exist—and he no longer did except as a lump of

lifeless flesh—the woman rode back in the direc-

tion from which she fled.

16

J. T. Edson

Back at the hollow, the woman showed no more

interest in the two dead cowhands than she had for

Gooch’s welfare. Swinging from the saddle, she

stood for a moment and thought out the situation.

First those half-a-dozen calves must be released. It

was a pity they had only branded three of the ani-

mals. Alone she could not handle the branding of

the others. Besides somebody might have heard the

shooting and even now be riding to investigate.

Shots in the dark on the Caspar County range

would attract more attention under the prevailing

conditions than normally and she had no wish to

be caught. Being a smart woman, she did not re-

gard the ranchers as fools, or figure they could not

think things out. Maybe they might not be able to

prove anything against her, but they sure would be

suspicious to see her of all people riding the range

at night and dressed in man’s clothing. She would

be watched too carefully in future to carry on with

this profitable side-line to her normal business and

that was the last thing she wanted.

Taking up a knife one of the cowhands had

tossed into the dirt so as to be handy for hurried

freeing of the calves, the woman walked forward

and released the unbranded animals. As she ex-

pected, they wasted no time in heading off through

the bushes, blatting loudly and looking for their

mothers. She collected the two dead cowhands’

ropes and with her own secured the three branded

Running Irons

17

calves to her saddlehorn. After cutting the calves’

hobbles, she mounted the horse.

“Hard luck, boys,” she said, throwing a glance at

the two shapes by the dying fire. “That’s life for you.”

And with no more sentiment than that, the

woman rode away, leading the three calves behind

her. She left behind two dead cowhands—and two

running irons.

Chapter 2

SHE’S A MIGHTY SMART WOMAN

5 %

Stanton Howard, Governor of the State of

Texas, was a busy man who could quite well have

done without the cow thief problem of Caspar

County being dumped in his lap. Brought in after

the Texans’ forcible ejection of Carpetbag Davis’

corrupt, vicious Reconstruction administration,

Howard found enough work to last him a solid

twenty-four hours a day—he could have worked

twenty-six hours a day if that be possible and still

find work to do in plenty the following morning.

The disbanding of Davis’ State Police had

brought problems in its wake. For several years

there had been little State law enforcement in

Texas, Davis’ men being more concerned with lin-

Running Irons

19

ing their own pockets in the guise of elevating the

Negro to the status of a citizen with equal rights.

With the departure of the State Police commanders—

or such of them who did not meet not undeserved

fates on the end of a rope—the colored policemen

slipped back to their homes, or wandered north-

ward in search of a land flowing with milk and

honey. In the place of the State Police, the Texas

Rangers returned from their Davis-inspired re-

moval. Honest men, many of whom could have

earned far more than their Ranger’s wages in other,

less dangerous walks of life, joined. The Texas

Rangers asked little of its recruits other than loy-

alty, courage, ability to ride anything with four legs

and hair and the knowledge of how to handle

firearms.

However, with every Ranger working full time,

Howard could well have done without receiving

the letter from Caspar County. Yet one of the Gov-

ernor’s most pressing duties was to appease those

Texans—and there were many—who had devel-

oped a hearty hatred of authority as represented by

Washington’s appointed head of the State. Know-

ing Texans, for he belonged to the Lone Star State

himself, Howard could read between the lines of

the letter. He smelled trouble in the air, far more

trouble than one might expect from the theft of a

few cows.

A jerk on the bell cord hanging behind him

20

J. T. Edson

brought one of Howard’s hard-working secretaries

into the well-furnished room.

“Get Captain Murat for me,” the Governor

said.

Five minutes later the door opened and a tall,

slim, dark man in his early thirties entered. Al-

though Captain Jules Murat, commander of Troop

“G,” Texas Rangers, wore town clothes, he carried

himself with the swing of a horseman. One might

almost imagine him wearing a plumed, cocked hat,

a cloak over a Hussar uniform, a saber at his side

instead of a brace of holstered 1860 Army Colts,

for there was a Gasconading air about him, a hint

of controlled, deadly recklessness. Tanned, hand-

some, very rich, Murat was still one of the best

Ranger captains under Howard’s command.

“Trouble, Jules,” Howard said, waving Murat

into a chair and offering his cigar case.

“No thanks,” replied Murat, taking a cigar.

“We’ve plenty of our own.”

“I hate a humorist at this hour of the day,”

grunted the Governor.

“And me. What kind of trouble have you for me

this time, Stan?”

“Cow thieves.”

Clipping the end off his cigar, Murat looked

down at the weed. Although he showed nothing of

his emotions, Murat had been sweating out the

thought that the trouble might be yet another

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21

blood feud sprung out of the hatreds left behind by

Davis’ administration. Man, there you had real

Texas-size trouble. With an entire county taking

one side or the other, it was surely hell trying to

discover the rights and wrongs of the affair, locate

and arrest killers from either faction and pacify the

rest before more blood spilled.

“There’s plenty of them around,” he remarked,

showing remarkable tolerance for a man who

owned a good-sized spread and large herd.

“Small stuff,” stated the Governor. “It’s gone be-

yond being small up to Caspar County, Jules.”

Watching Howard, the Ranger captain felt his

usual admiration. Sigmund Freud had not yet got

around to presenting his views on human mental-

ity to the world so, not knowing he should sub-

consciously hate his employer, Murat was willing

to respect Howard as a brilliant man doing a diffi-

cult task. No matter what happened in Texas,

sooner or later—and mostly sooner—Howard

heard of it. More than that, the Governor formed

his own conclusions from what he heard and

mostly those conclusions proved to be correct.

Mostly Howard left the Rangers to their own de-

vices. When he called in one of the captains com-

manding the various companies, it meant Howard

felt more than usually concerned about some inci-

dent or other.

“I smell bad trouble brewing up there, Jules,”

22

J. T. Edson

the Governor went on. “Vic Crither’s passed word

for Bat Gooch.”

“That is asking for trouble,” Murat admitted,

almost showing the concern he felt. “What’s

Gooch been fetched in to do?”

“Get the cow thieves—at two hundred dollars a

head.”

Murat did not hold down his low whistle. “That

trouble you smell, I can get scent of it now.

Gooch’ll not be content just to ride Crither’s range

and let his name scare off any festive jasper with a

running iron. He’ll go out looking for the cow

thieves no matter whose land they’re working on.”

“You’re right,” Howard agreed. “With a man

like Gooch riding the range, trouble’s just over the

rim and in peeking out ready to come boiling over.

Bringing Gooch in’s like turning loose a rabid dog

to hunt down coyotes.”

“No man likes to see his property stole from

under him,” Murat remarked.

“Which same I’ll give you,” Howard replied.

“But there are better ways of stopping it than

fetching in professional killers. Like you say,

Gooch’s not going to be content with just scaring

the cow thieves off, he’s there after a bounty. Only

if he goes on to some other range, or downs an in-

nocent man, he’ll blow up all hell. I want action on

this, Jules—and I want it fast.”

Running Irons

23

When Murat nodded his agreement he was not

merely giving lip-service. After nine months in of-

fice together, Murat had learned to respect

Howard’s judgment and knew the Governor’s in-

sistence on immediate action did not spring from

either panic or vote catching. Howard knew Tex-

ans, knew their high temper, their loyalty to kin or

ranch. Already two bloody feuds and range wars

ripped at Texas counties and none knew the cost in

lives and misery they brought to the suffering citi-

zens of the areas involved. Another such affair

could start those fools in Washington thinking

about trying to reinstitute Reconstruction and, by

cracky, that might be enough to restart the Civil

War. Texas, least affected Southern State in the

war, a nation of born fighting men who learned to

handle weapons almost before they could walk,

had never taken kindly to Reconstruction or hav-

ing the “if he’s black he’s right” policies of the

Radical-Republicans up North forced on them.

Another non-Texan governor, such as Davis might

see the entire State torn apart by further civil con-

flict. Other than the most bigoted, Southern-

hating, liberal-intellectual Yankees, no man in his

right mind wanted that.

“It needs action,” the Ranger captain drawled.

“But?” asked Howard. “There’s a ‘but’ in your

voice.”

24

J. T. Edson

“I’ve only three men in camp out of my entire

company. One with a broken arm, one with a

bullet-busted thigh and the third’s flat on his back

with lead in his chest cavity.”

“Three—out of twenty?”

“The rest are all out handling chores,” Murat

explained and went on hopefully, “Shall I go?”

“I can’t spare you, Jules. You’re needed here, or-

ganizing and attending to enlisting more recruits.”

“Danged if I don’t resign and re-enlist as a pri-

vate. I’ll send off the first of my men to come in.

Although the Lord knows when that’ll be.”

“Let’s hope it will be soon,” the Governor

answered.

Clearly the interview had ended and Howard

never wasted time in idle chatter. Coming to his

feet, Murat turned and walked from the office. Be-

fore the Ranger reached the door, Howard had

taken up a report from an Army commander and

started to study the problem of controlling the Co-

manche Indians.

On leaving the Governor’s office, Murat col-

lected his horse and rode down town toward the

Ranger barracks which housed Company “G.”

Once clear of the State Capital’s area, Austin

looked pretty much like any other cattle town.

Rising along the wheel-rutted, dirt-surfaced

street, Murat gave thought to his problem. No

matter how much he wished to take action and,

Running Irons

25

if possible, prevent another range war blowing

up, he could do nothing until one of his men re-

turned from the various tasks which held their

attention.

A small, two-horse wagon came slowly along

the street toward Murat. In passing, its driver—a

tall, thin, dirty-looking bearded man in a frock

coat, top hat, dirty collarless white shirt and old

pants—caught Murat’s eye and gave a slight jerk of

his head. So slight had been the motion that a less

observant man than Murat would have missed it.

Even seeing the nod, Murat gave no sign but rode

slowly on. After passing Murat, the man turned his

wagon and drove it along an alley between two

buildings. Murat rode on a short way before

swinging his horse into the space between a saloon

and its neighboring barber’s shop. Beyond the

buildings lay a small, deserted street and the

wagon had halted along it. Riding up to the halted

wagon, Murat looked down to where its driver

stood examining a wheel.

“In trouble, Jake?” he asked.

“Danged wheel’s near on coming off,” the man

replied.

“Let me take a look.”

Swinging from his horse, Murat walked to the

wagon and bent down to inspect its wheel. Doing

so put his face near to the man and the stench of

unwashed flesh wafted to his nostrils. Murat won-

26

J. T. Edson

dered if Jacob Jacobs ever took soap and water to

his hide, but did not ask. Jacobs was a pedlar, but

who augmented his takings by acting as a gatherer

and seller of information garnered in his travels

around the range.

“You interested in running irons, Cap’n?” Ja-

cobs asked in a low voice, bringing up the matter

in the middle of a louder tirade about the poor

quality of workmanship in the fitting of the wheel.

“Depends where they are,” Murat answered.

“Up to Caspar County.”

“I’m interested. What do you know?”

“I’m a poor man, Cap’n. There’s no money to be

made by a poor old Jewish pedlar these days.”

“Or a Ranger captain,” Murat countered.

“Heard about all the trouble and went up there

special, me being a public-spirited citizen and all,”

Jacobs put in. “It’s allus been poor trading country

up there and I lost business.”

“Who’s behind the stealing?” Murat asked, cut-

ting off any further descriptions of Jacobs’s self-

sacrifice.

“A woman.”

It said much for Murat’s self-control that he

showed no emotion at the words even though dis-

belief welled in him. His eyes studied Jacobs’s face,

but he read nothing in the pedlar’s expression.

“Does she have a name?” Murat asked.

“Like I said, Cap’n, I’m a poor man.”

Running Irons

27

Taking out his wallet, Murat peeled off a ten-

dollar bill and slipped it into a grimy palm that en-

gulfed it like a large-mouth bass sucking in a shiner

minnow.

“Who is it?”

“Name of Ella Watson. She runs the Cattle

Queen.”

“Can you prove it?” asked Murat.

“Proof the man wants!” yelped Jacobs in what,

if possible, was a sotto voce wail of protest. “I tell

him who is—I tell you, Cap’n, you Rangers should

ought to arrest the feller who sold me this wagon.”

The last words came out in a much louder, com-

plaining tone as a man walked from an alley be-

hind them and passed by. Like all informers,

Jacobs knew full well the delicate nature of his po-

sition and the danger it involved. He had no wish

to become known as one who passed on confiden-

tial information to law enforcement officers and

took all precautions possible to avoid raising sus-

picions. Not until the man had passed out of hear-

ing distance did either the pedlar or the Ranger

captain resume their conversation.

“I sure as hell haven’t had ten bucks worth yet,”

Murat warned as the other seemed inclined to edge

around the question of proof.

Which same proved to be a powerful argument

and one which Jacobs could understand right well.

He knew Murat paid high for information, but ex-

28

J. T. Edson

pected service and accuracy in return for the

money spent.

“I don’t know much about it,” Jacobs admitted.

“Wasn’t there for more than two days, pulled out

as soon as I learned who was behind it. I figgered

you’d want to know as soon as I could make it.”

“Likely. Who-all’s in it with her?”

“She gets some of the fool young cowhands to

do the stealing. The young ’uns who haven’t got

too much good sense but like to feel a gal’s leg now

and then. Pays them for what they steal and gets

the money back in her place when she’s paid them.

She’s a might smart woman, Cap’n.”

“Sounds that way,” Murat grunted. “Nothing

more you can tell me?”

“Not about her. Don’t know where she gets shut

of the stuff once it’s been stolen or even where she

keeps it while she’s waiting to sell.”

That figured to anybody who knew Jacobs.

While the man willingly sold his information, he

never took any extra chances in gathering it. How-

ever, Murat decided he had a start, a point where

whichever man he sent up to Caspar County could

make a beginning in breaking the spate of cow

stealing. There was another point, a matter of

some importance which Jacobs failed to mention.

“How about Bat Gooch?”

“He’s been there for just over a week and—

how’d you know about him?”

Running Irons

29

“My mother had a voodoo-mama nurse,”

Murat answered, cursing the slowness of the mails.

When Governor Howard’s letter was dispatched

Gooch still had not arrived in Caspar. Not that

Murat intended to enlighten Jacobs; it did the

Ranger captain’s prestige no harm to have Jacobs

think he knew more than his actual knowledge.

“Has he done anything?”

“Not much. Hasn’t made him a bounty yet that

anybody knows about. Crither’s saying his losses’ve

been cut already though.”

Strange as it may seem, the news did not relieve

Murat’s anxiety as much as one might expect it to.

If the fear inspired by Gooch’s name and evil rep-

utation had scared the cow thieves off the Forked

C range, the bounty hunter ought to be spreading

the sphere of his activities real soon. From what he

knew of Gooch, Murat reckoned the man would

not be content with just wages and was likely to

seek out victims on the neighboring ranges. Sure,

Murat wanted to drive the cow thieves off the

range and stop their activities, which Gooch’s pres-

ence might do—but there was such a thing as the

price being too high. The sooner the Ranger cap-

tain could send one of his men to Caspar, the bet-

ter he would feel. Even one Ranger on the ground

might act as a steadying influence and prevent

Gooch from going too far in his bounty-hunting

search for wealth.

30

J. T. Edson

“There’s a couple more gunhands hanging

around town,” Jacobs remarked. “Are on Ella

Watson’s pay-roll, I think. They don’t say much, or

do much. ’Course, they only came in the day afore

I left.”

Once again the pedlar gave Murat worrying

news. Hired guns always meant bad trouble. If Ella

Watson had brought in a couple of guns, it might

be for the purpose of nullifying the threat Gooch

offered to her cow-stealing business—always as-

suming that Jacobs had his facts right and she did

run the she-bang.

Without letting his concern show, Murat slipped

another five dollars into Jacobs’s hand. “If you go

south, see if you can learn anything about those

stage robberies they’ve had down that way,” he

said.

“Sure, Cap’n. How about that Caspar fuss?”

“I’ll send word to the sheriff up there and let

him do what he wants.”

“Aren’t you sending your men in?” Jacobs in-

quired.

“Only if the local law asks for them,” replied

Murat cagily.

While Jacobs had proved himself a reliable

source of information on more than one occasion,

Murat did not trust the man. Knowledge of the

coming of a Ranger, or a party of Rangers, would

fetch a good price from the right area and Jacobs

Running Irons

31

might just as easily sell his news to the cow thieves

as he had to Murat. So Murat did not intend to

give too much away; not with the lives of his men

at stake.

“Don’t reckon he’ll ask,” grinned Jacobs. “Sher-

iff Simmonds ain’t the best, or smartest, lawman in

the West.”

“He getting paid for sitting back and doing

nothing?”

“I couldn’t say, Cap’n. Only he’s sure dressing

better now than he did last time I saw him, before

the cow stealing started.”

“I likely won’t hear anything from him then,”

Murat grunted. “Which same I’ve paid out fifteen

iron men for nothing.”

“News is always valuable, Cap’n,” answered

Jacobs.

“So they do tell me,” agreed the Ranger. “See

you, Jake.”

“I’ll be around,” promised the pedlar. “You

wanting me to go down south and see what I can

find about the stage hold-ups?”

“If you’re headed that way—and afore you ask,

don’t. You’ve made fifteen bucks off me for some-

thing I might not be able to put to use.”

Turning, Murat walked to his horse and swung

into the saddle. Jacobs watched the Ranger captain

ride away and then swung aboard his wagon. With

an annoyed sniff, the pedlar started his team mov-

32

J. T. Edson

ing. He felt disappointment at not learning more

about Murat’s plans. The Ranger captain most

likely aimed to send at least one of his men to Cas-

par and to be able to identify the man might have

proved profitable. Ella Watson would have paid

well to know of her danger and be able to recog-

nize it when the Ranger arrived. One thing Jacobs

learned early was never to try to sell half informa-

tion to criminals. While Ella Watson might be in-

terested to know that the Rangers were coming,

she was unlikely to pay for the information—at

least not enough to make a return trip to Caspar

worthwhile—unless Jacobs could also tell who ex-

actly to watch for.

Murat rode between the two buildings and back

on to the street once more, turning over the prob-

lem and Jacobs’s information in his mind. A wor-

ried frown creased his face as he continued his

interrupted return to his company’s barracks. One

thing was even more sure now. The Governor had

been right to worry about the developments in

Caspar County. Cow stealing was bad enough; but

when both sides started importing hired killers the

situation became far worse.

Hoping against hope, Murat swung his horse

through the gates into the compound of Troop

“G,” Texas Rangers. No imposingly military struc-

ture lay before him. The compound had no parade

ground, for the Rangers did no drill and wore no

Running Irons

33

uniform. Just an adobe office building and cells,

three wooden cabins, a long stable and barn, and

a pole corral made up the company’s headquarters.

Murat glanced hopefully at the corral, but found it

to be empty. The company’s remuda had been

taken out on to the range beyond the compound to

graze and any horse in the corral would mean that

one of his men was back from a chore.

Even as a youngster, one of the trio who acted as

wranglers for the Rangers’ horses, dashed up to

collect Murat’s mount, a tall man in cowhand

clothes and with his right arm suspended in a sling

left the office building. The man walked toward

Murat and the captain asked:

“No sign of any of the boys, Sid?”

“Nope. I’m near on fit though.”

The injured Ranger knew a summons from the

Governor meant something urgent and wondered

what further trouble had been heaped on Murat’s

shoulders.

“Near on’s not good enough, Sid. I can’t send

you out until you can handle a rifle as well as a

Colt.”

“Danged spoilsport,” growled Sid, but he knew

Murat to be right. A Ranger with a bullet-busted

wing sure would be at a disadvantage in handling

any risky law work. “It bad?”

“Bad enough,” admitted Murat. “Let’s go in and

I’ll tell you about it.”

34

J. T. Edson

Following Sid into the office, Murat made a de-

cision. Unless at least one of his men had returned

by sundown the following day, Murat intended to

disregard the Governor’s orders and head for Cas-

par himself.

Chapter 3

MISS CANARY IN DISTRESS

5 %

Miss Martha Jane Canary expected to be

raped and killed before fifteen more minutes went

by. Already the sweat-stinking fat cuss had finished

his food and started opening the drawers of the

side-piece, grinning slyly at her and waiting for her

objections. The handsome jasper, if you cared for

swarthy features and a drooping moustache, the

others called Choya still sat eating; his black eyes

studying the girl as if trying to strip her with his

gaze. After finishing his meal, the short, scar-faced

hombre named Gomez had left the cabin on a visit

to the backhouse and the fourth member of that

evil quartet, Manuel, sat wolfing down a mess of

victuals like it was going out of style. When they

36

J. T. Edson

all had finished eating and no longer required her

services as cook, the ball was sure as hell going to

start.

From the first moment she saw the four Mexi-

cans riding toward the cabin, the girl expected

trouble. One saw plenty of Mexicans in this part of

Texas, but the quartet struck her as being wrong.

While they dressed to the height of vaquero fash-

ion, they showed a mean-faced, slit-eyed wolf cau-

tion which did not go with the behavior of such

Mexican cowhands she had seen on her travels.

The backward glances, the careful, alert scrutiny of

the place as they rode toward it, each told the girl

a story. She knew instinctively the four men riding

toward her were bad. Outlaws of some sort;

maybe Comancheros, those human wolves who

preyed on both white and Indian, leaving a trail of

carnage wherever they went. All but smashed by

the Texas Rangers before the Civil War, a few

small bands of Comancheros had avoided capture,

or sprung into being during Davis’ incompetent

administration. It seemed in keeping with the girl’s

general lousy luck of the past few days that she

should run across one such bunch under the pres-

ent conditions.

Way she looked at it, only one good thing could

be said of the situation. Those four snake-eyed

greasers did not know her true identity. They must

take her for the wife or, as she wore no rings,

Running Irons

37

daughter of the house; easy meat for their evil pur-

poses once she had filled their bellies. Most likely

they would not have been so relaxed, or taken such

chances, had they known her to be Calamity Jane.

Not that Calamity looked quite her usual self.

She had seen to that on taking stock of her position

in respect of the approaching riders. Her hat, a

faded old U.S. cavalry kepi, hung behind the door

instead of perching at its usual jaunty angle on her

mop of curly red hair. Nothing about her tanned,

slightly freckled, pretty face gave a hint of her true

identity; the eyes were merry most time, the lips

looked made for laughing and kissing, but could

turn loose a blistering flow of team-driver’s invec-

tive at times. The man’s shirt she wore looked

maybe two sizes too small as it clung to her rich,

round, full bosom and slender waist, its neck open

maybe just a mite lower than some folks regarded

as seemly, the sleeves rolled up to show strong-

looking arms. However, she wore a black skirt

from the waist down, effectively covering her levis

pants; the latter, like the shirt, fitted a mite snug

and drew sniffs of disapproval from good ladies

when Calamity passed by. Not that Calamity usu-

ally gave a damn about how folks regarded her

style of dress. She wore men’s clothing because she

did a man’s job and only donned the skirt as a

piece of simple disguise which appeared to have

fooled the four Mexicans.

38

J. T. Edson

Calamity had been on her way to Austin with a

wagon-load of supplies, handling a contract for

her boss, Dobe Killem, and decided to call in to

visit with her friends, Dai and Blodwin Jones. On

her arrival she found the Jones’ had gone into

Austin that morning, but with frontier hospitality

they left the house open and food around for any

chance-passing stranger to take a meal. Being hun-

gry and trail-dirty, Calamity decided to night at the

house. After caring for the team which drew her

big Conestoga wagon, Calamity took a bath in the

Jones family’s swimming hole behind the house—

leaving her gunbelt with its ivory butted Navy

Colt, Winchester carbine and bull whip in the boot

of the wagon. Like a danged fool green kid fresh

out from the East, she did not collect the weapons

before entering the house and cooking up a meal.

Not until she heard the hooves of the Mexicans’

horses and looked from the window did Calamity

realize the full gravity of her mistake. One glance

told the range-wise Calamity all she needed to

know about the visitors and she did not like the

thought. The Jones’ had taken their weapons with

them when they headed for town. Nobody left

guns, ammunition, powder and lead around an

empty house. Even so close to Austin, capital city

of the State of Texas, there was always a chance of

an Indian raid and no Texan wanted to present a

bunch of hostiles with free firearms. Calamity did

Running Irons

39

not even consider using one of the butcher knives

to defend herself. Mexicans were a nation of knife-

fighters and she would have no chance against

them using cold steel. Nor did she commit the folly

of dashing out to her wagon. Before she could

make it, the Comancheros would be on her.

Thinking fast, Calamity headed for the Jones’

bedroom and grabbed one of Blodwin’s skirts.

Blodwin stood a few inches taller than Calamity

and the extra length of the skirt hid the fact that

Calamity wore men’s pants and Pawnee moc-

casins, then she waited for the Mexicans to arrive.

On their arrival, the four men had been all po-

liteness. Choya, he appeared to be their leader,

greeted her in fair English, asking if the señorita

could feed four poor travellers. All the time he

spoke, his three men scanned the place with care-

ful eyes, searching for sign of the male members of

the household and sitting with their hands on gun

butts. On receiving Calamity’s permission to enter,

the Mexicans left their horses standing outside, not

fastened but with trailing reins to prevent the ani-

mals straying. Calamity cooked up a meal of ham

and eggs, conscious of the evil, lust-filled eyes

watching her every move. There had been a know-

ing, mocking sneer on Choya’s lips as he listened to

her remarks about the ranch’s crew being due back

at any moment; he knew her to be alone and, as he

thought, real helpless.

40

J. T. Edson

Carefully avoiding turning to where the fat man

searched the side-piece’s drawers, Calamity

watched and waited. With the meal all but over,

she figured it would not be long before the men de-

cided to make their play. If she hoped to come out

of the affair with her life, she must act soon, fast

and right.

“There’s nothing here, Choya,” the fat man

stated in Spanish. “No money, no guns. Nothing

for us.”

“She may know where there is something,”

Choya answered. “It will be amusing to find out,

hey, Manuel?”

Swallowing a mouthful of food, the fourth

member of the party ogled Calamity with evil eyes.

“It will,” he agreed. “Who is first?”

“Me,” said the fat man.

“You was first last time, Ramon,” Manuel ob-

jected.

Calamity knew it was now or never. While the

conversation had been in Spanish, which she did

not speak, her instincts warned her of its meaning.

One did not need the powers of a Pawnee witch-

woman to figure out what lay in the Mexicans’

minds, it showed too plainly on their faces for that.

Slowly she lifted the lid of the coffeepot, as if to

check on the level of its contents. Among other un-

ladylike things, her freight outfit friends had taught

her a thorough working knowledge of the game of

Running Irons

41

poker, including the art of hiding the emotions; and

she used all her skill to prevent herself giving any

hint of her intentions. Ramon still stood at the far

side of the room by the side-piece and, if Calamity

be any kind of judge on such matters, his holster

did not look to be the type from which a Colt could

be drawn speedily. Of the two men at the table,

Choya struck Calamity as being the most danger-

ous and the one to be taken out of the game first.

With that thought in mind, Calamity acted. Sud-

denly, and without giving a hint of her intentions,

she hurled the contents of the coffeepot into

Choya’s face. Almost half a pot full of very hot cof-

fee caught the man, temporarily blinding him.

Jerking back, hands clawing at his face, Choya

threw over his chair and crashed to the floor.

Manuel gave an explosive Spanish curse, shov-

ing his chair back and starting to rise. Even as the

man’s hand went toward his gun, Calamity, mov-

ing with the speed of urgent desperation, turned

from Choya and met the fresh menace. Pivoting

around, Calamity swung her arm at and crashed

the bottom of the coffeepot into Manuel’s face.

Calamity had worked hard ever since her sixteenth

birthday and had real strong arms. So as she hit to

hurt, Manuel knew the blow landed. Blood gush-

ing from his nose, Manuel went over backward

smashing the chair under him and sprawled on to

the floor.

42

J. T. Edson

With the two men at the table handled, Calamity

gave Ramon her full and undivided attention. The

fat man had been taken completely by surprise by

the unexpected turn of events and, as Calamity fig-

ured, could not get out his gun with any speed. Not

that he bothered; instead his hand dropped and

drew a wicked, spear-pointed knife from its boot-

top sheath. Whipping back her arm, Calamity

hurled the coffeepot at Ramon’s head and for a girl

she could aim mighty straight. Even at the width of

the cabin, the flying coffeepot landed hard enough

to hurt and slowed down Ramon’s attempt at re-

taliatory measures. The coffeepot’s blow did little

actual damage, but it brought Calamity a vital cou-

ple of seconds time—and at that moment every sec-

ond gained was precious.

Snarling with rage, Ramon sprang forward. Not

at the girl, but toward the door of the cabin; mean-

ing to block her way out for Calamity was heading

toward it. Only Calamity had already thought of

and discarded the idea of using the door as a

means of egress. Instead she headed for the win-

dow nearest to her. Covering her head with her

arms, she hurled herself forward, passing through

the window and taking both glass and sash with

her. The way Calamity saw things, the Jones’ win-

dow could be far more easily replaced than the

damage those four yahoos would inflict should

they lay hands on her.

Running Irons

43

Sailing through the window, Calamity lit down

rolling like she had come off a bad horse. She went

under the porch rail and landed on her feet beyond

it. Wasting no time, she headed on the run for her

wagon. From the corner of her eye, she saw the

cabin door fly open and Ramon appeared. The

Mexican came knife in hand, a trickle of blood

running from his forehead where the coffeepot

struck him.

Calamity reached the wagon and despite the

awkwardness of wearing a skirt, leapt for the box.

Even as she swung on to it, a glance to the rear told

her how little time she had to save herself. Ramon

had halted and already changed his hold on the

knife, gripping it by the point of the blade instead

of the hilt. While not the brightest of men, he could

figure out that the girl did not head for the wagon

in a state of blind panic. She must be after a

weapon of some kind and he aimed to throw the

knife, downing her before she reached whatever

she sought in the wagon.

Grabbing for the nearest of her weapons,

Calamity caught up the long bull whip’s handle.

Even as Ramon prepared to throw his knife,

Calamity struck out. Her right hand rose, carrying

the whip up and flicking its lash behind her. Down

swept the arm, sending the whip’s lash curling for-

ward. An instant before Ramon made his throw,

the tip of the lash caught him in the face, splatter-

44

J. T. Edson

ing his right eyeball as if it had been struck by the

full force of a .44 bullet. Ramon screamed, the

knife falling from his fingers as they clawed at his

injured face.

For a moment Calamity thought that her luck

had changed for the better. While she could handle

her bull whip real well, there had not been time to

take a careful aim. She just let fly and hoped for

the best. Having a bull whip give its explosive pop

within inches of one’s head did not make for

steady nerves or accurate aim when tossing a knife;

so Calamity merely hoped to put Ramon off his

aim, causing him to miss his throw, and give her

the short time needed to change whip for carbine.

From the way that fat jasper screeched and blood

spurted between his fingers, she had done a whole

lot better than just put him off by a near miss.

A bullet ripped the air by Calamity’s head even

as she swung around to drop the whip and grab up

her Winchester. Once again, as she had several

times before, Calamity decided there was no sound

in the world she hated as much as the flat “splat!”

sound of a close-passing bullet. Throwing a glance

at the shooter, Calamity found she was not yet out

of the woods. Gomez stood at the corner of the

cabin, holding up his pants with one hand, lining

his gun at her with the other. He stood well beyond

the range of her whip and handled that smoking

Starr Army revolver like he knew which end the

Running Irons

45

bullets came from. What was more, he took care-

ful aim, not meaning to miss again.

Letting the whip fall, Calamity prepared to

make a grab that would see the twelve-shot Win-

chester Model ’66 carbine in her hands—unless

she took a .44 Starr bullet between the shoulders

first. It had been her original intention to make the

wagon, collect the carbine and fort up some place

where she could have a clear field of fire at the

front of the cabin. If the plan had succeeded,

Calamity reckoned she ought to be able to hand

those jaspers their needings.

Only she had forgotten Gomez and it seemed

that her lack of foresight would cost her dearly.

She doubted if he aimed to miss a second time. Nor

would there be time for her to grab the carbine and

stop him.

Even as death stared Calamity in the face, while

the Mexican aimed his revolver and pressed its

double-action trigger, a shot rang out. Not the deep

boom of a handgun, but the crack of a Winchester

rifle. For an instant Calamity thought her unseen

rescuer had struck a flour-sack, for something white

sprayed up from Gomez’ head. Then she realized

that the Winchester’s bullet, on striking the skull,

had shattered the bone, spraying slivers of it and

pulped out brains flying into the air. The Starr fell

from Gomez’ hand as his body collapsed in a limp,

boned-out manner to the ground.

46

J. T. Edson

Not that Calamity wasted any time in thinking

about the sight. Already Choya and Manuel were

coming through the cabin door and they looked

mean as all hell. Each man held a gun and had

murder in his heart, with Calamity as the one they

aimed to kill.

Bending down, Calamity jerked the carbine

from its boot fitted to the inside of the wagon box.

The move saved her life for both Mexicans fired at

her and the lead passed over her head. The roars of

the revolvers mingled with yet another shot from

her unseen rescuer’s rifle. Swivelling around, car-

bine in hand, Calamity saw the effect of the second

rifle bullet. Choya leaned against the door jamb,

sliding slowly down. A trickle of blood ran from

his chest and his Remington had fallen out of his

hand.

Manuel saw Calamity swing toward him, the

carbine held with practiced ease in her hands. For

a moment he hesitated, wavering between han-

dling the girl and locating the as yet unseen rifle-

user. That indecision cost him his life, it gave the

girl a vitally needed second or so in which to throw

up and sight the rifle. Even as Manuel started to

bring his revolver in her direction, Calamity shot

him dead. She knew the Comanchero breed, knew

the only way to stop their evil ways was to kill

them, and felt no remorse at taking Manuel’s life.

Which same left Ramon. Badly injured though

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47

he was, with an eye that he would never see

through again, the Mexican still drew his gun and

started shooting as he made for his horse. Twice he

fired and, even though pain misted his eyes, he sent

the bullets into the wagon box. Splinters kicked

into the air but Calamity’s luck, now changed

again for the better, held, and the bullets missed

her. Yet she knew she must shoot back for Ramon

had other charges in his gun and clearly aimed to

use them. Her rescuer appeared to judge the situa-

tion in the same light for his rifle spat out at the

same moment as Calamity’s carbine cracked.

Struck by two flat-nosed, Tyler Henry-designed

.44 bullets, Ramon whirled around twice, crashed

into the nearest horse and went down.

Silence dropped after the thunder of guns, the

wind wafting away the burned powder’s smoke.

Calamity let out a long shuddering sigh and low-

ered her carbine. She felt that the last half hour or

so put years on her life and, sure as hell’s for sin-

ners, was about as close a call as ever came her

young way; up to and including the time she acted

as human decoy to lure out of hiding a murderer

who had strangled eight girls in the old city of New

Orleans. And that time had been mighty rough, for

she wound up taking the Strangler alone; due

partly to her own cussedness and mule-headedly

going out without a police cover. She reckoned

that not even the feel of the Strangler’s killing cord

48

J. T. Edson

around her throat had been as bad as waiting for

those four Mexicans to jump her.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” called a male voice.

For the first time Calamity saw her rescuer. He

stepped from the shelter and cover of the bushes

some fifty yards away, his rifle held in both hands

down before his body yet ready for instant use. Al-

though he wore no badge of office he handled him-

self in the manner of a trained lawman. Despite

calling out the question about her welfare, he

never took his attention from the four Mexicans.

Calamity studied her rescuer with interest. There

appeared to be something familiar about his fea-

tures; as if she should know him, yet could not

place him. He stood maybe six foot one, with a

good pair of shoulders that trimmed down to a

lean waist. An expensive black Stetson hat, low

crowned and wide brimmed in the Texas fashion,

sat on the back of his dusty-blond head. He had an

intelligent, handsome face made even more grim-

looking by trail dirt and a three-day stubble of

whiskers, but it looked like it might relax under

the right conditions. The tight rolled green ban-

dana which trailed long ends down over his blue

broadcloth shirt, his brown levis pants with the

cuffs turned back and hanging outside his high-

heeled, fancy-stitched boots, all were trail-dirty

and showed hard wear. His gunbelt hung just

right, a brace of matched staghorn butted 1860

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49

Army Colts in the contoured holsters. The guns

rode just right for a fast draw and in a significant

fashion; the right side’s Colt pointed its butt to the

rear, that at the left turned forward. Such a method

often being used in the days before metallic-

cartridge revolvers replaced the percussion-fired

guns. Due to the slowness of reloading a cap-and-

ball revolver, many men carried two guns, al-

though few learned to be ambidextrous in the use

of their weapons. Most folks toted their left gun so

it could be drawn with the right hand. In a tight

spot which called for sustained fire from his

weapons, the young man who rescued Calamity

most likely drew and emptied his right side Colt

first, then either holstered it or made a border-shift—

tossing the gun from right to left hand—and drew

the second weapon cross-hand so as to continue

shooting.

“Dang it though,” Calamity mused, studying the

young man. “I should know this feller from some-

place. Now who in hell does he remind me of?”

Quickly Calamity thought of some of the men

who passed through her hectic young life, trying to

decide which of them the young Texan reminded

her of most. She discounted Wild Bill Hickok right

away. Nor did her rescuer remind her of Beau

Resin, the Indian scout she met while freighting

supplies to a fort in the Dakotas and with whom

she shared some mighty stirring times. Her

50

J. T. Edson

thoughts went next to Mark Counter, that range-

country Hercules from the Texas Big Bend country.

No, handsome though he was, the young man did

not come up to Mark’s standards, nor resemble the

blond giant enough to remind Calamity of Mark.

Yet he for sure looked like somebody Calamity

knew.

Even as the girl decided to ask, she saw some-

thing that jolted all thoughts of who the young

Texan resembled clean out of her head.

“Look out!” she screamed.

Clearly Choya, leader of the Comancheros, had

not been hit as badly as they imagined. Suddenly,

his eyes opened and his right hand scooped up the

Remington in a fast-done move. He had been play-

ing possum to lure his unseen attack in close

enough to be shot down. The move came fast,

deadly and unexpected as the strike of a copper-

head snake, and was typical of a Comanchero’s

way of fighting. Even as Choya fired, and almost

before Calamity screamed her warning, the young

Texan acted. He moved with commendable speed,

going into a crouch and lining the rifle hip high.

Three times he fired, working the lever in almost a

blur of movement. Choya got off one shot which

fanned the Texan’s cheek in passing and might

have hit if the Comanchero’s hand had been stead-

ier. Twice splinters erupted from the wall, drawing

closer to Choya. On the third shot no splinters

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51

flew, but the Comanchero jerked under the impact

of lead. For an instant he struggled to keep his gun

lined. The Texan levered another bullet into his

rifle and prepared to shoot again. The precaution

proved to be unnecessary. Opening his hand,

Choya let the Remington fall from it. This time

when the gun landed on the ground, Choya would

not be picking it up again.

Chapter 4

YOU’RE DUSTY FOG’S KID BROTHER

5 %

“Reckon you feel up to covering them while

I pull their fangs, ma’am?” asked the young man

who had saved Calamity’s life, his voice an easy-

sounding Texas drawl.

Maybe Calamity did feel just a little mite shaken

by her experience, but the words stiffened her like

a hound-scared cat.

“Naw!” she replied. “I’m all set to start swoon-

ing and like to pee my tiny pants.” She hefted the

carbine for him to see. “Go pull their teeth, friend,

they’re safe covered.”

Watching the way the young man moved,

Calamity once again felt struck by the calm, com-

petent and efficient manner in which he handled

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53

himself. One thing was for certain sure, he moved

like a well-trained lawman. His route to the bodies

took him by the front of Calamity’s wagon. In

passing, he rested the Winchester against the

wagon’s side and took out his right-hand revolver

before going any closer to the dead Mexicans. Up

close, should one of the quartet still be playing

possum, a revolver’s short length licked the be-

jeesus out of the longer range and greater maga-

zine capacity of a rifle.

Neither weapon would have been needed, as the

disarming of the Comancheros passed without in-

cident. Not one of that evil quartet would ever give

trouble or endanger lives and property again. Yet

the young Texan did not feel any annoyance at

having taken the precautions. The way he saw

things, it was well worth taking a few added pre-

cautions happen they kept a man alive.

“That’s them cleaned,” he remarked, after toss-

ing the last of the Comancheros’ weapons toward

the wagon. “You’d maybe best stop in the wagon,

ma’am, they aren’t a pretty sight.”

“They never are,” Calamity answered, putting

her carbine’s safety catch on and sliding the little

gun back into its boot. “And for Tophet’s sake,

stop calling me ‘ma’am’.”

“Sure, ma’am,” drawled the young man sooth-

ingly.

If there was one thing in the world that riled

54

J. T. Edson

Calamity more than the rest, it was having a young

feller around her age showing off his masculine

superiority—not that Calamity would have ex-

pressed it in such a manner—and acting all smug

and condescending because he wore pants and

maybe sported hair on his chest. Well, maybe she

might be a mite shy on the hair but she could sure

copper his bet on the other score. Unfastening the

skirt, she slid it off and, not for the first time, won-

dered why in hell womenfolk hampered themselves

by wearing such garments. Once free of the skirt’s

encumbrance, she took up her gunbelt and vaulted

lightly from the wagon.

“You look a mite disappointed,” she said notic-

ing the way he glanced at her legs.

“Why sure,” the Texan replied. “When I saw

you take off your skirt there, I figured——”

“Well, you was wrong. Let’s clean up around

here afore the Jones’ get back.”

“As you say, ma’am. This isn’t your place then?”

“Just passing through, although I did take a few

liberties with the fixings,” Calamity answered, her

eyes flickering to the window she destroyed in her

departure from the cabin. “And the next time you

call me ‘ma’am’ I’ll——”

“Ma’am’s a good name seeing’s we’ve not been

introduced. I figured you was a lady in distress.”

“Boy,” grinned Calamity, although her rescuer

could maybe give her a year in age. “I’m no lady,

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55

but I sure as hell was in distress. Fact being I was

so in distress that I said, ‘Calam, gal,’ I said,

‘you’re sure in distress right now, so where-at’s

that long, blond, handsome Texan who’s going to

save your ornery, worthless lady’s hide.’ And dog-

my-cats, there you was as large as life and twice as

welcome.”

“I talk too much when I want to haul off and

fetch up, too,” the Texan told her. “Like right

now.”

For a moment Calamity’s temper boiled up hot

and wild, quelling the uneasiness in her belly. No

matter how often one saw sudden death, the sight

never grew any easier on the stomach. Those four

Mexicans aimed to rape and kill her, as she well

knew, but the thought did little to stop her feeling

just a mite sick as she glanced at, then looked away

from the gory mess that was the top of Gomez’

bullet-shattered head.

However, life must go on. If Calamity sat down

and went all woman and hysterical every time she

saw a body, she would have spent a good portion

of the last three years that way. A freight driver’s

life was hard and dangerous out West, what with

facing the hazards of the elements, Indian attack

and the occasional meeting with murderous Co-

mancheros, so offered plenty of opportunity for

one to see sudden, violent death.

After her mother left her in the care of the nuns

56

J. T. Edson

at a St. Louis convent, Calamity stayed put until

her sixteenth birthday. There being too much of

Charlotte Canary’s spirit in Calamity for her to

take kindly to the discipline of the convent, the girl

slipped away on her sixteenth birthday and hid in

one of Dobe Killem’s wagons as it started its trip

West, first working as cook’s louse, then learning

the mysteries of a team-driver’s art. From the men

of the outfit Calamity learned much; how to han-

dle and care for a six-horse team, use a long-lashed

bull whip as tool and weapon, know more than a

little about Indians, and how to defend herself

with her bare hands in a rough-house frontier bar-

room brawl—a useful accomplishment when deal-

ing with tough dancehall girls who objected to

Calamity entering their place of employment. In

three years Calamity had seen a fair piece of the

West and reached the stage of competence where

Dobe Killem allowed her to handle chores alone,

knowing he could trust her to come through for

him.

“What’ll we do with ’em?” she asked, ignoring

the unsettled condition of her stomach. “It’ll take

a whole heap of digging to plant all four of ’em;

and I don’t want to do it near the house.”

“We won’t have to,” answered the Texan. “If

you’ve room in your wagon, I’ll take them into

Austin.”

“You a bounty hunter?” growled Calamity.

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57

Reaching into a hidden pocket behind his gun-

belt, the Texan extracted something. He held out

his hand, in its palm lay a silver star mounted in a

circle. While not a native of the Lone Star State,

Calamity still knew and could recognize the badge

of the Texas Rangers when she saw it—and she

saw one in the palm of her young rescuer’s hand.

“Ranger, huh?” she asked.

“Yes’m. The name’s Danny Fog——”

Calamity slapped the palm of a hand against her

thigh and gave an exasperated yelp. Everything

slotted into place now, she could see the family re-

semblance and cursed herself for not spotting it

straight off. Of course, there was a mite of differ-

ence that could account for her not connecting her

rescuer with——

“Damn it to hell!” she snorted. “I should have

seen it. You’re Dusty Fog’s kid brother.”

Which same was roughly the sort of remark

Danny Fog had come to expect to hear when he

announced his identity. Danny yielded second to

no man in the respect, admiration and affection he

bore for his famous brother, the Rio Hondo gun

wizard, Dusty Fog. As Danny saw things, a man

who had been one of the South’s top fighting lead-

ers in the war, became known as a cowhand, ranch

segundo and trail boss of the first water, bore a

name as a town-taming lawman with few equals,

was acclaimed by reliable sources as the fastest gun

58

J. T. Edson

in Texas, deserved all the credit and fame which

came his way. So far Texas had not come under the

grip of “debunkers,” those intellectual young men

who, aware of their own complete lack of any

qualities of courage or ability, sought to bring

everybody down to their level. Dusty Fog enjoyed

just fame and acclaim and his brother, Danny,

stood first in line to give it.

But it sure riled a mite to be known as “Dusty

Fog’s kid brother.” Without boasting of it, Danny

knew himself to be intelligent; with his training he

considered himself to be a pretty fair lawman;

maybe not real fast with a Colt—it took him a

good second to draw and shoot and in Texas one

needed to be able to almost half that time to be

considered fast—but a fine shot with a handgun or

rifle; capable of reading sign in an efficient manner,

and a reckonable fist fighter; these latter qualities

stemming from the lessons given by two of Dusty’s

friends, each an acknowledged master in his field.

So he figured he could make a better than fair

peace officer, given time to gather experience and

reckoned he ought to be able to stand on his own

two feet; which was why he joined the Rangers in-

stead of staying on in Rio Hondo County and

working as his father’s deputy. That way he hoped

to gain for himself a separate identity instead of

living as “Dusty Fog’s kid brother.”

“You know Dusty, ma’am?” he inquired.

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59

With a remarkable show of tact, Calamity

guessed at the cause of the momentary pause

which followed her words. So she held down the

blistering comment which rose on Danny’s re-

peated use of the word “ma’am.”

“Met him a couple of times, and the Ysabel

Kid—know ole Mark Counter a whole heap better

though. Say, didn’t they ever mention me?”

“Only gal they ever mentioned that partly might

fit your description was a dead-mean, red-haired

lump of perversity called Calamity Jane. Only

Mark mentioned as how she was a mite fatter’n

you and got more freckles.”

“If you’re jobbing me——” she warned.

“Me, ma’am?” asked Danny, then a look of hor-

ror came to his face. “Landsakes a-mercy, do you

mean to tell me that you’re Calamity Jane?”

“You did that real smooth,” Calamity sniffed.

“Maybe just a mite over-done, but not bad for a

kid.”

A grin flickered on Danny’s face and he held out

a hand. “Put her there, Calam. Pleased to know

you.”

Taking the offered hand, Calamity shook it and

grinned back. “And boy, was I pleased to hear

from you. Say, let’s tend to the cleaning up afore

we set down to old home week, shall we?”

“Be best, I reckon,” Danny agreed. “Can we

tote ’em in on your wagon?”

60

J. T. Edson

“Reckon so. I never took to handling the blister

end of a shovel.”

“I’ll go bring down my hoss first.”

“Reckon I’ll come along with you,” Calamity re-

marked, throwing a glance at the bodies. “Feel like

stretching my legs a mite.”

“Let’s go then,” Danny answered.

He made no comment on the girl’s statement, al-

though she figured that her words had not fooled

him at all. Side by side they started to walk up the

bush dotted slope and Calamity’s curiosity got the

better of her as she thought of Danny’s timely arrival.

“How’d you come to be on hand right when I

needed you?” she asked.

“I’ve been after Choya and his bunch for over a

week now.”

“Just one of you?”

“Were three when we started out. Only the Co-

mancheros laid for us. Got Buck Lemming, him

being the sergeant, first crack and put lead into

Sandy Gartree’s left wing. I was riding behind the

other two and come off lucky. Then when Choya’s

bunch pulled a Mexican stand-off. I buried Buck,

patched up Sandy and sent him back to the

Bradded H and took out to tracking those four.”

Which left a considerable amount of the story

untold. Danny spoke truly when he said he had

been riding behind the other two as they ran into

the ambush. What he failed to mention being that

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61

he saved Gartree’s life by pulling the wounded man

to cover under Comanchero fire and it had been

mainly due to his defense that the four remaining

Mexicans—two died before Danny and Gartree’s

guns—pulled out and ran. In the traditions of the

Texas Rangers, Danny attended to his friends and

then took out after the Comancheros even though

the odds be four to one in their favor.

“Sure pleased you did,” Calamity stated. “Man,

there was times when I figured I was due for wings

and a harp.”

“You. Shucks, only the good die young they do

say,” grinned Danny.

“One more remark like that out of you and we’ll

see about it,” she snorted. “What was you fixing in

to do, sneaking down the slope?”

“Take ’em. I’d seen their hosses when they

jumped us and recognized those four when I

peeked over the top of the rim. Reckoned that

Choya and his bunch’d be in the house and aimed

to sneak in then take ’em by surprise. Only you

come through the window afore I made it. Which

same I was lucky, didn’t know about that jasper in

the backhouse.”

“The Ysabel Kid’d’ve checked on it afore he

moved in.”

“Which same I aimed to do,” Danny told her

calmly. “He taught me all he knows about tracking

and things.”

62

J. T. Edson

“Which same I never saw the Kid show any sign

of knowing about—things,” grinned Calamity.

“Though he does know some about tracking.”

“Anyways you stopped me when you came

through the window and that jasper came out the

backhouse like a coon off a log when he heard the

whooping and hollering, and I figured to stay hid

until I saw what might be needed. How come you-

all was fool enough to get caught, Calam, gal?”

Quickly, her sentences liberally sprinkled with a

flow of invective that brought an admiring grin to

Danny’s lips, Calamity told her story. Nor did his

admiration lessen when he heard of the manner in

which she prevented the men from recognizing her

true potential by donning a skirt and acting as the

unsuspecting lady of the house. Take it any way a

man looked, old Calamity was quite a gal and lived

up to the flattering comments Dusty, Mark and the

Kid made about her after their return from the first

meeting. Not many women would have shown her

presence of mind. Fact being, few women, even in

the self-reliant West, could have handled things so

efficiently or come out of the situation which had

faced Calamity as well as she did.

On reaching the top of the slope, Calamity looked

to where Danny’s horse stood by a large blueberry

bush. It came as almost a surprise to see that Danny

did not ride a paint like his brother’s personal

mount. However, the horse looked to be a real fine

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63

critter, sixteen hands high and showing good breed-

ing. The horse had a coloration Calamity could

never remember seeing before, a light red, almost

pinkish roan with a pure white belly.

“What in hell color do you call that?” she asked.

“A sabino, ” Danny explained. “Got him below

the line. Mexican cowhands go a whole heap on

them for go-to-town hosses and for work.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” sniffed Calamity.

“Looks a mite flashy to me. Got me a buckskin

with the outfit that’d run his legs down to the

shoulders in a straight mile race.”

“Got me a week’s furlough to come when I pull

in from this lot,” Danny answered, meeting her

challenge. “Happen you can lay hands on your

crow-bait, we’ll run us a race.”

“You got a deal. Dobe Killem, which same being

my boss, told me to wait in Austin for two weeks,

grab some work if I could to keep me busy until he

brings the rest of the bunch in.”

“So you’ll be in for a week with nothing to do,”

drawled Danny, taking up his sabino’s reins. “Just

like me.”

“Must be fate in it someplace.” Calamity an-

swered, eyeing him with interest. “You got a

steady gal?”

“Not steady. Always figgered a young lawman

shouldn’t get too close or attached until he knows

if he’s going to make the grade or not.”

64

J. T. Edson

“Which same’s as good an excuse as any.”

“Sure,” Danny agreed. “Now let’s get down

there and tend to those four Mexicans, shall we?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Calamity answered.

On returning to the cabin, Danny attended to

his horse. Then, with Calamity at his side, he re-

turned to the front of the cabin and prepared to

start the distasteful task of cleaning up.

“Get their tarps, Calam,” he ordered, “and

bring one of their ropes.”

Normally Calamity might have objected to a new

acquaintance, especially a young man, giving her or-

ders. Yet she figured Danny knew what he was doing,

and anyways she could always object if she decided

he did not. Calamity went to each horse in turn and

removed its tarpaulin-wrapped bundle from behind

the saddle’s cantle. Unrolling the first bundle, she

handed the tarp to Danny and, with an express of dis-

taste on his face, he went to work. First spreading the

tarp on the ground, Danny pulled Choya’s body into

the center of it. Wrapping the body completely inside

the tarp, Danny took the rope from Calamity and

bound the bundle so the jolting of the wagon would

not uncover its grisly contents. Next came a difficult

and not too pleasant task, loading the body into the

rear of Calamity’s wagon.

“I’ll lend you a hand,” the girl said her voice just

a mite strained.

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65

“Gracias, Calam. Take the feet, I’ll handle the

head.”

Between them, Calamity and Danny lifted first

one, then the remainder of the tarpaulin-wrapped

shapes into the rear of the girl’s wagon, laying

them side by side in the space at the back. With

that done, the two of them cleaned up, as well as

they could, the traces of the fighting. Calamity

gathered up the shattered glass while Danny

brought shovel-loads of dirt to cover the blood-

stains. Finally they stood back and looked over

their work.

“I took a bath when I arrived,” the girl re-

marked. “Damned if I don’t feel all dirty again.”

Danny put a hand to his bristle-covered chin.

“And me. I sure hate to have whiskers growing on

me. Say, is there any water inside?”

“I’ll boil some for you. Then while you’re shav-

ing, I’ll go take a bath,” Calamity suggested. “And

then I’ll cook us a meal.”

“Sounds like a real good notion,” Danny answered.

Opening his bedroll, Danny dug into his warbag

and collected his shaving kit. Calamity poured him

out some hot water and headed for the swimming

hole while he stripped off his shirt to wash and

shave. Having been hunting the Comancheros

alone for the past three days, Danny had not found

time to wash and shave, or even take off his

66

J. T. Edson

clothes. He felt a whole heap better with the

growth of whiskers and some of the trail dirt re-

moved from his hide. On Calamity’s return, Danny

took a change of clothes and headed for the swim-

ming hole. All in all, he both felt and looked a

whole heap better on his return. Nor had Calamity

wasted her time, but set to and cooked a real good

meal for him.

“You cook just like Mark said,” he told

Calamity after the meal, having been too hungry

during it to waste time in talking. “Man gets tired

of stream water and jerky.”

“Reckon he does,” she agreed then grinned. “You

mean ole Mark said something nice about me?”

“Shucks, Mark always talks real high and re-

spectful about you, Calam.”

“I just bet he does,” smiled the girl.

“There’s no chance of making Austin today,”

Danny remarked, looking out of the window at the

darkening range. “Happen we start at sun-up, we

ought to reach it afore noon tomorrow.”

“That’s how I saw it,” agreed Calamity. “Let’s

go tend the stock. I reckon we’ll leave the four Co-

manchero hosses here to pay for the damage I did

to the window.”

Danny gave his assent and they went out to feed,

water and bed down the horses. On their return,

Calamity lit a lamp while Danny laid his saddle

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67

carefully on its side by the wall and unpacked his

bedroll.

“It’s going to be a mite chilly for whoever sleeps

in here,” Calamity said, glancing at the shattered

window.

“You take the bedroom then,” replied Danny,

courteous to the core as became a Southern gentle-

man.

“Shuckens no. Let’s do it fair,” answered

Calamity, taking a coin from her pocket and flip-

ping it into the air. “Heads I have the bedroom,

tails you get it. Dang it, Danny, it’s tails. We said

best of three, didn’t we?”

“Why sure,” grinned Danny, taking the coin and

flicking it up again. It landed on the table with a

metallic clink.

“Three out of five, we said, didn’t we?” asked

Calamity, looking at the exposed tails side.

Once more the coin sailed into the air. Shooting

out a hand, Calamity caught the spinning disc of

metal and brought it down to stand on its edge in

a crack on the table top.

“Land-sakes a-mercy,” she said innocently. “It

looks like we’re due for a stand-off.”

“What’ll we do in that case?” asked Danny, just

as innocently.

“Didn’t Mark teach you nothing about—

things?”

68

J. T. Edson

“You know, Calam, gal,” Danny drawled, blow-

ing out the lamp. “He just might have done at

that.”

Almost an hour later, just before she went to

sleep, Calamity gave a grin. One thing was for

sure. Dusty Fog’s kid brother could sure act like a

man full grown.

Chapter 5

BREAK UP THAT COW STEALING,

DANNY

5 %

Sid Watchhorn eased his arm in the sling,

glanced at the rider and wagon which entered the

compound and then walked back into the office.

“Danny’s here, Cap’n,” he said.

“Alone?” asked Murat, seeing his chance of

making the Caspar County investigation—and get-

ting away from the tedium of office work—depart.

“Never thought he’d bring any of ’em in alive,”

Sid answered. “Only he’s not alone. Got a right

pretty lil gal along with him, driving a six-hoss

Conestoga.”

Throwing a glance at Sid, the Ranger captain

tried to read the tanned, leathery face for a hint that

70

J. T. Edson

his wounded man made a joke. He saw nothing,

which did not entirely surprise him. However,

Murat knew handling the ribbons of a six-horse

Conestoga wagon took skill of a high degree. Com-

ing to his feet, Murat walked from the office and

looked in the direction of the approaching party.

“I told you so,” said Sid in doleful delight, “only

you didn’t believe lil ole me.”

“Does anybody?” grunted Murat and walked to

meet his other Ranger. “Howdy, Danny. We got a

telegraph from Sandy up to Two Trees, said you’d

gone on after Choya and his bunch.”

“Huh huh!” Danny answered.

“Catch ’em?”

The words came out more as a statement than a

question. No Ranger worth his salt would leave

the trail of the men who killed one of his partners

and wounded another. Yet Murat could see no sign

of the Comanchero’s horses. Then his eyes went to

the wagon’s box, studying the various scars on its

timber. Two of the bullet holes looked newly made.

“I caught ’em. They’re in the back of Calam’s

wagon.”

Walking by his captain, Sid headed to the rear of

the wagon and started to unfasten its canopy’s

lashings. Calamity jumped down from the box and

joined the Ranger at the rear.

“Let me lend you a hand,” she said. “You look

like you need one.”

Running Irons

71

“Her husband come home early,” answered Sid.

“That’s allus the way,” Calamity commiserated.

“How many in there, ma’am?”

“Four, all there was. And happen you don’t want

the other wing busting quit calling me ‘ma’am’.”

One of the young wranglers dashed up and took

charge of Danny’s horse. It said much for Danny’s

trust in the youngster that he allowed the sabino’s

welfare to the boy’s hands. However, Danny knew

he could rely on the youngster to care properly for

the big horse and that he must give his report to his

captain as quickly as possible.

“Let’s go into the office, Danny,” Murat sug-

gested as the youngster led the sabino away.

Following Murat into the office, Danny took a

seat at the desk. There was nothing fancy about

the room in which the Rangers of Company “G”

handled their paper-work and planned their cam-

paigns against the criminal elements of Texas. Just

a desk, its top scarred by spur-decorated boot heels

and burned by innumerable cigar and cigarette

butts, with a few papers sharing the top with the

first edition of the famous “Bible Two,” the Texas

Rangers’ list of wanted men that would be brought

out each year and read by the sons of the star-in-

the-circle far more than they ever studied the orig-

inal book. Some half-a-dozen chairs stood against

the walls, two more at the desk. A safe, its door

open and shelves empty, graced one wall, a stove

72

J. T. Edson

facing it across the room. On either side of the

door leading to the cells at the rear of the building

were respectively a bulletin board containing

wanted dodgers from all over the State, and a rack

holding some dozen assorted Winchesters, Spencer

carbines and ten-gauge shotguns, all clean and

ready for use.

It was not a room conducive to long, leisurely

discussion, but a plain, functioning, working-

man’s premises where business was dealt with

speedily and without waste of time.

“Tell me about it,” Murat ordered as they took

their seats. He took out the office bottle and

poured two drinks, offered the young Ranger a

cigar, and settled down to learn how Danny han-

dled things on the hunt for the Comancheros.

A feeling of pride came to Danny as he took the

drink. It had become a custom in Company “G”

that Murat offered a Ranger who came in from a

successful chore a drink before starting business.

Usually it would have been the senior man making

the report and collecting the drink, but this time—

for the first time—Danny found himself receiving

Murat’s unspoken approbation.

Quickly Danny told Murat all that happened

from the time the Comancheros ambushed his

party. By questions; knowing his men, Murat

never expected to learn the one making the re-

port’s share of the affair without probing; the cap-

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73

tain found out how Danny handled things with

his sergeant dead and more experienced colleague

wounded. Nodding in approval, he listened to

Danny tell how the trailing of the Comancheros

came to its conclusion at the Jones place. The cap-

tain’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he learned the

identity of the girl on the wagon. It figured, hap-

pen a man gave thought to the matter; few other

women in the West could handle a six-horse Con-

estoga wagon.

“Four, and the two you downed when they hit

you,” Murat said when Danny came to the end of his

report. “That’s the whole damned bunch finished.”

“And it cost us Buck Lemming,” Danny replied.

“He was married, got a family, too, Captain.”

“I know that,” answered Murat. “It’s the way

the game goes, Danny.”

“If I’d been up front——”

“Call that right off, boy!” the captain snapped.

“Buck rode up front because it was his place as ser-

geant to be there. Nobody’ll blame you for the am-

bush, and what you’ve done since sure don’t need

any apologizing for. Well, we can scratch Choya’s

name out of ‘Bible Two’.”

“Yes, sir. Anything more for me?”

“Yep. I want you to pull out for Caspar, today,

if you can.”

“Something up?”

“Cow thieves.”

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J. T. Edson

Danny looked at the commander of Company

“G” and nodded. A Ranger never knew from one

day to the next what new trouble he might find

himself tangling in. Fresh off the trail of a band of

murderous Comancheros, he found himself de-

tailed to ride out the same night to deal with a

bunch of cow thieves—even if his captain had not

said it in so many words.

“Sounds a mite urgent just for cow thieves,”

Danny remarked, knowing such business was

mostly handled by the county authorities con-

cerned and did not normally require the Statewide

powers of the Rangers.

“It goes deeper than that,” answered Murat and

settled down to explain the situation to Danny, in-

cluding the possibility of far worse trouble than

mere cow stealing developing out of the hiring of

professional gun hands. Then Murat told Danny

the most prime piece of information.

“A woman running it?” Danny growled. “That

doesn’t sound possible.”

“Neither does seeing a gal handle the ribbons of

a six-horse Conestoga—only we’ve both just seen

that. Anyways, she has a perfect set-up to run it. A

saloon where cowhands can come and go without

attracting any attention; things even a saint* likes

enough to make him think about grabbing a cou-

* Saint: Cow thief’s contemptuous name for a loyal cowhand.

Running Irons

75

ple of unbranded strays, working on them with a

running iron and selling them to pay for.”

“That figgers,” agreed Danny. “Most young

cowhands’d take a few chances to get extra liquor,

gambling or gals. Only a gal running things makes

it just that much harder.”

“It sure does.”

Studying Danny, Murat wondered if the task

might be beyond the inexperienced young man’s

depth. Sure Danny had trailed and downed that

bunch of Comancheros without calling for help, but

that had been a straightforward piece of work. Tan-

gling with the cow thieves and gathering evidence

against their leaders, called for courage, brains—

which Murat granted Danny possessed—and expe-

rience. It was the latter Danny fell short on. Yet he

might be a good man for the job. At least he would

be the right age for Ella Watson, or whoever con-

trolled the stealing, to regard as a potential cow

thief, and he knew enough about cowhand work to

act the part without arousing suspicion.

But could Danny swing things up there in Cas-

par and prevent another range war blowing a fur-

ther Texas county apart at the seams?

Then Murat remembered Danny’s relationship

with Dusty Fog. Should Danny find himself in

water over the willows up in Caspar County, a

word would bring his famous brother riding to his

aid. Nor would Dusty ride alone, but bring along

76

J. T. Edson

his two good and efficient amigos Mark Counter

and the Ysabel Kid. While none of that illustrious

trio had ever belonged to the Rangers, they could

handle the trouble in Caspar County with ease.

While rolling a cigarette, Danny watched Murat

and guessed at his captain’s thoughts. His knowl-

edge did not annoy him as much as it might have

done before taking the Comanchero gang. Now he

had proved himself in his own eyes and one thing

he knew for sure. Should he handle the Caspar

chore, no matter how difficult the task or how it

went, he did not aim to call on Brother Dusty for

help. Danny reckoned that if he could not stand on

his own two feet by now, he was of no use as a

Ranger.

Only having a woman at the back of the business

surely made it hellish hard to handle. Danny had

decided on the same line of action as that thought

out by Murat. Going into Caspar as a drifting cow-

hand, taking on at a ranch and then letting himself

be drawn into the cow stealing, seemed like the

quickest way to learn who stood behind the busi-

ness. Catching the actual thieves would be easy

enough that way; but, from what the captain said,

they were only dupes. It was the brains behind the

stealing Danny wanted. One did not kill a snake by

cutting off its rattles, but by stamping on its head.

Remove the dupes and the organizer would lie low

for a time, then emerge and corrupt another bunch

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77

of fool young cowhands, turn them from honest,

loyal hands to thieves.

“Reckon you can handle it, Danny?” asked

Murat. “You can go in any way you want. I won’t

hold you back.”

“I reckon I can,” Danny agreed.

At that moment the office door opened to admit

Calamity and Sid.

“We’ve took the bodies down to the undertaker,

Cap’n,” said the Ranger. “I reckoned you might

like to have a jaw with Calamity, so she left her

wagon at Smith’s store to be unloaded and come

back with me.”

“Take a seat, Calamity,” Murat said, rising.

“Could I offer you a drink?”

“Just a teensie-weensie lil three fingers,” she an-

swered, accepting the chair Danny drew up for

her. “Wouldn’t say no to one of them fancy cigars,

neither.”

With any other woman, the request might have

appeared as an affectation. Yet somehow the sight

of Calamity seated with a foot raised on the desk,

puffing appreciatively at one of Murat’s thin,

crooked black cigars, looked entirely natural.

“I’d like to thank you officially for helping

Danny get the Comancheros, ” Murat told the girl.

“Shuckens, he helped me more than I helped

him. Anyways, to pay me back he promised to

show me the sights of Austin City.”

78

J. T. Edson

“You done seen me, gal,” Sid remarked. “Ain’t

no other sights worth seeing.”

“Leave us not forget Calamity’s a visitor to

Texas, Sid,” Murat growled. “Don’t make her

retch. Anyways, when was this sightseeing to be

done?”

“Starting tonight.”

“Only he’ll be riding out this evening.”

Calamity’s eyes went to Danny, then back and

met Murat’s. “Must be something real urgent,

Cap’n.”

“Urgent enough,” agreed Murat, studying the

girl and remembering all the stories he had heard

about her. Maybe some of them were a mite

lengthened, but from the way she handled her end

of the Comanchero business, she had sand to burn

and did not spook when the going became rough.

Slowly Murat swung his eyes to Danny and read

mutual thoughts on the subject of Calamity in the

young Ranger’s mind. Murat almost gave in, then

shook his head. “No. It just couldn’t be done.”

“If I knew what the hell you meant, I’d agree,”

Calamity answered.

“I don’t see why it couldn’t,” Danny put in.

“Calamity’s got two weeks at least to hang around

Austin afore her boss gets here.”

“Just what are you pair——” Calamity began.

“It’d be too dangerous, Danny.”

“That gal eats danger, Cap’n.”

Running Irons

79

“Hey! What the blue-blistering hell——”

“She might not care for the idea.”

“Why not put it to her, Cap’n?” asked Sid, en-

joying watching the expressions on Calamity’s face

while the conversation went on.

“Hold it! Hold IT!” she suddenly yelled, pound-

ing a hand on the table top. “Just dig in your tiny

Texas feet and let a half-smart lil Northern gal

catch up with you.”

“Huh—Oh, hi there, Calam,” Danny drawled.

“Plumb forgot you was here.”

The girl replied in a hide blistering flow of in-

vective which drew admiring grins from the listen-

ing men. Throughout the flow Sid listened

spell-bound and at its conclusion could barely hold

down his applause for a mighty fine demonstration

of the ancient and honorable art of cussing.

“How about it, Sid?” asked Murat. “Will she do?”

“Don’t know what for, Cap’n, but it sounds like

you want me to say ‘yes,’ so being good, loyal and

wanting an advance on next month’s pay, I’ll say it.

Yes, I reckon she’ll do right well.”

“And me,” Danny agreed.

Clapping a hand to her forehead, Calamity gave

a groan. “My mammy never gave me much advice,

but she always told me to stay clear of Texas and

Texans. When I first met Mark Counter I figgered

she was right. But getting to know you three’s

changed my mind.”

80

J. T. Edson

“Has, huh?” asked Danny sympathetically.

“It sure as hell has!” Calamity yelped. “Now I

know she was right.”

“To get serious, Calam,” Murat put in, “how’d

you like to help us?”

“How’d you mean, help you?” she asked suspi-

ciously.

“We’ve something on that needs a woman’s gen-

tle touch.”

“It’s nothing to do with some gals getting stran-

gled, is it?”

“No,” answered Murat, sounding a mite star-

tled. “Why should it be?”

“No reason at all, ’cepting that the last time a

lawman said something like that to me, I near on

wound up getting choked by a murdering skunk.

Enjoyed it so much that I figured I’d like a sec-

ond go.”

“Happen they get on to you, if you take the

chore, you’ll likely get your wanting,” Murat

stated and explained his idea to Calamity.

When Murat finished speaking, Calamity

looked him over with interested eyes. It appeared

that the situation was not as dangerous as she first

imagined. No sir, it was even worse. With a rope

waiting on their capture, cow thieves tended to be

a mite rough should they find a spy in their midst.

If she went in to Caspar, she would not have the

cover of police escort as she had, until the final

Running Irons

81

night—when, to be fair, she ought not to have gone

out—in New Orleans. However, Calamity reck-

oned she might be able to take good care of herself,

especially against another woman; after all no gal

had ever licked her yet.

“You’ll not be able to go into the saloon dressed

like that, Calam,” Danny pointed out.

“Now me, I’d swear every saloon gal dressed

this way,” she sniffed.

“We can easy fix the clothes,” Murat went on.

“Yeah,” groaned the girl. “I figured you might.

I can’t stay on for long though. Dobe Killem wants

me back with the outfit when he pulls out of here.”

“If you haven’t got us the proof we need in nine

or ten days, you likely won’t get it at all,” Murat

replied. “How about it, Calam?”

“You just hired yourself a gal,” she answered,

holding out her hand. “When do we start,

Danny?”

“Now slow down a mite, gal,” Murat ordered.

“It’s not as easy as all that.”

“Happen I’d thought it would be, I’d never have

taken on,” Calamity told him calmly.

Despite her eagerness to try the novel experi-

ence of working as a saloon-girl and undercover

agent for the Texas Rangers, Calamity knew noth-

ing must be left to chance. She found Murat’s

preparations remarkably, and comfortingly from

her point of view, thorough. Knowing that certain

82

J. T. Edson

and painful death awaited Calamity if she should

be detected as a spy, Murat intended that she

should take as few chances as possible. While

Danny Fog would also be working in Caspar

County, he could not be on hand all the time to

protect Calamity. Mostly the girl would have to

stand on her own two feet and rely on her brains,

courage and ability.

Collecting a trio of horses from the remuda,

Calamity, Danny and Murat rode into Austin. Dur-

ing the trip, Murat gave Danny and Calamity in-

structions. Danny was to take the name Daniel

Forgrave, a cowhand who had worked on three dif-

ferent ranches well clear of the Caspar area. Mak-

ing sure Danny could remember the names of the

outfits and their bosses, Murat turned his attention

to Calamity. After some discussion they settled on

the name Martha Connelly for her and once more

Murat gave a list of places where she had worked.

“Remember those four, whatever you do,”

Murat warned.

“What if somebody knows them?” she countered.

“That’s always a chance, Calam,” admitted the

Ranger captain. “You can always pull out. Fact

being, you’d be wise if you did.”

“Never was wise,” she grinned. “You reckon it’s

a good thing to use the Golden Slipper here in

town, they could right easy telegraph here and ask

about me.”

Running Irons

83

“You’ll be all right, even if they do,” Murat

promised.

While Calamity trusted Murat’s judgment, she

figured out one detail that a man would be un-

likely to think about. She expected to be taken to

some dress shop and fitted with clothing suitable

for her pose as a saloon-girl and saw danger in the

idea. Then she discovered that Murat had been

aware of the problem of dress and knew the an-

swer to it.

Instead of visiting a dress shop, Calamity found

herself taken in the rear of the Golden Slipper, one

of Austin’s better class saloons. Clearly Murat

knew his way around the place, for he led his party

upstairs to the office of the owner, a big, buxom,

jovial woman who greeted him as a friend and lent

a sympathetic, understanding ear to the problems

facing the Ranger captain.

“Nothing easier, Jules,” she stated after hearing

what Murat required. “You boys go downstairs

and have a drink on the house while I fix up

Calamity with all she’ll need.”

Half an hour later Calamity entered the bar-

room, only she looked a whole heap different from

the girl who came to town with Danny. Gone were

the men’s clothing, gunbelt and bull-whip, re-

placed by a small, dainty and impractical hat, a

dress with black and white candy-striped bodice

and mauve skirt, some cheap, flashy jewellery and

84

J. T. Edson

a reticule, such as a saloon-girl would wear when

travelling. None of the items were new, but had

been selected from clothing left behind by girls

who departed into the respectability of married life.

Calamity had figured suspicion might come her

way should she show up in Caspar with every item

of clothing damned near brand new. However,

Murat appeared to have foreseen the danger and

countered it by arranging for her to loan a

wardrobe suited to the part she was going to play.

“Got all you need, Calamity?” the captain asked

as the girl joined him and Danny at their table.

“Just about all,” she replied. “Got me this out-

fit, three fancy saloon gal frocks, shoes, stockings

and some fancy female do-dads you pair don’t

know the name of, or ought to be ashamed of

yourselves if you do. Ain’t but one thing more I’d

like along with me.”

“And what’s that?” asked Danny.

“One of those forty-one caliber Remington belly

guns.”

Such an item would not arouse suspicion, or be

out of place in a saloon-girl’s possession. Many a

girl working in a saloon or dancehall carried a

Remington Double Derringer, or some other such

small, easily concealed firearm, in her reticule, or

strapped to her garter.

“There’s one in my office and some shells for it,”

Murat told the girl. “I can let you have it as soon as

Running Irons

85

we’ve bought your stage ticket to Caspar. You’ll go

on tomorrow’s stage and be there in three days.”

“I’ll pull out now,” Danny drawled. “That

should see me in town a day ahead of Calamity.”

“Reckon it should,” agreed Murat. “Break up

that cow stealing, Danny.”

“Yes, sir, Captain,” replied Danny soberly. “I

aim to do just that.”

Chapter 6

LOOKS LIKE I GOT HERE TOO LATE

5 %

A pair of spiraling turkey vultures caught

Danny Fog’s eye and caused him to bring his big

sabino to a halt. The sight of those black-plumed

scavengers hovering in the sky never struck a

western man as being a beautiful sight. When

turkey vultures gathered, they followed death

and a corpse, or something near to it, lay below

them. Human or animal, it made no never mind

to a hungry turkey vulture. Gliding down from

the skies, the birds tore flesh from bones and

leaving only a picked skeleton behind when they

departed.

Two days had passed since Danny rode out of

Austin and at almost noon, he figured he must be

Running Irons

87

on the eastern ranges of Caspar County, most

likely crossing Buck Jerome’s Bench J.

“Might be nothing, hoss,” he said, patting the

sabino’s neck and glancing at the dun cutting horse

borrowed from Sid Watchhorn to aid his disguise

and which now followed the sabino without fight-

ing the rope connecting to Danny’s saddle. “I

reckon we’d best take us a look though.”

Such an action would be in keeping with the

character he must play while in Caspar just as

much as when he rode in his official capacity of

Texas Ranger. Any man seeing circling buzzards—

as the non-zoologically-minded Western folk called

Cathartes Aura, the American turkey vulture—

would investigate. The attraction might be either

an injured man or animal, or some critter died of a

highly infectious disease. In which cases the knowl-

edge could be useful: in the first to save a life; in

the second, one might prevent a spread of the in-

fection by prompt action.

From the look of things, the birds circled over a

large cottonwood that spread its branches over the

range maybe a mile from where Danny sat his

horse. A touch of his heels against the sabino’s

flanks started the horse moving and the dun fol-

lowed it without any fuss. As yet Danny could see

nothing of the dead or dying creature which

caused the turkey vultures to gather in the sky.

Danny had covered about half a mile when a

88

J. T. Edson

bunch of pronghorn antelope burst out of a hollow

ahead of him. Stopping the sabino, he watched the

animals speed away, covering the range at a pace

only a very good horse could hope to equal. While

Danny loved hunting, and lived in an age when

game-preservation had never been heard of, he

made no attempt to draw his rifle and cut down

any of the fleeing antelope. He carried food in his

bedroll and would likely be on some ranch’s pay-

roll before it ran out. So there did not appear to be

any point in killing a pronghorn and he had never

seen any sense in shooting some creature just to see

it fall.

Led by a buck that carried a pair of horns which

would have gladdened any trophy-hunter’s heart,

the herd held bunched together and went bound-

ing through the bushes at Danny’s right, disap-

pearing into a basin. Just as Danny started the

sabino moving again, he saw the pronghorns

bursting wildly through the bushes, scattering in

panic as they raced out of the basin once more.

“Now what in hell did that?” he mused and

drew his rifle.

Four possible answers sprang to mind: a bunch

of wolves denning up among the bushes; a moun-

tain lion that had been cut off from timber country

by the coming of daylight and took what cover it

could find: a grizzly or black bear hunting berries,

but willing to augment its diet by the flesh of a suc-

Running Irons

89

culent pronghorn; or the presence of hidden men.

Predators all, any one of them would cause such

panic among the pronghorns should the fast-

moving animals come unexpectedly upon it in the

bushes when already fleeing from danger.

Danny nudged his sabino’s ribs and started the

horse moving forward. On reaching the edge of the

bushes, he halted the horse and slid from the sad-

dle. Not even as steady an animal as the big sabino

would face the sudden appearance of one of the

predators in thick bush and Danny could think of

a number of more pleasant ways to die than under

the teeth and claws of a startled grizzly after being

pitched from the back of a bear-spooked horse. Of

course, there might not be a bear in the bushes, but

it cost nothing to take precautions.

Leaving the horses standing, the sabino’s trailing

before it in a manner which it had been trained to

regard as holding it still as effectively as if being

tied, Danny went into the bushes with some cau-

tion. He saw nothing to disturb him or explain the

panic among the pronghorns. A flock of scarlet-

plumed red cardinal birds lifted from among the

bushes at his approach, but nothing dangerous or

menacing made its appearance. Ahead of him the

bushes opened into a clearing at the bottom of the

basin. Danny came to a halt and studied the scene

before him with worried, calculating eyes.

“Looks like I got here too late,” he thought.

90

J. T. Edson

Two bodies lay alongside a dead fire’s ashes.

Cowhands, Danny concluded from their dress; and

of the kind he had ridden from Austin to hunt

down if the pair of running irons meant anything.

Cautiously he studied the clearing, noting the pair

of cow horses which stood tied to the bushes at the

far side, then taking in the scene around the fire

once more. Moving closer, he looked down at the

bodies. One had been shot in the back and must

have died without even knowing what hit him.

Nor would the second have been given much bet-

ter chance to defend himself by all appearances.

Kneeling by the body, Danny examined the holster

and doubted if anything remotely like a fast draw

could be made from it. The revolver still lay in the

holster, its owner having died before he could

draw it.

Cold anger filled Danny as he looked down at

the two bodies. Neither cowhand looked to be

much gone out of his teens and, ignoring the dis-

tortion pain had put on the features, appeared to

be normal, pleasant youngsters. These were no

hardened criminals, or he missed his guess; only a

couple of foolhardy youngsters who acted without

thinking. They deserved better than to be shot

down like dogs.

Danny was no dreamy-eyed moralist or bigoted

intellectual regarding every criminal as a misun-

derstood victim of society to be molly-coddled and

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91

pampered as a warning that crime did not pay. In

most cases a man became a criminal because of a

disinclination to work and had no intention of

changing his ways. As a peace officer and a sensi-

ble, thinking man, Danny approved of stiff pun-

ishment, up to and including hanging, for habitual

criminals. While any form of punishment would be

most unlikely to change such a man’s ways, it

served to deter others from following the criminal’s

footsteps.

For all his thoughts on the subject, Danny hated

to think of the way the two young men died. He

promised himself that their killer would pay for

the deed.

Throwing aside his feelings, Danny forced him-

self to think as a lawman and to learn all he could

about the happenings of the previous night. Care-

fully, he studied the ground around him, using the

knowledge handed on by that master trailer, the

Ysabel Kid. From what he saw, there had been

three cow thieves present, all occupied with their

illegal business when death struck. The third mem-

ber of the trio made good his escape, or at least got

clear of the fire, for Danny found signs of some-

body, possibly the killer, racing a horse across the

clearing in the direction taken by the fleeing cow

thief.

At that point of the proceedings Danny began to

feel puzzled. His examination of the tracks told

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J. T. Edson

him that one rider had returned, set free some of

the calves and led off three more. Yet the same per-

son did not free the dead men’s horses, nor even go

near the bodies.

“Sure puzzling,” he mused, turning to leave the

clearing and return to his horses. “From all I’ve

heard, this looks like Gooch’s work. He never

takes chances and wouldn’t give those boys chance

to surrender or make a fight. But why would

Gooch free half the calves and take the others. And

why would he leave the two bodies when they’d

fetch a damned sight more bounty than three

calves would bring him?”

A possible answer occurred to Danny as he

reached the horses. He stood on Bench J, not

Forked C land, so it was not the range Gooch had

been hired to protect and the bounty hunter did

not work for the love of his labor. Of course, it

might not be Gooch who killed the cowhands, al-

though everything pointed in that direction. Most

men, especially ranchers and honest cowhands,

hated a cow thief, but few would go to the extreme

of shooting down two in cold blood. No, it ap-

peared the thing Governor Howard and Captain

Murat feared had happened. Tired of merely earn-

ing his pay, Gooch left the Forked C range to hunt

bounty on other property.

Just as Danny swung into the sabino’s saddle, a

distant movement caught the corner of his eye.

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93

Turning in the saddle, he looked across the range

to where a trio of riders topped a rim and swung

their horses in the direction of the circling turkey-

vultures.

Taking out his off-side Colt, Danny thumbed

three shots into the air. Instantly the trio brought

their mounts to a halt, looking in his direction.

Sweeping off his hat, Danny waved it over his head

and the three men put their spurs to the horses,

galloping toward him. Three shots fired into the

air had long been accepted as a signal for help, one

which would only rarely be overlooked or ignored.

The three men might be as interested, as Danny

had been, in the circling vultures, but his signal

took priority over the sight.

Danny studied the men as they approached. Two

of them were cowhands; a leathery man of middle-

age, plainly dressed and with a low-hanging Dance

Brothers revolver at his side; the second looked

around Danny’s age, a freckle-faced, red-haired

young man, cheery, wearing a flashy bandana and

red shirt and belting an Army Colt in a cheap imi-

tation of a contoured, fast-draw holster. From the

two cowhands, Danny turned to study the third

rider. He sat a good horse with easy grace. Al-

though his clothes looked little different from the

other two, there was something about him, an air

of authority and command, which said “boss” to

range-wise eyes. A Remington Beals Army revolver

94

J. T. Edson

hung butt forward at his left side and looked like he

could use it. Not that the man bore any of the signs

of a swaggering, bullying gunslinger, but merely

gave the impression of being mighty competent.

“You got trouble, friend?” asked the third mem-

ber of the trio.

“Not me,” Danny answered. “But those two

fellers down there—man, have they got trouble?”

“Two?” put in the youngest rider. “Reckon it’s

Sammy and Pike, Buck?”

“Best way to find out’s to go look,” replied the

third man. “Name’s Buck Jerome, friend, this’s my

range. These gents are my foreman, Ed Lyle and

Tommy Fayne, he rides for me.”

“Howdy. I’m Danny Forgrave. Best go down

there and take a look though.”

Accompanying the men down the slope. Danny

studied their reactions as they looked at the tragic

scene in the clearing. He could read little from the

two older men’s faces, but guessed the scene hit

them hard. On the other hand, Tommy Fayne

showed shock, his face paled under the tan and his

lips drew into tight lines.

“It’s Sammy and Pike!” he said in a strangled

voice. “That damned murdering skunk Gooch

killed them.”

“Easy, boy,” Jerome said, laying a hand on

Tommy’s sleeve. “We don’t know for sure it was

him who did this.”

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95

“Who else but a stinking murdering bounty

hunter’d gun down two kids like Sammy and Pike

without giving them a chance?” Tommy answered

hotly. “They weren’t neither of ’em good with a

gun, and you know it, Buck.”

“Hosses are tied, Buck, that’s why they never

come back,” Lyle said quietly. “Happen this feller

hadn’t found them, they might have laid here for

days.”

“Might at that,” admitted the rancher and

turned to Danny. “No offense, but how did you

come to find them? You know how it is when you

find something like this, questions have to be

asked.”

“Sure,” Danny agreed. “I was headed for those

buzzards when I put up a herd of pronghorns and

they went down into this hollow. Only they came

bursting out like the devil after a yearling. Got me

curious to find out what spooked them. I figured it

might be either bear, cougar or wolves and that I

might be able to pick up a few dollars on its hide.

So I came down and found this.”

All the time Danny spoke, he felt the other

three’s eyes on him taking in every detail of his

dress and appearance. Not that he had any need to

fear detection on that score. Before leaving Austin,

Danny dressed for the part he aimed to play. He re-

tained his hat, boots, gunbelt and saddle, but the

rest of his clothing no longer bore the mark of a

96

J. T. Edson

good tailor. Instead he wore a cheap, gaudy ban-

dana, a blue flannel shirt and faded, washed-out

jeans. Not was there anything out of the ordinary

in the arrangement. Many young cowhands

bought the best they could manage in saddlery,

hats and gunbelts, but took what they could afford

for the rest of their clothing.

After studying Danny, Jerome and Lyle ex-

changed glances. Both had reached the same

conclusion—and just the one Danny wanted folks

to make about him. Although this soft-spoken

youngster wore two guns and looked proficient in

their use, he had none of the ear-marks of a proddy

trigger-fast-and-up-from-Texas kid. A good cow-

hand, most likely, and probably one with a yen to

see new ranges around him.

“If Gooch shot the boys, why’d he leave ’em

here?” asked Lyle, voicing one of the problems

which had been worrying Danny.

“He knew I wouldn’t pay him,” Jerome answered.

“Then why’d he bother shooting?” growled the

foreman. “Gooch didn’t give a damn whether the

cow thieves stole us blind as long as he got his

bounty.”

“He maybe aimed to take the boys back to the

Forked C and claim he downed them on Crither’s

range,” guessed Jerome. “Cut for sign, Ed, see

what you can learn while we start loading the

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97

boys. We’ll have to take them into town and report

this to Farley Simmonds.”

“If he handles this as well as he done the rest of

the stealing, we’ll sure see some action,” sniffed

Lyle and went to obey his boss’s orders.

None of the men expected the task of loading

the bodies to be pleasant and they were not wrong.

While Lyle examined the ground, Danny, Jerome

and Tommy wrapped the bodies in their slickers

and loaded them, stiff with rigor mortis across the

two horses’ saddles. By the time the task was com-

pleted, Lyle had made his examination and came

to his boss to report.

“Was another one here,” he remarked, coming

up with the same conclusions that Danny had ear-

lier. “Smallish, not too heavy-built feller I’d say.

Took out pronto when the shooting started, with

somebody after him, both riding fast. Then the

small feller come back later, cut free some calves

and led the others off.”

“That’d be the ones they’d branded he took,”

Jerome guessed.

“Maybe that other feller led Gooch so far he

couldn’t find his way back to here,” Tommy put in.

“Could be,” admitted the rancher. “Only I can’t

think of anybody round here as fits that descrip-

tion, smallish and light built. Can hardly believe

that Sammy and Pike were stealing from me, nei-

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J. T. Edson

ther. Why Sammy was fixing to get his-self married

to one of Ella Watson’s gals real soon.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said bitterly. “Sammy and Pike

were my pards. They’d never steal from anybody,

boss. Maybe they was trying to stop the cow

thieves.”

“Maybe,” grunted Jerome. “Where’d they go

last night, boy?”

“Into town. Sammy wanted to see his gal and

Pike went along for the ride. I was fixing to go

with them, only one of my mounts was needing

tending.”

Danny listened to the conversation without ask-

ing any questions or making any comments. Above

all else, he must not show too much knowledge of

Caspar County affairs. A chance-passing drifter

would be unlikely to know much about the situa-

tion and showing that he was acquainted with the

affairs of the county would cause suspicion. So he

kept quiet and listened, which had always been a

good way to learn things one wanted to know.

“Let’s go into town,” the rancher suggested.

“You’d best come along with us, Danny, the sher-

iff’ll want to see you.”

“Sure,” Danny agreed. “I was headed that way

when I came on this lot.”

“I’d best take the running irons with me, Boss,”

Lyle remarked.

“Do that Ed,” answered Jerome. “Only don’t let

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99

on that Sammy and Pike were using them. I know

their folks and they were good kids.”

The words increased Danny’s growing liking for

Jerome. Some men would have started ranting

about ingrates, or damning the cowhands as stink-

ing, untrustworthy cow thieves and not giving a

damn who knew that the youngsters had gone bad.

From Jerome, Danny turned his attention to the

younger of the hired men. Clearly Tommy was

badly shaken by the death of his two friends. But

did he possess any guilty knowledge of how they

came to die? Maybe the youngster had an idea of

the identity of the third cow thief. Or perhaps he

was merely thinking that, but for a stroke of luck,

it might be him lying by the fire.

Mounting their horses, the men rode out of the

clearing, Lyle and Tommy leading the dead

cowhands’ animals, each toting its stiff bundle.

None of them spoke until they came out on to

open land. Then the sight of the whirling vultures

recalled what brought them together.

“How about those buzzards?” asked Danny.

“They’re on our way to Caspar, we’d best

check,” Jerome answered. “Ed, go scout around

and see if you can track down that third jasper. I’ll

lead Sammy’s hoss in for you.”

“Yo!” replied the foreman and gave Danny a

calculating glance. “I’ll look around real good.”

Much as he would have liked to accompany Lyle,

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J. T. Edson

Danny restrained himself. He guessed that the fore-

man intended to check on his tracks also, making

sure that he was what he pretended to be. Not that

Danny blamed Lyle. Under similar circumstances he

would have done the same; and Lyle could learn lit-

tle enough by back-tracking Danny for a few miles.

While riding toward the cottonwood, Danny

started to get an uneasy feeling that he could guess

what they would find. So he did not feel unduly

surprised when, from over two hundred yards dis-

tance, he saw a body lying beneath the spreading

branches of the cottonwood.

“Another,” Jerome breathed. “Who the hell this

time?”

A few seconds later Tommy supplied the answer.

“It’s Bat Gooch. I recognize that hoss of his there.”

At thirty yards Jerome halted the party. “Hold

the hosses here, Tommy. I don’t reckon Farley Sim-

monds’ll make much of it, but we’ll not muss up

the sign in case he wants to come out.”

Leaving their horses, Danny and Jerome walked

toward the bounty hunter’s body. Both kept their

eyes on the ground, studying the sign and reading

much the same conclusions from what they saw.

“Can you read sign, Danny?” asked the rancher.

“My pappy was a hunting man. Taught me to

know whether a foot pointed forward or back.”

“Huh huh. Way I see it is that the feller Gooch

was chasing got swept off his hoss by a branch.

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101

Fell just here and Gooch left his hoss to come over

to him. Only the other feller wasn’t hurt bad and

started to throw lead. How d’you see it?”

“Just about the same,” replied Danny.

However, although he did not intend to mention

it, Danny saw more; a whole heap more than the

rancher’s description of what happened. First thing

to strike Danny was the fact that Gooch’s gun lay

in its holster. No man who knew sic ’em about gun

fighting would approach a potentially dangerous

enemy without taking the elementary precaution

of drawing his gun. Certainly a man like Gooch

would not fail to take so basic a piece of self-

preservation. The second significant fact to

Danny’s mind being the powder burning and

blackening around the two bullet wounds in the

body. Whoever shot Gooch had been close, real

close. As the shooter appeared to have been lying

on the ground, Gooch must have been bending;

no, that would have put him too high to catch the

burning effect of the other’s weapon’s muzzle blast.

Which meant either the other had been allowed to

rise, or that Gooch knelt by his killer’s side.

Only Gooch would never have allowed the other

to rise, or knelt by the fallen cow thief’s side, with-

out holding his gun and being sure he could shoot

at the first wrong move. Gooch knew gun-fighting

and had more sense than take such chances with

any man under such circumstances.

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J. T. Edson

And there, Danny figured, he had touched the

answer to Gooch’s apparent folly. On approaching

the fallen cow thief, Gooch would have not only

held his gun but would most likely to have sent a

bullet into the other just to make good and sure

there was no danger to his bounty hunting hide—

unless he saw something to make him figure he

would not need such precautions.

Something that told him the shape on the

ground be a woman, not a man.

Maybe Captain Murat’s information about the

identity of the brains behind the Caspar County

cow stealing had been correct after all!

Chapter 7

THE LAWMEN OF CASPAR COUNTY

5 %

Caspar City looked little different, nor had

any greater right to such a grandiloquent four let-

ters after its name, than a hundred other such

towns that existed on the Texas plains for the

purpose of supplying the cowhands’ needs for fun

and the basic necessities of life. It consisted of at

most forty wooden, adobe, or a mixture of both,

buildings scattered haphazardly along half a mile

of wheel-rutted, hoof-churned dirt going by the

title of Main Street. However, Caspar bore the

supreme mark of solidarity and permanency

which so many other towns lacked; a Wells Fargo

stage station and telegraph office stood proudly

on Main Street between the adobe county sher-

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J. T. Edson

iff’s office building and Ella Watson’s Cattle

Queen saloon.

To Danny Fog’s way of thinking as he studied

the town, those silvery telegraph wires contained a

menace to his well-being in that they could be used

to obtain information about him far more quickly

than by using the mail services.

The coming of Danny’s party, each man leading

a horse bearing a stiff, unnatural, yet easily recog-

nizable burden, brought people from the various

business premises along Main Street. Questions

were tossed at Jerome, but for the most he ignored

them, saving his story to be told to Sheriff Farley

Simmonds.

Among others, some half-a-dozen women and

a couple of men emerged from the batwing doors

of the Cattle Queen, attracting Danny’s attention.

At least one of the women caught his eye. Even

without being told, he knew that black-haired,

beautiful woman in the center of the group to be

Ella Watson, female saloonkeeper and maybe the

boss of the cow thieves plaguing Caspar County.

No ordinary saloon-girl could afford such a styl-

ish, fancy light blue gown; a garment more suited

in cut and line to a high-class New Orleans bor-

dello than in the saloon of a small Texas town.

The dress did little to hide the fact that its

wearer’s five-foot-seven figure would be some-

thing to see. Cut low in front, it showed off a

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105

rich, full bosom, clung tightly to a slender waist,

then spread out to eye-catchingly curved hips, al-

though concealing the legs from view. Her face,

beautiful yet imperious, carried a look of author-

ity which none of the others showed and set her

aside as one above the herd.

“That’s Ella Watson, runs the Cattle Queen,”

Tommy confirmed, waving his hand to a small

buxom, pretty and scared-faced blonde girl who

stared in wide-eyed horror at the scene.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Danny

replied. “Soon as we’ve seen the great siezer, we’ll

go get one.”

“I can use it,” Tommy stated.

The great siezer, the cowhand’s disrespectful

name for the county sheriff, was not in his office;

having gone along to the Bon Ton Café with his

deputy for a meal, according to one of the gather-

ing crowd of onlookers. Throwing a glance at his

two hands—he had hired Danny on the way into

town—Jerome gave instructions.

“Go get that drink, but keep it to one or two at

most. I’ll send word if Sheriff Farley wants you.”

Leaving Jerome to take care of the bodies.

Danny and Tommy fastened their horses to the

sheriff’s office hitching rail and then walked back

toward the sturdy wooden front of the saloon. The

little blonde girl came running from among her fel-

low workers, making for Tommy.

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J. T. Edson

“What’s happened, Tommy?” she gasped.

“Who—what——”

“Easy, Mousey,” Tommy answered gently, tak-

ing the girl by the arms. “Sammy and Pike ran into

trouble.”

Danny studied the girl. Wide-eyed horror

showed on her pretty, naïve face. She was a fluffy,

shapely, if a mite buxom, little thing, wearing a

short green dress, black stockings and high-heeled

shoes. Maybe not too smart, she looked like she

would be happy, merry and good company under

normal conditions—and clearly Tommy regarded

her as something extra special.

“They were in last night,” the girl said.

“Who with?” growled Tommy.

“Sammy was with Dora, but he left with just

Pike,” answered the girl, turning curious eyes in

Danny’s direction.

“Mousey, this’s Danny Forgrave,” Tommy in-

troduced, taking the hint. “He’s come to ride for

Bench J. Danny, meet Mousey, she’s my gal.”

“Howdy, ma’am,” Danny greeted.

“Call me ‘Mousey’,” she told him. “My real

name’s Mildred, but I like Mousey better.”

“Then Mousey it is,” Danny replied.

At the same time as he spoke to the girl, Danny be-

came aware that one of the men standing with Ella

Watson studied him carefully. The man wore a low-

crowned white Stetson shoved back on his head and

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107

a scar ran across his skull just over the right ear, the

hair growing white along its line and in contrast to

the blackness of the rest. Standing around six foot,

the man wore a black cutaway jacket, frilly-bosomed

shirt under a fancy vest, black string tie and tight-

legged white trousers. Instead of a gunbelt, the man

had a silk sash around his waist, a pearl-handled

Remington 1861 Army revolver thrust into the left

side so as to be available to the right hand. Cold,

hard eyes in a fairly handsome, swarthy face, took in

every detail of Danny’s dress, with due emphasis on

the way he wore his guns. For a moment the man

stared, then whispered something in Ella Watson’s

ear, bringing her eyes to Danny.

“Let’s go get that drink, Danny,” Tommy sug-

gested. “Come on, Mousey, gal.”

Taking Mousey’s arm, Tommy escorted her into

the saloon and Danny followed. Inside he studied

the place with interest. For a small cow town, the

Cattle Queen sure looked mighty elegant. There

were tables and chairs around a dance space for

use of the customers; chuck-a-luck, faro and black-

jack layouts, the usual wheel-of-fortune stood

against one wall. A long, fancy bar with a big mir-

ror behind it offered a good selection of drinks and

was presided over by a tall, burly man with side-

whiskers and bay-rum slicked hair. The bartender

nodded to the new arrivals as they came to the bar

and laid aside the glass he had been polishing.

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J. T. Edson

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Beer for me ’n’ Mousey,” answered Tommy.

“How’s about you, Danny?”

“Same’ll do for me, amigo, ” Danny replied.

“What’s all the fuss outside?” the bartender in-

quired as he poured the three beers with deft

hands.

“We just brought in Sammy Howe, Pike Evans

and Gooch,” Tommy explained.

“Whooee!” ejaculated the bartender. “What

happened?”

“How the hell would I know?” snapped Tommy,

the tensions of the day putting an edge into his

voice.

A dull red flushed into the bartender’s cheeks at

the words and his hand went under the counter

toward his favorite bung-starter; a most handy

tool with dealing with cowhands who forgot their

menial position in life.

“I thought Gooch maybe——” he began.

“Thinking’s bad for a man,” Danny put in qui-

etly. “Especially when you’re talking to a feller

who’s just lost two good friends.”

Slowly the bartender turned his eyes to Danny’s

face. Something in the young man’s level, gray-

eyed stare caused the bartender to remove his hand

from the bung-starter. Having a well-developed

judgment of human nature, the bartender knew

when to sit back and yell “calf rope,” so he backed

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109

water. While he might get by bullying a youngster

like Tommy, the bartender reckoned he had best

not try any of his games with that tall, blond new-

comer.

Then a feeling of relief came to the bartender as

he watched the women stream back into his room.

At the rear of the group walked Ella Watson and

the fancy-dressed hardcase who found Danny so

interesting outside. With backing like that, the bar-

dog allowed he might be able to chill the blond

Texan’s milk. However, he remembered that his

boss did not go for rough stuff in the rooms, espe-

cially at so early an hour and when dealing with

cold-sober and unoffending men.

“Feller seems tolerable took by you, Danny,”

Tommy remarked, nodding to the mirror’s reflec-

tion. “Ain’t hardly took his eyes off you since you

come near him.”

“It’s not often they get a feller as handsome as

me around,” answered Danny, taking up his drink

in his right hand. “Who is he?”

“Name of Ed Wren. They do say he’s real fast

with his gun. He works here as boss dealer.”

The name did more than ring a bell for Danny,

it started a whole danged set of chimes going. In

fact, Danny knew more than a little about the gun-

hand called Ed Wren. Among other things, he

knew where the man picked up that bullet scar

across the side of his head. A couple of years back

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J. T. Edson

Wren had hired out to prevent trail hands taking

on to help drive the Rocking H herd to market.

Trouble being that the Rocking H’s owner was kin

to the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan and so Dusty

Fog rode to his kinsman’s aid. Dusty had been the

first man Wren tried to forcibly dissuade. That

white streak across the side of Wren’s skull told the

attempt had not been successful.*

Not for a moment did Danny believe Wren had

forgotten the incident. Which could account for

the gunman’s interest in him on his arrival. Al-

though taller than his elder brother, Danny’s facial

resemblance had always been fairly marked. Even

now Wren must be trying to decide if this be co-

incidence or if Danny was either the man who

shot him, or kin of the man. Either way, Danny

found he had a further piece of trouble he must

watch for.

Although Ella Watson did not come to the bar,

but stood talking with Wren and casting interested

glances at Danny, the other girls swarmed forward,

eager to hear the news. Tommy looked them over,

apparently seeking for one particular face and not

finding it.

“Where’s Dora?” he asked. “I’ve something to

tell her.”

“She’s upstairs, taking a bath,” replied a buxom,

* Told in Trail Boss by J. T. Edson.

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111

tough-looking brunette. “Was that young Sammy

you brought in?”

“Yeah,” Tommy replied.

“What happened?” put in another girl excitedly.

“Who shot him?”

Before Tommy could answer, the batwing doors

swung open and a tall young man swaggered into

the room. Danny studied the newcomer in the bar

mirror, not liking what he saw even though the

other wore a deputy sheriff’s badge. Unless the

deputy possessed money of his own, he dressed a

whole heap too well and fancy for a junior peace

officer in a moderate-sized Texas county and not a

rich county at that. From hat to boots, the deputy

wore the rig of a cow-country dandy. If the trucu-

lent assurance on his sullenly handsome face, the

cocky air about him, and the low hanging brace of

ivory-handled 1860 Army Colts be anything to go

on, he reckoned himself to have something extra

special in his presence.

Crossing the room, the deputy halted behind the

two cowhands and jerked his thumb contemptu-

ously over his shoulder toward the door. A hard

expression, or what he fondly imagined to be hard,

came to his face as he snapped out an order.

“All right, cownurse. Un—The Sheriff wants

you at his office pronto! ”

Normally Danny would have obeyed a member

of the county law and reserved his comments on

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J. T. Edson

the other’s impolite mode of address until away

from the view of the local citizens, so as not to

weaken the other’s authority and standing in the

community; but for once he did not. Aside from

his dislike for the manner in which the deputy

spoke, Danny had a part to play in Caspar

County. He saw a good chance presented for him

to establish his character before the woman who

might possibly be behind the cow stealing in the

county.

“I’ve not finished my drink yet,” he answered

without turning.

Hearing the sniggers of the watching girls, the

deputy scowled. He longed to have the kind of rep-

utation which inspired fear, if not respect, in the

hearts of all who saw him. So, wishing to grand-

stand before the girls, he made a mistake. Shooting

out his left hand, he caught Danny by the arm and

dropped his right hand to the butt of the off-side

Colt.

While training as a deputy under his father,

Danny was taught never to lay hands on or

threaten a man and that he must only place his

hand on the butt of his gun when the situation

warranted drawing and using the weapon. To

Danny’s way of thinking other law-enforcement

officers should respect the same rule. He did not

like the slit-eyed manner in which the deputy stud-

ied him, and pegged him as being the kind of

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113

hawg-mean show-off who would gun down an un-

suspecting man just to be able to claim he had

made a kill.

So Danny did not aim to give the deputy a

chance. Pivoting around, Danny threw the hand

from his sleeve and tossed the remainder of his

drink full into the deputy’s face. Caught unawares,

the deputy took a hurried step to the rear, entan-

gled his spurs and sat down hard on the floor. Al-

though partially winded, the laughter of the

watching girls drove the deputy to worse folly.

“Why, you——!” he began and clawed at the

right-side Colt once more.

Instantly Danny drew his off-side gun and threw

down on the deputy, his thumb cocking back the

hammer and forefinger depressing the trigger as

the Colt’s seven-and-a-half inch barrel slanted

down into line on the deputy’s body. At the same

moment Danny saw Ed Wren move. Give him due,

the gunman had speed. The fancy Remington

licked out of his sash in around three-quarters of a

second—which explained how he came to fail

against Dusty who could cut a good quarter of a

second off that time. However, Wren could handle

a gun faster than Danny and the young Ranger ad-

mitted the fact without shame.

“Drop it, cownurse!” Wren ordered.

“Don’t see how you can down me without I get

to put lead into the deputy at the same time, hom-

114

J. T. Edson

bre, ” Danny answered, making no move to obey

the man’s order.

Which statement was true enough. Even a head

shot could not save the deputy from taking lead; in

fact, one would ensure he did get a bullet in him.

Danny held his Colt with the hammer drawn back

and trigger depressed. No matter where the lead

hit, should Wren shoot, the impact would cause

Danny’s thumb to release the hammer. From then

on the gun’s mechanical processes would automat-

ically take over, firing the charge in the uppermost

chamber of the cylinder and expelling a bullet

through the barrel which lined on the deputy’s fa-

vorite stomach.

Rank fear etched itself on the deputy’s face as he

remembered that Wren showed considerable inter-

est in becoming a member of the sheriff’s staff on

his arrival in town. However, Uncle Farley hired

only one deputy and could not take on another,

even one of Wren’s standing. The gunhand now

had a remarkably good chance of creating a va-

cancy in the sheriff’s office by shooting the new-

comer.

“Just hold everything!” snapped Ella Watson,

stepping forward but keeping out of line of fire.

“Ed put up your gun right now.” Not until Wren

obeyed her order did she turn her eyes to Danny

and continue, “And you, cowboy, if you know

what’s good for you. I know Clyde there acted a

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115

mite hot-headed and foolish, but he is the sheriff’s

nephew.”

From the woman’s tone, Danny could not decide

if she gave warning that the sheriff bore strong

family ties and would strenuously object to his

nephew going home with a .44 caliber hole in his

stomach; or that she merely figured any relation of

the sheriff could not help acting foolishly. How-

ever, Danny reckoned he had made his point and

could rely on the woman to prevent any further

need of his Colt. Wren had already returned his

gun to the sash, so Danny lowered the Colt’s ham-

mer on to a safety notch between two of the cylin-

der’s cap-nipples and spun the gun into its holster.

Instantly the deputy let out a snarl and reached

toward his off-side Colt. Ella Watson stepped be-

tween Danny and the deputy, standing squarely in

front of the young Ranger and glaring down at the

deputy.

“Now that’s enough, Clyde. You asked for what

you got and if you want to take in the cowhand

under arrest, I’ll send for Dean Soskice to act for

him.”

Just who the hell Dean Soskice might be Danny

did not know; but the name appeared to have a

mighty steadying effect on the deputy. With a men-

acing scowl, the deputy took his hand from his gun

and rose to his feet. Once again he jerked his

thumb toward the door.

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J. T. Edson

“You’re still wanted down at the jail,” he said.

“Why sure,” Danny replied. “I’ll come right

now. My drink’s gone now, anyways.”

“I’ll come with you, Danny,” grinned Tommy,

eyeing his new acquaintance with frank admira-

tion. “The boss said for both of us to go along. See

you after we’ve done, honey.”

“I’ll be here,” Mousey promised.

“After you, deputy,” drawled Danny as they

reached the door. “I was raised all polite and

proper.”

Still scowling, but with none of the cocky swag-

ger which marked his entrance, the deputy preceded

the others from the saloon. Ella Watson watched

them go and returned to the gunhand’s side.

“Well?” she asked.

“Naw. It’s not him. That kid’s not better than

fair with a gun and Dusty Fog’s a whole heap

faster. Still he looks a whole heap like Fog, except

that he’s some smaller and not so hefty built.”

Watching the gunhand reach up and finger the

bullet-scar, Ella Watson felt relieved. A man did

not soon forget the feller who marked him in such

a manner and licked him to the draw—Ella dis-

counted Wren’s story that Dusty Fog shot him

from behind—and it came as a relief to know the

newcomer was not the Rio Hondo gun wizard.

“I hope that fool Simmonds handles things bet-

ter than his nephew did,” she said. “I’d like to

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117

know more about that cowhand. If he’s safe, he’s

just what we want, brash, looks like he needs

money—and not too good with a gun.”

Clyde Bucksteed did not speak to Danny and

Tommy as they walked toward the sheriff’s office,

nor did he follow them as would a deputy taking

in a couple of suspects. Instead he walked before

them, conscious that most of the folks who saw the

procession knew where he should be if bringing

the two in and not merely running a message for

his uncle. Already the bodies had been taken from

the street, but a few folks hung around in the hope

of fresh developments, enough to make sure the

story of Clyde’s failure to control the cowhands be

broadcast around the town.

“Who-all’s this Dean Soskice?” Danny asked of

Tommy.

“A law wrangler. Not a bad jasper though.

Talks real fancy and gets us boys out of trouble

should we take on too wild and rowdy comes

pay day. He sure has old Farley Simmonds buf-

faloed. Wouldn’t be surprised if Dean’s not in

there right now.”

Knowing the cowhands’ usual contempt for law

wranglers, Danny looked forward to meeting this

Dean Soskice who buffaloed the county sheriff. On

entering the sheriff’s office, Danny found his wish

granted. Not only was the sheriff-buffaloing law

wrangler present, but Danny also found himself

118

J. T. Edson

face to face with the remainder of the Caspar

County law.

Simmonds proved to be a florid-featured, sullen-

looking man, run to fat and with an air of lassitude

about him. For all that he dressed well and looked

a whole heap more prosperous than he should. Un-

like his range-dressed nephew, Simmonds wore

town-style clothing and sported a gunbelt from

which he must be able to draw the fancy-looking

Prescott Navy revolver in no less than three sec-

onds starting with a hand on its butt.

Although not one to judge by first appearances,

Danny decided that he did not care for Caspar

County’s law-enforcement officers. With Sim-

monds and his nephew running the sheriff’s office,

Danny could well imagine that the county would

be full of cow thieves. In fact, he felt considerably

surprised that Caspar County did not serve as a

haven for more types of outlaws. From what

Danny could see, any help he might require locally

would not come from the sheriff’s office and he

doubted if the secret of his identity would remain

a secret for long should he take either Simmonds

or the deputy into his confidence.

From Simmonds, Danny turned his attention to

the other two occupants of the room. Jerome sat

by the sheriff’s desk, chewing on the end of a thick

black cigar and looking mean as hell. The other

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119

man caught Danny’s main attention, being the

lawyer who buffaloed sheriffs.

Even with the type of man Danny figured the

sheriff to be, the young Ranger could hardly be-

lieve that he would allow Dean Soskice to bother

him. Soskice proved to be a tall, slim young man

with long, shaggy brown hair, a pallid, slightly

surly face and an air of condescending superiority

about him; dressed in an Eastern-style suit, shirt

and necktie, none of which showed any signs of

lavish attention having been spent on them. As far

as Danny could see, Soskice did not wear a gun

and in Texas at that period seeing an unarmed man

was even rarer than finding one walking the street

without his pants. Nothing about the lawyer told

Danny how he managed to buffalo Sheriff Sim-

monds and Danny reckoned it might be worth-

while to try to find out the reason.

“You’re the young feller as found the bodies,”

Simmonds stated in a ripe, woolly politician’s

voice, then he turned his eyes to his nephew. “Say,

Clyde, boy, how come you’re all wet?”

“He threw beer over me,” Clyde answered sullenly.

“Now why’d he do a thing like that?” asked the

sheriff and swivelled his gaze back to Danny. “You

hear me, boy. Why for’d you do that?”

“Feller caught me arm, pulled me around,”

Danny answered. “Next dang thing I knowed,

120

J. T. Edson

there he was with my beer all down his fancy shirt

front.”

Low mutters left Clyde’s lips and Soskice moved

forward. “If there’s a complaint being sworn out

against you, cowboy, I’d advise you to tell the

truth,” the lawyer said, his voice that of an edu-

cated Northerner.

“You got a complaint against the feller, Clyde?”

the sheriff inquired. “I only telled you to fetch him

down here for a talk.”

Anger and resentment smoldered in Clyde’s eyes

as he studied the lawyer’s mocking face. However,

Clyde recalled other occasions when he had tan-

gled with Soskice on a legal matter and been sadly

beaten in verbal exchanges. Soskice knew every as-

pect of the law as it pertained to working to the ad-

vantage of the one Clyde figured on arresting and

used that knowledge to build a sizeable following

among the cowhands, most of whom had a hefty

antipathy toward the peace officers who often in-

terfered with their fun.

“I got no complaint,” Clyde finally muttered,

knowing Soskice would worm the cowhand out of

trouble should he try to make a complaint stick.

“The cowhand got me all wrong.”

“You’d best tell the sheriff your side of this busi-

ness, Danny,” Jerome remarked. “I’ve told him the

way I saw things and he wants to hear what you’ve

got to say about it.”

Running Irons

121

Just in time Danny prevented himself from de-

livering the story like a lawman making his re-

port. Instead he told what led up to his discovery

of the bodies and left out his own conclusions on

the affair.

“Just come on ’em, huh?” grunted Simmonds at

last. “Where’d you come from and why’d you

come here?”

“Come up from Austin last and happened by

this way looking for work.”

“Been working in Austin?”

“Nope. Just wanted to see what the big city

looked like.”

“Where’d you work last?” Clyde asked.

“That’s a good question,” drawled Simmonds.

“Only let me ask ’em, Clyde.”

“Sure, Uncle Farley,” was the sullen reply.

“Boy’s a mite eager, but he’s got a good point,”

the sheriff went on. “Where did you work last?”

“For the Tumbling D, that’s Joe Dudley’s place

down to Ysaleta,” Danny answered, giving one of

the places Murat named as references.

“And your name’s Danny Forgrave?”

“Allus has been,” Danny answered.

“It’s not a summer name then?” Clyde remarked.

When a man did not wish to give his correct

name out West, folks rarely pressed the matter.

About the closest one came to doubting the

speaker’s claim was to inquire whether the title

122

J. T. Edson

given be a summer name, one taken on the spur of

the moment and as a temporary measure.

“Summer and winter both, hombre! ” Danny

growled.

“Danny’s working for me,” Jerome put in.

“You’ll find him around the spread if you’re not

satisfied with his story. Now what’re you fixing to

do about this cow stealing, Farley?”

“Doing all I can, Buck. Only the county don’t

pay me well enough to hire more help.”

“Then send for the Rangers.”

“I wrote a couple of weeks back, but I never

heard nothing back,” answered the sheriff.

Which, although he did not intend to mention

the fact, Danny knew to be a lie. No request for

aid sent by a sheriff was ever passed up by the

Rangers and his company had received no letter

from Simmonds.

“Well, you’d best do something,” growled

Jerome, “otherwise I’m going to.”

“I thought this business today showed you what

happened when folk take the law into their own

hands,” remarked Soskice. “Crither’s attempt

hasn’t been any too successful, has it?”

“I won’t be doing it by using a hired killer,” Jerome

answered, coming to his feet. “Let’s go, boys.”

After watching Jerome, Danny and Tommy de-

part, Simmonds gave a grunt. “Buck sounds a mite

peeved. He’s no fool either and as tough as they

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123

come. I sure hope them cow thieves hold off for a

spell.”

“How about that new cowhand?” asked Soskice.

“His story sounded all right to me,” the sheriff

replied.

“Why not telegraph Ysaleta and check up on

him?” the lawyer suggested. “And don’t look so

pained, the county will pay.”

“Yeah, likely it will,” Simmonds admitted.

“Clyde, you go down to the telegraph office and

send a message to the sheriff at Ysaleta, ask him

what he knows about a feller called Danny For-

grave. The answer might make interesting reading.”

Chapter 8

MISS WATSON STUDIES DANNY

FORGRAVE

5 %

“I don’t reckon he’ll do a damn lot for us,”

Jerome growled as he left the sheriff’s office with

Danny and Tommy. “Not unless the cow thieves

start branding the stuff out on Main Street.”

“Why’d you elect him then?” Danny asked.

“Damned if I know,” the rancher admitted.

“This’s a poor county and there were few enough

who wanted to take on the office. Being sheriff’s a

thankless chore and don’t pay more than eating

money. Reckon Farley looked about the best of a

bad bunch at election time. Let’s go grab a meal at

the Bon Ton, then take a drink afore we ride out to

the spread.”

Running Irons

125

“How about Sammy and Pike?” asked Tommy.

“I’ll see about their burying afore we pull out,”

Jerome promised.

“I mean what’re you fixing in to do about them

getting burned down that way, boss,” growled the

youngster. “We ought to see the Forked C bunch

and——”

“I’ll be seeing Vic Crither,” the rancher promised.

“It was through him that they got made wolf

bait!”

“Choke off that talk, boy!” Jerome warned.

“Vic handled things the way he saw them and he

sure as hell didn’t tell Gooch to prowl our range.”

“He ought to be——!” Tommy began hotly.

“Simmer down, boy,” Jerome said quietly. “Vic

made a mistake in bringing Gooch in, but he never

sent that bounty-hunting skunk on to our range, or

told him to gun boys down like that.”

“Sammy and Pike were my pards——”

“I know. And they were good boys, too, even if

they did go out with running irons by them. But it

won’t bring them back to start a shooting fuss with

the Forked C. All that’ll do is get more folks killed.

We’ll get the same as is happening up in Shelby

County and while we’re fussing the cow thieves’ll

steal us blind.”

“You’re right in that, boss,” Danny put in. “I’ve

seen a county that’s been torn apart by a range war.

The buzzards were the only ones to profit by it.”

126

J. T. Edson

Jerome looked at Danny with interest. Knowing

cowhands, the rancher had not expected support

from that quarter. There was something puzzling

about the tall blond stranger. Sure he looked and

acted like a drifting cowhand, a wild, irresponsible

young cuss no different from thousands of others

who followed the longhorn trade. Yet he seemed

capable of thought; the question about why Sim-

monds was elected sheriff proved that; and now he

talked sense and peace instead of reaching for a

gun and panting for war. It said much for Danny’s

acting ability that he had so far managed his true

nature and played a part well enough to fool so

shrewd a man as the rancher.

“Just you listen to Danny, Tommy,” Jerome

grunted. “It’s the first time I ever heard a cowhand

say anything that made sense—and I’ve been one.

Let’s go eat a bite.”

While walking toward the Bon Ton Café, lead-

ing their horses, the three men saw a bunch of rid-

ers entering town. The newcomers came fast,

making a fair racket and all showing signs of being

in high spirits.

“Rafter O’s coming in,” Tommy remarked.

“Hey, that must be their mean ole bay Joey Jones’s

leading.”

“What’s so special about the bay?” Danny

asked, studying the riderless horse led by one of

the approaching cowhands. It was a fifteen hand,

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127

light washy bay animal with a roman nose, little

pin ears crimped at the tips and pig eyes, with the

general air of a mean one about it.

“Nobody’s ever rode it,” Tommy explained. “So

Rafter O do tell.”

“Never yet been a hoss as couldn’t be rode,”

Danny stated.

“And never a cowhand as couldn’t be throwed,”

Jerome countered. “If you’re fixing to take that

bay on, don’t. I saw it one time at Rafter O. It’s a

suicide bucker and how it’s not killed its fool self,

or some danged fool rider, I’ll never know.”

With that the rancher led the way to the Bon

Ton where they left the horses at the rail and en-

tered the room to sit at a table by the door. Even as

they ordered a meal, a group of the Rafter O men

entered and came toward the Jerome table. Danny

figured the stocky man in the lead to be boss of the

outfit and his guess proved to be correct.

“Howdy, Wally,” Jerome greeted.

“Hi, Buck,” replied Wally Stirton. “How’s

things?”

“Could be better.”

“They always could. Losing much stock?”

“Lost more than that,” Jerome said, knowing

the story would come out sooner or later. “Gooch

cut down Sammy and Pike last night.”

Silence fell on the group of cowhands at the

words. While there might be considerable rivalry

128

J. T. Edson

between the different ranches, most of the hands

felt a certain kinship to their fellow workers, espe-

cially when one found himself in difficulties.

Gooch had never been liked by the free-and-easy

cowhands and it might have gone hard for him if

he did not already lie dead at the undertaker’s

shop.

“Where’s Gooch at now?” asked one of the

Rafter O hands coldly.

“Taking a rest on a slab at Gustavson’s,” Jerome

answered.

“I figured he’d get around to doing it sooner or

later,” grunted the speaker, for Gustavson was the

local undertaker.

“Who got him?” Stirton inquired.

“That’s what we don’t know,” admitted Jerome

and told the listening men of his findings on the

range.

Knowing cowhands, Jerome figured he had best

tell all he knew rather than wait until rumors

spread across the range and stirred up bitterness.

He did not hide anything, even the fact that his

two men had been using running irons when cut

down, nor did he excuse Gooch’s act on those

grounds. Angry mutters rose among the listening

men, but all were directed at Gooch and not the

bounty hunter’s employer.

Danny took advantage of Jerome’s speech to

study the Rafter O hands. Six in number, they

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129

looked like any other bunch of cowhands one

might find working on a Texas spread. Three of

the six looked to be around Tommy’s age and ap-

peared to be badly shaken by what they heard.

Danny decided to cultivate the trio in the hope of

learning something.

The food came and Danny ate well after a cou-

ple of days on his own fixings. When finished, he

returned to the Cattle Queen with Jerome and

Tommy, after tending to their horses. Already the

hitching rail showed a fair crowd inside and on en-

tering the bar room Danny saw that business had

picked up. Jerome left the younger men to join a

group of prosperous-looking citizens gathered at a

side table. For a moment Tommy stood looking

around, then led Danny to where Mousey sat with

the big buxom brunette.

“Hi, honey,” Tommy greeted. “Where-at’s Dora?”

“Upstairs,” Mousey replied. “She’s taking it bad

about Sammy.”

“She would be,” Tommy said sympathetically.

“Can I see her?”

Watching the big brunette, Danny thought he

saw a smile flicker across her face at the words.

Then the expression went as the brunette looked at

Tommy and answered. “I don’t reckon so. The

doctor’s been and gave her something to make her

sleep. She’s took it bad, even if it don’t show. Us

girls learn to hide our feelings, don’t we, Mousey?”

130

J. T. Edson

“I know you do, Maisie,” the little blonde

replied.

“Well, unless one of you boys want to buy a gal

a drink, I’ll get back to work,” the brunette said.

“Call up a waiter, ma’am,” Danny drawled. “I’ll

get them in.”

“No beer for me, handsome,” Maisie grinned,

nodding to a passing waiter. “I like it, but it sure

don’t like my figure.”

“Wine for the ladies,” Danny ordered, with the

air of a man who wanted folks to assume he had

been around. “And fetch a bottle of Stump Blaster

for us.”

“That’s what I like,” grinned Maisie. “A big

spender.”

“Can’t think of a better way to get rid of money,

Maisie, gal,” Danny replied.

As Danny spoke, he saw Ella Watson passing.

The saloonkeeper’s eyes came to him and studied

him in a calculating manner. From the way she

looked, Danny figured he interested her and so

aimed to keep on with his role of a reckless young

cuss who might be open to offers of making easy

money over and above his pay.

“When we’ve had a drink,” he went on, “what

say we go over and buck the tiger for a whirl.”

“Not me,” Tommy answered. “Pay day’s too far

off and I’m saving my money.”

“They’re fixing in to get married, settle a lil

Running Irons

131

piece of land and raise kids and cattle, Danny,”

Maisie explained with a grin, seeing Ella nod

toward Danny.

A red flush crept into Mousey’s cheeks and she

gasped, “How you do go on, Maisie.”

“Shucks,” Danny grinned. “Marriage’s real

wonderful. Fact being, I don’t reckon any family

should be without it.”

Maisie laughed with a professional entertainer’s

heartiness. Having caught her boss’s signal and

read its meaning correctly, she proceeded to pour

out some of the wine brought by the waiter and

also to study Danny with careful attention to de-

tail. Before she could reach any conclusions, the

Rafter O arrived from the Bon Ton. Halting at the

door, the hands looked around the room, their eyes

coming to rest on Danny’s party. The tallest of the

Rafter O group nudged the shortest, nodded in

Danny’s direction and the whole bunch trouped

across the floor, their boss leaving them to join the

same group Jerome sat among.

“I tell you, Chuck,” the tallest hand announced

in a carrying voice, “that ole bay’s so mean the

boss’ll never sell it to Bench J.”

“Reckon not, Lanky,” the shortest of the party

answered. “There wouldn’t be nobody at Bench J

could ride him.”

“I’d bet on that,” grinned Lanky.

“How much and what odds?”

132

J. T. Edson

All the Rafter O men looked at Danny as he

spoke up. Trying to appear as if they had not

meant their words to carry to the Bench J’s ears,

the Rafter O’s exchanged glances.

“Did he mean us?” Lanky asked.

“I sure hope he didn’t,” a red-headed youngster

called, with a surprising lack of originality, Red,

replied.

“Figure he asked us something,” Chuck

drawled. “Only does he mean it?”

Coming to his feet and ignoring Tommy’s warn-

ing glances, Danny dipped a hand into his pocket.

“Do you Rafter O’s talk with your money or

only your mouths. I said how much do you bet and

what odds do you give that I ride the bay?”

“He wants to bet, Chuck,” Lanky stated soberly.

“Nope,” Danny corrected. “I want to bet

money. He’d be no use to me when I won him.”

Grins came to the Rafter O faces and cowhands

took a liking to Danny. The attempt at getting him

to ride the bay was in the nature of a try-out, to see

if the newcomer had what it took to make a hand.

Whenever Rafter O came into town, their boss

specializing in horses more than cattle, they

brought along a good bucker in the hope of find-

ing somebody game enough—or fool enough—to

ride it.

Everybody’s attention came to the table, even

the gamblers holding up their games, for the Rafter

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133

O’s reputation in such matters was common

knowledge and the crowd eagerly awaited devel-

opments. If the blond stranger accepted the chal-

lenge, and he appeared to have done so, they ought

to see some sport.

“Come on, Rafter O,” Danny continued after a

few seconds. “Make your bet, or set up the

drinks.”

“We’ll give you two to one and take up to sixty

dollars,” Chuck answered after a brief consulta-

tion with his friends. “If you want to go that

high.”

“Bet!” Danny said loudly and started walking

toward the door. “I’ll get my saddle. Where’d you

want me to ride him, in here?”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Ella Watson interrupted,

coming forward. “I’ve an empty corral outside, use

that.”

Without giving anybody the chance to request

that he showed his money, Danny headed for the

door and Tommy followed on his heels with

Mousey at his side. They went by the front door,

but the rest of the crowd headed out at the rear to

form up around the big pole corral.

Danny collected his saddle, stripping off the

rope, rifle boot and all other extras ready for what

he knew would be a hard, gruelling ride. With that

done, he took off his gunbelt and handed it to

Tommy.

134

J. T. Edson

“You watch that hoss, Danny,” Tommy warned.

“If Rafter O’s betting cash money on him, they

sure don’t aim to lose.”

“Nor me,” grinned Danny. “Boy, you, me’n’ lil

Mousey here’ll sure have us a time on what we’ve

won.”

Together they walked around the side of the

building and toward the corral at the rear. Danny

watched Chuck lead up the bay, noting that it ap-

peared to be quiet enough and followed without

trouble. Not that he felt surprised for a blindfold

covered the horse’s eyes, and he knew that even a

bad outlaw learned the futility of fighting a rope.

The bay did not fight having a saddle put on it, but

Danny noted the way its ears flattened down and

its muscles quivered. That horse as sure as hell did

not intend to be ridden by any man.

Like most Texans, Danny had ridden horses almost

as long as he could walk. Following his elder

brother’s lead, Danny took to riding bad ones and be-

came adept at it before he decided the old saying, “A

bronc buster’s a man with a heavy seat and a light

head” had a whole lot of truth and so gave up his am-

bition of becoming a well-known rider of unmanage-

able horses. However, a man out West often needed

to trim the bed-springs out of a horse or two and

Danny had never lost the ability to stay afork a snuffy

one. He reckoned he ought to be able to handle the

bay unless it proved something really exceptional.

Running Irons

135

With his health, and wealth, at stake, Danny

took no chances. He attended to saddling the horse

himself. The spectators noted the care he took in

the saddling and nodded their approval.

“No you don’t,” Danny growled as the horse

blew itself out. Bringing up his knee, he rammed it

into the animal’s ribs and forced a hurried blowing

out of the air sucked into the bay’s lungs. This re-

duced the swollen rib-cage to its normal size before

the cinches drew tight. If Danny had missed the

trick, he would have tightened the cinches on the

swollen body and when the bay blew out the air,

the saddle was left loose. However, he had seen

and countered the move and the saddling went to

its completion.

“Are you set to make a start, Danny?” Chuck

called, having learned the challenger’s name from

Maisie.

“Yep,” Danny answered and swung into the sad-

dle. Feeling the bay quiver under him, he knew a

hard fight lay ahead. “Lord,” he thought, “If I get

all stove up, Cap’n Jules’ll peel the hide off me.”

Yet Danny did not ride the horse out of sheer

bravado or a desire to grandstand. He wanted to

further establish his assumed character in Ella

Watson’s eyes and knew that if he should be in-

jured riding the horse, Murat would understand

his motives.

One thing showed right off. Rafter O might

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J. T. Edson

stand to lose some money but they played fair.

Chuck stood at the horse’s head and gripped the

end of the blindfold, but he made no move to jerk

it from the bay’s eyes until Danny had settled

down firmly in the saddle.

“Now?” he asked as Danny settled in the

leather.

“You watch him, Danny,” Jerome yelled, giving

the friendly, if unhelpful advice always handed out

to a man about to start riding a bad one. “He’s

going to moan with you.”

“He’ll need to when I’m through, boss,” Danny

yelled back. “Let her rip, Chuck, boy.”

A quick tug removed the blindfold and Chuck

went head first through the corral rails in a flying

bound which warned Danny, if he needed more

warning, of the bay’s danger potential. Instantly

the horse came apart and without bogging its head

down between its legs as did so many of its kind as

a starter to bucking. From standing like a statue,

the horse took off in a series of crow hops, bound-

ing up and lighting down on stiff legs in an effort

to jolt its rider out of the saddle by the force of im-

pact. Crow hopping was not hard to handle for an

experienced rider, but Danny knew he could expect

much more.

Suddenly the horse reared high, chinning the

moon and waving forelegs in the air. However,

Danny possessed that rare sixth sense so vital to a

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137

bronc peeler in that he could mostly anticipate the

horse’s moves and be ready to counter them. Up

slid his hands along the reins, gripping just below

the connection with the bit. He pulled hard, drag-

ging the horse back to its feet before it could craw-

fish over on to its back and either throw him or

crush him beneath it.

Foiled in its attempt, the bay appeared to go

wild with rage. It rocketed across the corral, pitch-

ing fence-cornered—leaving the ground in one di-

rection, jack-knifing its hind and forefeet together

in mid-air and twisting itself to land at about a

forty-five degree angle to the place it took off. While

the horse went high and landed hard, double shuf-

fling to change its gait with every bound, Danny

found little difficulty in riding the leaps.

Then it happened. The bay swapped ends, going

up facing north and landing with its head aimed at

the South Pole. With his rider’s instincts Danny

knew he was going to be thrown two jumps ahead

of the actual happening. Kicking his feet from the

stirrup irons, Danny allowed his body to go limp

and landed rolling. He saw the bay bounce away

from him and Lanky charged into the corral at a

gallop, rope swinging ready to throw. On feeling

the touch of the rope, the bay quietened down and

allowed itself to be led toward the gate.

“Hold it!” Danny called, getting to his feet. “Ban-

dage him again. I’m not through with him yet.”

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J. T. Edson

“What you doing down there then?” asked

Chuck.

“Got off to leave him catch his breath,”

replied Danny and walked toward the bay once

more.

On mounting, he started to ride the bay again.

Three more times Danny hit the dirt for the bay

was one smart horse and knew how to ring in

changes of style. It rainbowed high with arched

back and shaking head; sunfished in leaping cres-

cents that made it appear to be trying to land first

one then the other shoulder on the ground while

allowing the sun to burn its belly; fought on a

dime, or pioneered new ground with each leaping

bounce; straight bucked by going high from all

four feet and on the way down tossing its

hindquarters up again in the manner of the big

paint stallion which crippled Danny’s uncle, Ole

Devil Hardin.* Through all the tricks, except

when sent flying, Danny stayed in the saddle and

each time down he rose to mount again. To allow

a horse the chance of winding up a winner gave it

bad ideas; it happened to the bay often enough to

turn the animal into an outlaw.

“Give it up while you’re ahead, amigo, ” Chuck

yelled as Danny rose from the fourth throwing.

“Hell yes!” agreed Lanky. “You’ll likely get hurt

* Told in The Fastest Gun in Texas by J. T. Edson.

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139

bad if you don’t. He’ll go to fighting blind if you

keep riding him. We’ll call the bets off if you like.”

“I don’t like,” Danny replied. “Seeing’s how I

aim to win your money. Set on that bandage again.

He don’t know who’s boss.”

“Now me,” grunted Lanky, giving Danny an

admiring glance, “I’d say he knows right well

who’s boss. It’s you that don’t.”

“Likely,” grinned Danny and headed toward the

bay once more.

Standing by the fence, Ella Watson watched

Danny mount the bay again. A keen student of

human nature, she found Danny interesting and a

young man with certain possibilities—if he was

what she expected. Her eyes went to Jerome who

stood at her side.

“That’s a real game boy,” she remarked. “He’s

new here though, isn’t he?”

“Just today rode in,” replied the rancher. “It was

him found Sammy and Pike. I took him on to ride

for Bench J.”

Further conversation ended as the bay, given its

head, started to buck. A fresh danger had entered

the fight, just as Lanky predicted. In addition to the

normal risks attendant to riding a bad horse, the

bay panicked and began to buck blind; not watch-

ing where it went as long as it shook the hated

man-thing from its back. Desperately Danny

fought to keep the bay’s head up; always of prime

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J. T. Edson

importance when taking a bad one. However, he

had been shaken badly by the throws and felt him-

self tiring. Night was coming and soon he would

not be able to see enough to continue riding. Yet he

could see no way of ending the bay’s fight.

Twice he just managed to swing the bay clear of

the corral rails and prevented a collision. Still

bucking blind, the horse charged across the corral,

headed for the other side of the enclosure. Only

this time Danny felt too exhausted to argue the

matter.

“Go ahead, you blasted fool critter!” he

growled. “Run in head on and bust your fool neck

happen that’s how you want it. Only I’m not fix-

ing to go with you.”

Yells of warning rang out. Hurriedly those on-

lookers lining the section of rail toward which the

bay rushed leapt backward. Jerome gave a low

curse and opened his mouth to yell for the doctor.

Everybody watched Danny being carried straight

at the rails and expected to see horse and rider pile

head-first into the stout timber.

At the last moment Danny swung his right leg

forward, up and over the saddle horn, thrusting

himself clear. Even as he lit down, he heard the

crash of the bay’s collision with the corral rails.

Only the give of the rails saved the horse from a se-

rious injury and even so the bay rocked backward,

staggering and winded by the impact. Danny

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141

whirled and ran back, going into the saddle, catch-

ing up the reins and applying his spurs. Weakly the

bay responded with a few mild pussy-back jumps,

arching its back like a hound-scared cat and

bouncing up into the air about a third of the height

previously managed. Then the horse halted, Danny

raked its sides again and brought off another short

spell of fighting. The next time Danny used his

spurs, the bay stood with heaving flanks and hang-

ing head. Even without the excited and delighted

whoops of the crowd who came crowding into the

corral, Danny knew he had won. With heaving

chest, he slid from the bay’s saddle and leaned

against the animal’s sweat-lathered side.

“Are you all right, Danny?” Tommy asked,

reaching the blond Ranger first.

“I—I’ve—felt better,” admitted Danny, then

grinned as Lanky thrust through the excited crowd

and held out a fistful of money. “Fact being, I feel

better right now. Thanks, Lanky. Loser walks the

hoss, don’t he?”

“Yep,” Lanky agreed and shot out a hand to

grab a suddenly-departing Chuck by the collar.

“Which same you reckoned you’d do it.”

“Hell, everybody knows I’m a liar,” answered

Chuck and reached for the bay’s reins. “You wait,

I’ll get me a ladder, rest it again you, climb up and

beat in your knee-caps.”

“Go ahead, Chuck,” Ella smiled. “I’ll save you

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J. T. Edson

an extra big drink. The rest of you, first one’s on

the house.”

Which same started a rush for the saloon. Jerome

came over to ask if Danny felt all right and, finding

his new hand to be a mite tuckered out but in one

piece, slipped a ten-dollar bill into a grimy hand and

remarked he had won fifty off the owner of the Rafter

O, then joined his party and returned to the bar.

“Go on in, Mousey, Tommy,” Ella smiled as

everybody else streamed away. “I want to congrat-

ulate the winner.” After the little blonde and

Tommy left, Ella turned to Danny. “You rode well,

I never thought you’d get back the last time.”

“I had to, ma’am,” Danny replied.

“Why?”

“I didn’t have any money to pay off with if I lost

the bets.”

Watching the blond youngster headed for the

bar, Ella Watson smiled. Her guess had been cor-

rect. A young man that keen to lay hands on

money had possibilities and might make a good re-

cruit for her illegal side interests.

Chapter 9

ELLA WATSON HIRES MARTHA

CONNELLY

5 %

Calamity Jane hated riding any kind of vehi-

cle unless she held the ribbons and controlled the

team. So she did not enjoy her trip to Caspar City

and felt relieved when the driver drew rein before

the depot at her destination. Luckily the stage-

coach had not been one of the main runs, or she

might easily have found the driver to be an ac-

quaintance who could let slip her identity and

wind her up in an early grave.

Throwing open the stage’s door, the agent gal-

lantly offered his hand to help Calamity alight,

ogling the exposed ankle and lower calf with frank

interest.

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J. T. Edson

“Tuck ’em in, friend,” Calamity ordered as she

swung herself on to the sidewalk and looked

around.

“Huh?” the man grunted.

“Your eyes, they’re bugged out a mite. Come

down to the Cattle Queen tonight and look all you

want, I’ll be paid for it then.”

Flushing a little, the depot agent jerked around

and yelled for the driver to drop down the gal’s

bags. There were no other passengers to alight at

Caspar and Calamity took her two bags, carrying

them along the street toward the batwing doors of

the Cattle Queen.

“Calam, gal,” she mused. “Just keep remember-

ing you’re Martha, call me Marty, Connelly. You

learned a lot that last night in Austin, don’t forget

it or you’ll be a long time dead.”

One thing Calamity had early learned was to

face up to the truth. It would do her no good to

pretend danger did not lay waiting for her on this

chore. To do so might make her careless. So she in-

tended to remember the danger and in doing so

would be more likely to recall all the details

drummed into her during the evening and morning

before she left Austin to start her task.

Sucking in a breath, Calamity pushed open the

batwing doors and entered the Cattle Queen’s bar

room. It was the first time she had ever entered a

saloon as a potential employee and she found the

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145

feeling novel. The time being shortly after noon,

only a few customers sat at the tables or stood by

the bar. Looking around, Calamity found only one

girl to be present. That one sure looked a tough

handful. She had red hair, stood Calamity’s size

and weighed at least twenty pounds heavier. From

the way the red-head’s dress fitted her, and the firm

muscles apparent in her arms and legs, Calamity

figured she would be as strong as they came; the

kind of girl Calamity sought to tangle with when

employed at her normal trade.

“Looking for somebody?” asked the buxom red-

head.

“The boss. That you?”

“Me? Nope. The name’s Phyl. I work here.

Come on up, I’ll take you to the boss. What’s your

name?”

“Marty Connelly. I’m looking for work.”

“Didn’t take you for a circuit-riding gal-

preacher,” Phyl sniffed. “Come on, we’ll see Miss

Ella.”

Following the other woman, and holding down

a temptation to plant a kick on the plump butt end

so alluringly offered for such treatment, Calamity

crossed the room and climbed the stairs. They

walked along a passage and Phyl knocked on one

of the doors.

“Gal to see you, boss,” she said, looking in.

“Show her in, Phyl,” replied a female voice.

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J. T. Edson

On entering the room, Calamity took her first

look at the woman who might be the leader of

Caspar County cow thieves. All in all, Calamity

felt a mite disappointed, for Ella had not long been

out of bed and wore a dressing-gown which pre-

vented the other girl from gaining any impression

of how the saloonkeeper might stack up in a

ruckus.

“So you’re looking for work,” Ella said. “Where

were you last?”

“At the Golden Slipper in Austin.”

“Why did you quit?”

“That’s my business.”

Hardly had the words left Calamity’s mouth

when she felt a hand clamp on her wrist and her

arm was twisted behind and up her back in a prac-

ticed move. Phyl was strong and real capable;

Calamity gave her that as the twisted arm sent a

wave of pain shooting through her. Holding down

her first instinct, Calamity let out a yelp of pain.

She figured showing her considerable knowledge

of self-defense might make Ella suspicious and

anyway if she tangled with Phyl, win or lose she

would not be in any shape to get on with the chore

which brought her to Caspar. So, instead of stamp-

ing her heel down hard on Phyl’s toe then giving

the buxom girl an elbow where it would do most

good, Calamity stood still and croaked to be re-

leased.

Running Irons

147

“When Miss Ella asks a question,” Phyl an-

swered, still holding the trapped arm, “she expects

an answer.”

Pain almost made Calamity forget her act, but

she fought down her desires and whined, “Leggo

my arm! I quit ’cause I didn’t like it there.”

“Why not?” Ella asked.

“T—too much law.”

The grip on Calamity’s arm relaxed and she

brought the limb in front of her to rub the aching

wrist. Looking sullen—and promising herself

that she would hand-scalp that fat, overstuffed,

loud-mouthed, hawg-stupid, cat-house cull be-

fore she left Caspar—Calamity awaited the next

development.

“Are you in trouble with the law?” Ella in-

quired.

“Me?” yelped Calamity, trying to sound just

right. “Naw! Why should I be?”

“You mean they couldn’t prove anything?”

“Yes—no,” Calamity answered. “I—I got tired

of Austin.”

“Then why come here?” Ella asked.

“This’s as far as I’d money to go.”

While speaking, Calamity watched Ella and

gained the impression that the other might be a

real tough gal in her own right and not entirely de-

pendent on Phyl to protect her interests.

For her part, Ella studied Calamity with equal

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J. T. Edson

interest. Shorter hair than the usual fashion, a tan

to the skin that make-up on the face could not

hide, hands roughened by hard work; all the signs

of a girl who had spent some time in the female

section of the State Penitentiary. A hard cuss, too,

or Ella missed her guess. Maybe Phyl had come off

easier than she deserved in twisting the newcomer’s

arm. A telegraph message to the Golden Slipper

would clear up the matter of why the girl left

Austin. If, as Ella suspected, the town marshal saw

the girl on her way for reasons of unproven dis-

honesty, well, the Cattle Queen had use for such

talents.

“What’s your name?” Ella said.

“Marty Connelly.”

“All right, Marty. I’ll take you on. And get this,

I run a quiet house. You don’t start lifting wallets,

or finding a partner to run a badger game—and

don’t try looking innocent with me—unless I give

the word. There’s a small place out back, half-a-

dozen rooms in it. If you want to sleep with any of

the customers, you go there and do it through me

and I get all you make. I’ll give you your cut out of

it. Those are the terms. Take them or leave them.”

Wishing she knew more about the working con-

ditions of saloon girls, Calamity did not reply for

a moment. She hung her head and stared down at

the floor, trying to decide what would be the best

answer. Then she made her decision. Ella could not

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149

suspect her and be trying to lay a trap. Maybe the

conditions might be a mite harsh but probably the

saloon keeper figured a girl without money would

be forced to accept them.

“All right, Miss Ella,” she said. “I’ll take on.”

“I figured you would,” Ella answered mockingly

and Calamity knew her guess must be right.

“What rooms have we vacant, Phyl?”

“Only Mousey’s,” Phyl replied. “I’ll put her

there.”

“Huh huh,” Ella grunted and nodded her head.

It might be as well to keep the new girl in igno-

rance of the saloon’s other business for a time and

Mousey knew less than any of the other girls about

what went on outside work hours. “See Marty

steeled in, Phyl.”

“Sure, boss. Come on, Marty.”

In the passage, Phyl grinned at Calamity. “You’ll

find Miss Ella a damned good boss to work for, as

long as you play straight by her. If you don’t, me

’n’ Maisie, she’s the other boss gal’ll tend your

needings and, kid, that’s painful.”

At that moment the tall, slim, untidy shape of

Dean Soskice appeared at the stairhead. The young

lawyer slouched along the passage by the two girls,

glancing at Calamity in passing and walked

toward Ella’s room, entering without knocking.

“Who’s he?” asked Calamity.

“The boss’s lawyer,” Phyl grunted. “So you

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J. T. Edson

just keep good and real respectful around him,

Marty gal.”

“Like that, huh?” grinned Calamity with a

knowing wink.

“Just like that. Now me, I’d prefer more muscle

on mine.”

“And me.”

“Well, come on. I’ll show you where you bed

down. The kid you’ll be with’s all right and not in

your class. There’ll be a meal downstairs in about

an hour.”

Ella Watson looked up from her work as Soskice

entered, although she knew that only one person in

town would have thought to enter her private quar-

ters without showing the courtesy of knocking first.

“Who was the girl with Phyl?” asked the lawyer.

“A new one. She came in on the stage. Got run out

of Austin by the law, and has been in the State Peni-

tentiary or I miss my guess. Anyway, I’ll have a mes-

sage sent to the Golden Slipper asking about her.”

“Do you always hire jailbirds, Ella?”

“They’re the safest kind. Naïve fools like

Mousey are all right for attracting certain kinds of

cowhand, but you daren’t let her kind know you’re

doing anything illegal. You can’t rely on, or trust,

kids like Mousey, but you can trust a dishonest

dame as long as she doesn’t know too much and

has something to lose.”

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151

“You should know,” sniffed Soskice, sinking

into a chair. “Why’d you chance going out with

those two cowhands who were killed?”

“They had a small bunch of unbranded stuff

but were scared by Gooch. So I went along to

show them how safe it was. Only it wasn’t. Gooch

found us.”

“There’s nothing to tie you in with them, is

there?”

“Not a thing. Don’t worry, you’re in no danger.

Only the two cowhands knew I was going with

them. I met them after we closed and wore men’s

clothing. Nobody would have recognized me,

even if they’d seen me. Why didn’t you come here

before?”

“I—I was busy all yesterday,” answered the

lawyer.

“What were you doing?” asked Ella bitterly.

“Packing ready to run if I was proved to be in-

volved and caught?”

A dull red flush crept into the lawyer’s cheeks

and sullen anger etched itself on his face. However,

he held his comments and thoughts back. Much as

he hated to admit the fact, even to himself, he

needed Ella Watson’s aid to carry out his plans

much more than she needed him for hers. Without

Ella, he could get nowhere for the cowhands re-

garded him with amused contempt, ignoring the

fact that he bore the results of an Eastern college

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J. T. Edson

education and felt he ought to be honored and re-

spected for it.

“It wasn’t that,” he said. “You know we have to

be careful. What do you make of the man who

found the bodies?”

“Danny Forgrave? He’s a cowhand, likes money

and isn’t too worried how he gets it,” Ella an-

swered and told about the bets Danny made the

previous evening.

“Sounds a likely one for you then,” remarked

the lawyer. “Is he good with his guns?”

“Not better than fair. Either Wren or Stocker

could take him.”

“You haven’t heard from the packing plant

about the next shipment they’ll want, have you?”

“Not yet, but I ought to some time this week.

We’ve a fair bunch held at the hideout, all wearing

Stocker’s brand,” she replied then looked in a cal-

culating manner at Soskice. “What’re you getting

out of this, Dean?”

“Huh?” grunted the lawyer.

“I’m in it for money. Not because I hate the big

ranchers for working and building something my

old man didn’t have the guts, intelligence or ability

to make. I pay the cowhands to steal, to take all

the chances, then get the money back off them in

the saloon. It’s all clear profit for me. What do you

get out of it?”

For some reason Ella knew her question would

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not be answered. Soskice looked around the room,

down at the floor, anywhere but at her and when

he spoke, the words had nothing to do with her

question.

“The ranchers are getting riled about the steal-

ing. Maybe they’ll call in outside help.”

“Not another bounty hunter, after what hap-

pened to Sammy and Pike,” Ella assured him.

“And only the county sheriff can call in the

Rangers. I don’t reckon Farley Simmonds would

chance that.”

“I don’t know about that. He moved fast

enough to send to Ysaleta and get word about that

cowhand. I saw him on the way here. It seems that

Forgrave pulled out of Ysaleta a few steps ahead of

being told to go.”

“I thought so. That boy’ll be useful to us if I can

get to him, and that won’t be hard. But you didn’t

answer my question, Dean.”

“Maybe I do it so I can be close to you.”

While Ella doubted if Soskice ever did anything

for anybody unless he saw a very good profit mo-

tive coming his way, she did not mention the

thought. For all his faults, Soskice could sure make

love and she reckoned that she might as well get

something out of their association.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go tell Phyl to send a

telegraph message to the Golden Slipper in Austin

and find out about Marty Connelly. Go wait in the

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J. T. Edson

bedroom and when I’m through we’ll see how

close we can get.”

Not knowing that her bona fides were to be

checked, Calamity set about making herself com-

fortable. She took a liking to her roommate from

the start and found the feeling mutual. Having

only just left her bed—the previous night’s celebra-

tions lasted very late—Mousey wore only her

nightdress; but she bustled around showing

Calamity where to unpack and chattering away

like she had not talked for weeks and looked for a

chance to do so.

Although the girls’ room was anything but

grandiose—it consisted of a couple of small beds,

a dressing table, washstand and a small cupboard

for storing the bulk of their clothes—Mousey ap-

peared to be highly satisfied.

“I never had anything like this before,” she told

Calamity, clearing her belongings out of two of the

dressing-table’s drawers. “Always lived in a shack.

Six of us kids shared one room, it had a dirt floor

and we used to pass down clothes one from the

next. Boy, this is living here.”

“Yeah,” Calamity answered. “Where’s a gal take

a bath?”

“Down the street at Ling Sing’s Chinese Laun-

dry. He runs a bath-house at the back. I’ll come

with you, but let’s grab a meal first.”

All in all, Calamity found Mousey to be quite a

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talker. By the time they reached the small staff din-

ing room, Calamity knew all about Tommy and

the little blonde’s intentions in that direction. It

seemed that while Mousey enjoyed the glamor of

being a saloon-girl, she still appeared to be quite

willing to return to a small cabin with a dirt

floor—provided Tommy went with her.

“The other girls laugh at me when I talk about

it,” Mousey said wistfully. “But I know Tommy

will marry me as soon as we’ve saved enough

money to buy in on a little place of our own.”

On entering the dining room, Calamity began to

see the reason for Mousey’s almost pathetic eager-

ness to be friends. All the other half-dozen girls

seated around the table appeared to be either older,

or at least more suited to the life of a saloon-girl.

Brassy, hard-faced, none of them would be the sort

of friend an innocent kid like Mousey wanted and

most likely her attempts at making friends met

with constant rebuffs.

More than any of the others, one girl took

Calamity’s attention. There was trouble, or

Calamity had never seen it. The girl was a blonde,

slightly taller and heavier than Calamity, shapely,

beautiful; and knowing it she had an air of arro-

gant truculence about her.

For the rest, they looked like the kind of girls

one expected to find in a saloon. Maybe a mite

younger and better-looking than one figured on in

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J. T. Edson

a small town such as Caspar, but run-of-the-mill.

Even the buxom brunette who sat at the head of

the table and smoked a cigarette, she would be one

of the boss girls and, while looking tough and ca-

pable, did not strike Calamity as being out of the

ordinary.

“How do you feel, Dora?” Mousey asked sym-

pathetically, going to the blonde.

“Great, how else?”

“But I thought——” the little blonde gasped.

“God! You’re dumb!” the bigger girl spat out.

“She’s not alone in that,” snapped the buxom

brunette. “If your brains were gunpowder and

went off they wouldn’t stir your hair.”

An angry glint came into Dora’s eyes, but she

knew better than give lip to Maisie. So she turned

her spleen on somebody else. Her eyes went to

Calamity who still stood at the door, taking in the

red-head’s travel-stained clothing and lack of

make-up.

“Who’re you?” she asked.

“This’s Marty Connelly,” Mousey introduced,

sounding puzzled. Dora did not act like a girl

grieving for a dead lover. If it had been Tommy

who—here Mousey stopped herself with a shudder—

well, she wouldn’t act like Dora did at such a time.

Smarting under Maisie’s rebuke, Dora watched

Calamity walk toward the table and decided to es-

tablish her superiority over the newcomer. Which

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157

only went to prove that she had no right to call

anybody else dumb.

“Is the boss hiring tramps now?” she sniffed and

a couple of her particular friends giggled.

Calamity looked Dora up and down with cold

eyes. While she had refrained from handing Phyl

her needings upstairs, Calamity figured there must

come a time when meekness stopped; and that

time had arrived right then. If she allowed Dora to

push her around, her subsequent social position

would be under the blonde; which Calamity reck-

oned might be mighty undesirable.

“Looking at you,” Calamity said calmly, “I’d

say the boss started hiring old tramps some time

back.”

“My my!” Dora purred, twisting around in her

chair. “Aren’t you cute?”

With that the blonde hurled forward and lashed

around her right hand in a savage slap calculated

to knock its receiver halfway across the room and

reduce her to wailing submission. Only to achieve

its object the slap had to land on the other girl first.

Throwing up her left hand, Calamity deflected

the slap before it reached her. Before Dora recov-

ered balance or realized just how wrong things

were going, Calamity drove a clenched fist into the

blonde’s belly. The blow took Dora completely

unawares, sinking in deep and driving waves of

agony through her. Croaking with pain, Dora

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J. T. Edson

folded over and caught Calamity’s other fist as it

whipped up. Dora came erect, a trickle of blood

running from her cut lip, and caught a round-

house smash from Calamity’s right hand. The fist

crashed into the blonde’s cheek just under her eye

and sent her sprawling backward to land with a

thud on her butt by the table.

“All right, you alley-cats!” Maisie yelled, throw-

ing back her chair and coming to her feet. “Simmer

down. If you want to fight, save it until tonight

and do it in the bar for the paying customers.”

“I’ll take her any time!” Calamity hissed,

crouching with crooked fingers as she had seen so

many belligerent girls stand at such a moment.

“How about you, Dora?” asked Maisie, know-

ing the entertainment value of a good hair-yanking

brawl between two of the girls.

Dora did not answer, but sat on the floor trying

to nurse her swelling, pain-filled eye, soothe her

puffing-up lip and hold her aching, nausea-filled

stomach, sobbing loudly all the time. Never a pop-

ular girl, Dora received little sympathy from her

fellow-workers.

Looking down at the blonde, one of the other

girls gave a laugh and said, “I don’t think Dora

feels like tangling with Marty.”

Walking to Dora’s side, Maisie bent down and

pulled the blonde’s hand from the eye, looking at

the discoloration forming.

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159

“Whooee!” said Maisie with a grin. “That’ll be

a beauty soon. Anyways, it’ll keep you out of the

way for a few days. Which’s a good thing, the way

you’re acting. You’d queer the boss’s game going

on like you are when you’re supposed to have lost

your own true love. Now shut your yap, or I’ll turn

Marty loose on you again.”

Knowing that Maisie meant every word she said,

Dora stifled her sobs. She dragged herself to her

feet and limped slowly from the room. Looking

around the table, Calamity did not figure she

would have trouble with any of the other girls.

Now all she had to do was start learning the

proof of the saloonkeeper’s part in the Caspar

County cow stealing.

Chapter 10

BRING ME HIS WALLET

5 %

Although Calamity wondered how Ella

Watson would take the news of her actions, no

complaints came down from the boss’s office. Over

the meal Calamity became acquainted with the

other girls. She let it be known that she left Austin

at the town marshal’s request, but none of the

other girls pressed her too deeply about her past.

Having seen how Calamity handled Dora, a tough

girl in her own right, the rest figured that the red-

head might resent too close questioning and had a

real convincing argument for anybody who tried.

One thing Calamity made sure the others knew,

how Mousey stood with her. Always a generous

and good-hearted girl, Calamity had decided to

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161

take Mousey under her wing and intended to give

the friendship the little blonde craved but found

missing among the other saloon workers.

After eating, Calamity waited until Mousey

dressed and then they left the Cattle Queen. While

walking along Main Street toward the Chinese

laundry’s bath-house, Calamity listened to

Mousey’s chatter and kept her eyes peeled for some

sign of Danny Fog, but saw nothing of him. How-

ever, Mousey, telling of the discovery of Gooch and

the cowhands’ bodies, let Calamity know that

Danny had arrived and appeared to be well in-

volved in the business which brought them both to

Caspar County.

Even without formal training, Calamity used the

best technique for a peace officer involved in such

a task; she let the others do most of the talking.

With Mousey that proved all too easy. Starved for

friendship and loving to talk, she prattled on and

gave Calamity some insight into the doings of the

area.

“That Dora!” Mousey sniffed indignantly. “She

was in love with Sammy, yet she doesn’t even look

as if she cares about him being killed.”

Calamity doubted, from the little she had seen of

Dora, if the girl really loved a forty-dollars-a-

month cowhand. However, Mousey’s words gave

Calamity an idea of how Ella Watson ensnared the

young cowhands into her cow-stealing organiza-

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J. T. Edson

tion. Women were far outnumbered by the men

out West and the local young cowboys would eas-

ily become infatuated by a saloon-girl. After that,

the rest would be easy.

“She’s a mean cuss all right,” Calamity admit-

ted. “Does she pick on you?”

“A little. If I could fight like you do she

wouldn’t.”

“You’re danged tooting she wouldn’t,” grinned

Calamity and felt at Mousey’s nearest arm. “Say,

you’re a strong kid. She’d be like a bladder of lard

against you if you stayed clear of her and used

your fists instead of going to hair-yanking. I’ll

teach you how, if you like.”

Thinking of all the mean tricks Dora had played

on her, Mousey gave a delighted nod. “Boy, that’d

be great, Marty. Where’d you learn to fight?”

“Here and there. Hey, isn’t this the place we

want?”

On their return from the bath-house and while

waiting for the evening trade to arrive, Calamity

began to teach Mousey a few basic tricks of rough-

house self-defense in their room. From the way the

little blonde learned her lessons, Calamity could al-

most feel sorry for Dora and next time she tried

her bullying.

When Calamity and Mousey reported to the bar

room to start work, Dora was nowhere in sight,

being confined to her room with an eye that re-

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163

sembled a Blue Point Oyster peeking out of its

shell. So Mousey did not find opportunity to put

her lessons into practice.

Calamity found the feeling of wearing a saloon-

girl’s garish and revealing clothing and being in a

bar as a worker a novel sensation. Not that she did

much work at first. Until shortly after eight o’clock

only a few townsmen used the bar and they

showed little interest in the girls, having wives at

home who took exception to the male members of

the family becoming too friendly with female em-

ployees of the saloon.

Shortly after eight a few cowhands began to

drift in and the place livened. The girls left their ta-

bles and mingled with the new arrivals. Laughter

rang out, a couple of the games commenced oper-

ation and the pianist started playing his instru-

ment. A couple of the customers came to where

Calamity and Mousey stood by the bar.

“Hey, Mousey, gal,” greeted the taller customer,

a cheerful young cowhand sporting an early at-

tempt at a moustache, “Where-at’s Tommy?”

“He’s not in tonight,” Mousey replied.

“Then how’s about you and your amigo having

a drink with me ’n’ Brother Eddie?”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Calamity told him.

“The name’s Marty.”

“This’s Stan and Eddie,” Mousey introduced.

“They work for the Box Twelve.”

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J. T. Edson

“Sure do,” Eddie, a shorter, slightly younger ver-

sion of Stan, agreed. “Say, what’ll you gals have to

drink?”

“It’ll have to be beer until I’ve seen Miss Ella,”

Stan warned.

“My mammy always told me never to look a

gift-beer in the froth,” replied Calamity.

“Lord, ain’t she a pistol?” whooped Eddie. “I’ll

buy ’em until you get your money off Miss Ella.”

A frown creased Stan’s face as he glared at his

brother. “You hold your voice down, you hear me,

boy?”

“I hear you,” Eddie answered, dropping his

voice. “Hell, these gals are all right, Stan.”

“Sure we are,” agreed Calamity. “First thing a

gal learns working in a saloon is to mind her own

business.”

Apparently the words mollified Stan for he

started to grin again. “Sure, Marty. Only folks

might get the wrong idea if they heard Eddie.”

“He’s only young yet, not like two old mossy-

horns like us,” Calamity answered. “Say, do we

have to stand with our tongues hanging out?”

“Huh?” grunted Stan, then started to grin and

turned to the bar. “Four beers Izzy, the ladies’re get-

ting thirsty. Say Mousey, where-at’s the boss lady?”

“Upstairs, I think,” Mousey replied.

“Just have to wait a spell then. Here, Marty,

take hold and drink her down.”

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165

The beers came and the cowhands drew up

their chairs, sitting with Calamity and Mousey at

a table. While drinking, Mousey and the

cowhands discussed local affairs. Calamity no-

ticed that any attempt to bring up the subject of

cow stealing was met with an immediate change

of subject by the cowhands. Not that she kept

asking questions, but Mousey seemed to be inter-

ested as might be expected from one who had

been some time in Caspar County. While Stan

and Eddy cursed the departed Gooch for a cow-

ardly, murdering skunk, neither appeared eager

to discuss why he might have shot down the two

Bench J cowhands. Showing surprising tact,

Mousey changed the subject and told of Danny’s

defeat of the Rafter O’s bay. A grin played on

Calamity’s lips as she listened; it appeared that

Danny Fog had been making something of a

name for himself since his arrival.

“Let’s go have a dance,” Eddie suggested.

“Sure, let’s,” Mousey agreed.

Already several couples were whirling around

on the open space left for dancing. Calamity,

Mousey and the two cowhands joined the fun and

it was well that Calamity had always been light on

her feet for cowhands did not often make graceful

partners. However, Calamity had long been used

to keeping her toes clear of her partner’s feet when

dancing and found little difficulty in avoiding

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J. T. Edson

Stan’s boots as they danced in something like time

to the music.

Calamity saw the two buxom girls who acted as

Ella’s lieutenants standing by the bar and watching

her. For a moment she wondered if they might be

seeing through her disguise. If she had heard their

conversation, she would not have worried.

“That Marty doesn’t dance too well,” Maisie re-

marked.

There was a considerable rivalry between Phyl

and Maisie and the red-head took the comment to

be an adverse criticism of her as she took Calamity

to see Ella and had her hired.

“Maybe she’s out of practice,” she answered.

“You should know they don’t go much for dancing

classes at the State Penitentiary.”

Before Maisie could think up a suitable reply,

Phyl walked away. The matter dropped for neither

girl felt sufficiently confident in her chances of

winning to risk a physical clash that would estab-

lish who was boss.

“Hey, Phyl,” called Stan, leading Calamity from

the dance floor. “Where-at’s Miss Ella?”

“She’s still up in her room, but she ought to be

down soon,” Phyl answered. “You wanting to see

her real bad?”

“Bad enough. We, me’n’ Eddie’s going with the

boss to take a herd to Fort Williams and’ll be away

for a month. I wanted to see if—well, she’ll know.”

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167

“I’ll go up and see her,” Phyl promised.

On reaching Ella’s door, Phyl knocked and waited.

“Who is it?” Ella’s voice called.

“Phyl. It’s important.”

The door opened and Phyl entered to find Ella

standing naked except for a pair of men’s levis

trousers. This did not surprise the red-head for she

knew that her boss had not been in the room all

afternoon.

“What’s wrong?” Ella asked. “I’ve only just got

back from the hideout.”

“It’s Stan, that kid from the Box Twelve. He’s

down there and wanting to see you. Only he’s pulling

out with a herd and won’t be back for a month.”

Ella frowned as she went to her bed and re-

moved the pants. Knowing why Stan wished to see

her, she did not care for the last piece of Phyl’s in-

formation. The cowhand had delivered ten stolen

yearlings to Ella’s men and awaited payment, but

she knew that if he rode out with the money her

place would never profit by it.

“Who’s he with?” she asked, standing clad in

her black drawers and reaching for her stockings.

“His kid brother.”

“I mean of our girls.”

“Mousey——”

“She’s no good for what I want,” Ella interrupted.

“That new gal, Marty’s, with them. Her and

Mousey’s got real friendly.”

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J. T. Edson

“Marty, huh? This might be a chance to find out

just what she’s like.”

“Hey, that reminds me, boss,” Phyl put in. “You

had an answer to that telegraph to Austin. Marty

was put on the stage by the town clown, for lifting

a drunken dude’s wallet.”

“I thought as much,” Ella stated, drawing on

her stockings. “Go down and tell Stan I’ll be in

soon, and after I’ve paid him off, you can let me

have a word with Marty.”

Half an hour later Ella strolled downstairs

dressed in her usual work-day style and showing

no sign of having sneaked out of town that after-

noon, taken a long ride and not long returned from

visiting the hiding place of the stolen cattle.

“Did that feller see you-all, Miss Ella?” Stan

asked eagerly as she came up.

“Sure, Stan,” Ella answered and held out the en-

velope she carried. “Say, what’s in this?”

“Poker winnings, ma’am.”

Like the rest of the cowhands who became in-

volved in the cow stealing, Stan believed that Ella

merely acted as an innocent go-between for the

hard-case Stocker who took the cattle from them.

Taking the envelope, Stan opened it and extracted

the money. He slipped four of the ten-dollar bills

into his wallet and turned to the bar.

“You’ve been lucky,” Ella remarked, watching

him thrust the wallet into his hip pocket.

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169

“Sure have, ma’am,” Stan agreed with a grin.

“This’ll sure buy us a time when we get to Fort

Williams.”

“So you’re deserting us, Stan,” Ella smiled.

“Shucks, it’ll only be for a spell. Say, ma’am, can

I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll take a brandy, Stan, thank you.”

“One brandy, two glasses of whisky, something

for the gals and one for you, Izzy,” ordered the

cowhand. “Say, when’s old Pedlar Jacobs coming

up here again?”

“Don’t know, Stan,” replied the bartender. “He

comes and goes. What’s up?”

“Got him a real fancy white-handled Army Colt

last time he was in. I figured I might buy it. Is he a

friend of your’n?”

“Not especially,” grunted the bartender and

moved away to attend to another customer. One

thing Izzy did not wish to discuss was his associa-

tion with Jake Jacobs, particularly before his boss.

“Drink up and have another, gals,” Stan told

them, ignoring the departing Izzy. “I’m just going

out back.”

As Eddie elected to go along with his brother,

Ella had her chance to talk with Calamity. First

Ella sent Mousey off with a message for Phyl, then

turned to her latest employee.

“When Stan rides off, I want you to bring me his

wallet,” the saloon-keeper ordered. “And don’t try

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J. T. Edson

to look shocked or innocent. I heard from Austin

and know why you left town.”

“Oh!” said Calamity flatly, not quite sure how

she ought to react.

“You don’t need to worry about that here, ei-

ther. As long as you only do it when I tell you. Go

to it and lift his leather for me.”

“Yes’m,” said Calamity.

Yet she felt worried by the assignment even

though it presented her with a chance to gain Ella

Watson’s confidence. Calamity remembered

Murat’s warning that she must not become a party

to any crime by actual participation. Even without

the warning Calamity would have shrunk from

stealing and did not want the young cowhand be-

lieving she was a thief.

At that moment Stan and his brother returned

and Ella drifted away. The two young cowhands

behaved in a more steady manner than Calamity

would have expected, knowing how most of their

kind acted when in the money. Although Stan and

Eddie bucked down to enjoying themselves, they

did not go beyond the ten dollars the elder brother

retained for his payment. Of course, ten dollars

could get a couple of cowhands reasonably drunk,

even when buying drinks for various friends.

“Ten o’clock, time we was riding, Brother

Eddie,” Stan remarked after bringing Calamity

from the dance floor.

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171

“Sure thing, big brother,” grinned Eddie. “See

you around Mousey.”

“Now me,” Stan stated, his arm around

Calamity’s waist, “I’ve got more good sense than

to pick up with a gal who’s got a feller. You-all

coming to see me on my way, Marty, gal?”

“I sure wouldn’t miss it for the world,” replied

Calamity.

Arm in arm, she and Stan left the room, with

Eddie following on their heels. Outside the young-

ster left his elder brother on the sidewalk while he

went to collect the horses. Slipping his arm around

Calamity’s waist, Stan looked down at her.

“Do I get a kiss afore I leave?” he asked.

“Not out here. Let’s go into the alley.”

“We’re on our way, Marty, gal.”

On reaching the shelter of the alley, Calamity

turned to face the young cowhand. Like she fig-

ured, he might be trying to sprout a moustache and

act all big and grown-up, but Stan lacked practical

experience in such matters. In her time Calamity

had been made love to by some prominent gentle-

men, the kind of fellers who could near on curl a

girl’s hair just by taking her in their arms. Stan did

not come into that class by a good country mile.

After fumbling for a moment, he got to slipping

his arms around her and brought his face to her

own. Calamity slid her arms between his and

around his body then burrowed her face to his,

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J. T. Edson

kissing him. And when Calamity set her mind to it,

she could kiss better than most gals with far

greater advantages in more formal education. One

thing was for sure, when Calamity started in to

kissing him, Stan could have been jabbed by a

sharp-rowelled spur and never noticed the pain.

While kissing, Calamity lowered one hand and

slid the wallet from Stan’s hip pocket. The very

ease with which she removed it made Calamity de-

cide to change her plans. On leaving the saloon she

had merely intended to give Stan a slight return for

a mildly enjoyable evening and then return to Ella

Watson with the story that the cowhand did not

give her a chance to lift his leather. Finding how

easy the removal was, Calamity changed her orig-

inal plan.

Just before she could put her plan into opera-

tion, Stan pulled his head away from her. Calamity

found herself in an embarrassing position, stand-

ing with the cowhand’s wallet in her right hand. Of

course, he could not see the hand, but at any mo-

ment he might miss his wallet. So, like any good

general, Calamity decided the best defense would

be to attack.

“Whooee!” she gasped. “You sure kiss up a

storm. When a gal’s been kissed by you, she sure

knows she’s been kissed.”

Which same coincided with what Stan had al-

ways suspected. “Want another?” he inquired.

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173

“What do you think?”

Once again Calamity kissed the cowhand. His

arms gripped her tightly, but she managed to ex-

tract the money from the wallet. Still holding

Stan’s attention, she slid the money into his pocket

and retained the wallet.

“Stan! Hey, Stan!” Eddie yelled, riding into sight

on the street and leading a second horse. “Let’s go.”

Releasing Calamity, Stan stepped back. Just in

time Calamity slipped her right hand behind her

back so he could not see the wallet it held. Stan

looked at the girl and grinned.

“Dang it, Marty,” he said. “I’ve got to go now.

Say, will you be here when I get back?”

“Sure will,” she agreed.

Turning, Stan headed for his horse and went

afork in a flying mount. A wild cowhand yell left

his lips and he put the pet-makers to his horse’s

flanks. With a few more whooping yells, the

brothers galloped out of town. Calamity watched

them go, a grin on her face. Quickly she slipped the

wallet into the front of her dress and walked back

to the saloon.

“Did you get it?” Ella asked as Calamity walked

over to her.

“Sure. Where’d you want me to give it to you?”

“In the office. Come on.”

Following the saloonkeeper, and with Maisie

and Phyl on her heels, Calamity went into Ella’s of-

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J. T. Edson

fice; a small room with a desk, a couple of chairs

and a safe, and used for general saloon business.

Taking out the wallet, Calamity handed it to Ella,

wondering what would come next.

“What’s this?” Ella snapped as she opened the

wallet and stared at its denuded interior. “It’s empty!”

“Empty!” said Calamity, Phyl and Maisie;

Calamity in well simulated surprise, Phyl in a star-

tled tone, and Maisie with a mocking glance at the

red-headed boss girl.

“All right, Marty!” Ella hissed. “Strip off!”

“Huh!” Calamity gasped.

“Come on, you know what the boss means!”

Maisie snapped, delighted to have scored on Phyl,

for the red-head was the one who took the new girl

to see Ella.

“All right, don’t get mean!” Calamity yelped.

“So search me! How was I to know it was empty?

I couldn’t look in it with him watching, and I’d be

crazy to try lifting the cash then bringing an empty

wallet.”

“She’s got a good point there, boss,” Phyl put in.

“Or maybe she’s just smart,” sniffed Maisie.

“Peel off, girlie, or I’ll do it the hard way.”

Normally such a threat would have been met ea-

gerly by Calamity, but she held down her desire to

jump the buxom brunette and hand her a licking.

Giving a shrug, Calamity peeled off the dress and

stood clad in a combined chemise and drawers

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175

outfit, stockings and shoes—and with the Reming-

ton Double Derringer, borrowed from Captain

Murat, in a garter holster. Calamity had hoped to

keep her armament hidden from the other saloon-

girl’s eyes but knew her secret was out. All three

women looked at the gun, yet none seemed con-

cerned by it.

“You don’t need that here,” Ella remarked, nod-

ding to the Derringer.

“I wouldn’t reckon you’d have any virtue to de-

fend,” Maisie went on, giving Calamity’s dress a

thorough search. “I’ll do that.”

The last came as Phyl started to examine the rest

of Calamity’s clothing as it was removed. An angry

red flush crept to Phyl’s face at the words.

“Don’t you trust me?” she hissed and made no

attempt to put down the garments she held.

“Check the Derringer’s got nothing but bullets

in it, Maisie,” Ella interrupted. “Phyl, go ahead

with the underwear.”

While she encouraged the rivalry between her

two boss girls, Ella had no intention of allowing

them to decide once and for all who had the higher

social standing by means of a fight. Knowing that

hell had no fury like an annoyed or humiliated

woman, Ella preferred to let them simmer than

have one embittered by defeat and maybe looking

for revenge by talking of the saloon’s other busi-

ness to interested parties.

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J. T. Edson

“Nothing,” Ella said after the check. “No hard

feelings, Marty, but you know how it is.”

“Sure, boss. I’m sorry I didn’t do better. Why’d

you think he had something in his wallet?”

“Just a hunch. It looks like he either changed

places, or let Eddie hold the money when they went

out back. Young Stan’s smarter than I thought. Go

back out front and do some work, Marty.”

After Calamity left the office, Maisie scowled at

Phyl and asked, “Do you reckon she could have

hid the money outside before she came in?”

“And bring in the empty wallet?” scoffed Phyl.

“She’d need to be real dumb to even think about it.

Anyway, we heard those cowhands ride by just be-

fore she came in. Stan must have changed the

money while he was outside, like the boss said.”

“Sure. I think Marty’ll work out right for us,”

Ella stated. “Let’s get out and see if there’s any-

thing happening.”

“We lost some money,” Maisie pointed out.

“I lost some,” Ella corrected. “Don’t worry,

we’ll get it back later.”

Out in the bar room Calamity joined Mousey

and found the little girl bubbling with curiosity

about the reason for the visit to Ella’s office.

“It wasn’t much,” Calamity answered. “The

boss just wanted to know if I’d settled in all right.”

“Oh! I thought you might have been in trouble.

Did you see Stan and Eddie off?”

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177

“Yep,” Calamity smiled. “I reckon I did.” Then

a thought struck her. “Say, when do I get to meet

this Tommy of yours?”

“He’ll maybe come in tomorrow,” Mousey

replied. “Hey, if he brings Danny Forgrave in,

maybe you and him can make up a foursome with

us. You’ll like Danny, he’s a real nice boy.”

Thinking of the night in the Jones cabin beyond

Austin, Calamity smiled. “I reckon I might at that.”

She figured Danny would take the opportunity

to come to town with Tommy and that ought to

give them a chance to get together and discuss

what they each had learned so far.

Chapter 11

MISS CANARY INVOLVES MR. FOG

5 %

Danny Fog could not truthfully admit to

making any progress in the few days spent on the

Caspar County ranges. Even with his findings of

the first day, he might have been no more than an

ordinary drifting cowboy who stopped off at the

Bench J for work, for he knew little more about the

cow stealing than when he arrived.

Clearly Ed Lyle regarded Danny as being all

right when the foreman returned from tracking the

remaining cow thief, then back-trailing Danny to

establish that the young man had told the truth

about coming from Austin City way. The foreman

could find no sign that Danny had come from any

other direction and so was prepared to treat him as

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179

he would any other hand. As to the other matter,

Lyle told Danny that the cow thief’s tracks disap-

peared on to the Rock Pile, a large, barren rocky

area on the edge of the county and over which fol-

lowing tracks was impossible.

During the next few days Danny rode the ranges

and performed the routine work of a cowhand.

His skilled use of the borrowed cutting-horse when

working cattle lulled any remaining suspicions the

foreman might have held, for a cutting-horse was

a specialist animal and the fact that Danny pos-

sessed one tended to make his pose as a drifting

cowhand more acceptable. Mostly Danny worked

with Tommy and from the youngster learned much

about the affairs of the county. Tommy told Danny

how, soon after the stealing became noticeable,

Turk Stocker had the other ranchers search his

spread on the Rock Pile but they found only his

runty, poorly-fed stock on it. So they concluded

that the cow thieves ran their stolen animals on to

the Rock Pile to make tracking impossible, then

could go in any direction to wherever they sold

their loot. While Tommy admitted he did not care

for Soskice, he said the lawyer had his uses when

the sheriff picked up one of the boys. Simmonds

appeared to be regarded as a harmless nuisance

hired by the town to keep cowhand horse-play in

bounds. Of Sammy and Pike’s behavior before

their deaths, Tommy said little. It appeared that

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J. T. Edson

Sammy found his “love” for Dora came real ex-

pensive, far more so than a cowhand could afford

and that Pike, like the good friend he was, did

what he could to further his amigo’s romance.

Only small things came out of Danny’s talks with

Tommy, yet they helped him build up a better pic-

ture of the situation in Caspar County.

When the story of how Danny stood up to the

deputy and Ed Wren made the rounds, and of how

he rode the Rafter O’s bay reached the ears of the

other hands, he found himself regarded as being

quite a feller. The feeling pleased him, for this time

he had made the grade without anybody thinking

of him as Dusty Fog’s kid brother and treating him

to secondhand respect on that relationship.

However, when Saturday arrived, little had been

done to either prevent the cow stealing or find the

folks behind it. No further losses had been discov-

ered and none of the crew went out at night to do

the necessary riding needed to locate brand and de-

liver the stolen animals.

“Are you coming into town tonight, Danny?”

Tommy asked as they rode toward the Bench J’s

main buildings on Saturday afternoon.

“Reckon so. I’ve some money just itching to be

spent. Are you fixing to see your gal tonight?”

“Sure am. Why don’t you get one?”

“Me? Way I see it, Tommy, amigo, ain’t but the

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181

one thing worse’n getting left afoot, and that’s

tying in with a good woman.”

“Compadre,” Tommy replied soberly, “you’ll

never know how wrong you are until you’ve tried it.”

“Tell you then,” grinned Danny. “Happen I find

a real nice gal. I’ll think about trying it.”

After a meal in the cookshack, the two young

men joined the other hands at washing, shaving

and generally preparing for a trip to town. Such an

occasion called for one’s better clothing and the

use of one’s go-to-town horse; this latter being se-

lected for its good appearance rather than any abil-

ity for working purposes. Once prepared, the

hands mounted their horses ready for the ten-mile

ride to town.

A fair crowd had already gathered in the Cattle

Queen when the Bench J crew arrived. Jerome left

his hands to attend to a few pieces of business

around town, and some of the crew went to deal

with personal affairs, but Danny and Tommy

headed for the saloon.

“Hey, Maisie!” Tommy called as he entered and

looked around the bar room. “Where-at’s my gal?”

“Not down yet,” Maisie replied. “Set a spell,

she’ll be along.”

“Go grab a table, Tommy,” Danny suggested.

“I’ll fetch in the drinks.”

While waiting for Mousey to make her appear-

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J. T. Edson

ance, Danny and Tommy sat at a table and drank

beer. Danny looked around for some sign of

Calamity, yet she did not appear to be present.

Pointing out various people in the room, Tommy

named them for Danny’s benefit. At last the young-

ster nodded to a pair of men sitting at a table be-

tween them and the stairs leading to the saloon’s

private quarters.

“That’s Turk Stocker and his foreman, Dutchy

Schatz,” Tommy remarked. “How the hell they

manage to make that spread up on the Rock pile

pay, I can’t figure.”

Danny glanced at the men. Both appeared to be

tall, Stocker slim and with a whisker-stubbled face,

Schatz heavier built, with close-cropped hair and a

scarred face that looked tough and mean. Each

man wore a gun in a contoured holster and dressed

a little more prosperously than might be expected

for the boss and sole hand of a run-down ranch in

a most unsuitable area. From the little Danny had

seen of the Rock Pile, it would prove mighty use-

less for profitable cattle-raising and be unlikely to

provide more than a bare living for its owner. Of

course, Stocker could have a side-interest such as

hiding wanted outlaws to account for his wealth.

Danny decided a visit to the Stocker spread might

be worthwhile before his identity as a Ranger be-

came known.

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183

Even as Danny made his decision, he saw

Mousey and another girl enter the room. Only

when he took a second and longer look did Danny

recognize Calamity and he decided his fears that

she might have been recognized were groundless.

Following the direction of Danny’s gaze, Tommy

grinned broadly.

“Hey, Mousey’s done got company. Look’s a

right nice gal, too.”

“Sure does,” Danny agreed.

However, before the girls could arrive at the two

cowhands’ table, they had to pass where Stocker and

Schatz sat. After eyeing the girls up and down, Schatz

shot out a hand and caught Mousey by the arm.

“Hi, there, Mousey, gal,” he greeted in a harsh,

guttural voice. “Sit down and have a drink.”

“I’ve already got one ordered,” Mousey replied,

trying to pull her hand free.

“What, beer with some fool kid?” growled

Schatz. “You can do better than that, little gal.”

“You let me go!” Mousey yelped.

Tommy’s chair went flying backward as he came

to his feet and shot across the room. At the bar Ella

caught questioning glances from her two bouncers

and Ed Wren but shook her head. Things were a

mite slow and Ella knew that nothing livened up a

Saturday evening better than a fight, provided it

did not get out of hand and she doubted if one be-

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J. T. Edson

tween the burly Schatz and young Tommy would

go too far.

“Get your cotton-picking hands offen her,

Schatz!” Tommy yelled as he rushed forward.

While Tommy did not lack guts, he showed a

considerable amount of poor judgment in his

method of attack. Schatz thrust himself to his feet,

still holding Mousey with his left hand. Even be-

fore Tommy could land a blow, the burly man’s big

fist shot out. Running in added force to a power-

ful blow and Tommy went down like a pole-axed

steer.

“Tommy!” Mousey screeched and landed a kick

on Schatz’s shin with enough force to make him

howl and release her. “Tommy!” she repeated and

dropped to her knees at the youngster’s side.

“Why you little whore!” Schatz snarled and

started to move forward. “I’ll——!”

“Get your lousy, buffalo-mange stinking, gut-

turning self away from her, lard-guts!” Calamity

spat out. Lacking her whip, she reached for the

neck of the nearest bottle as a means of defense.

Before Calamity could lay hands on the weapon,

Schatz turned and caught her by the arm. “I likes

a gal with spunk,” he told her.

“You like licking kids, too,” a cold voice cut in.

Slowly Schatz turned, pulling Calamity around

after him. In that he might have counted himself

lucky, for Calamity had just been preparing to

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185

drive up her knee into his lower regions hard

enough to chill down his milk for a spell. However,

she refrained as she saw the speaker and hoped

that Danny had learned fighting in the same school

as his elder brother; because if he had, mister, that

unwashed, square-headed, bristle-haired, no-

account hard-case was sure as hell due for a real

Texas-size shock.

“My, the cowhands are sure snuffy tonight,”

said Schatz and shoved Calamity away from him,

then launched a blow straight at Danny’s head.

Only this time he struck at a different proposi-

tion to his previous challenger. Danny might not be

much older than Tommy, but bore the advantage

of training at the hands of masters of the art of

rough-house brawling.

Up came Danny’s left hand, but he did not

clench his fist. With the open palm he slapped

Schatz’s driving-out right arm in a snappy motion

which deflected it away from him. Instantly

Danny ducked under the deflected punch and

took a short step forward with his left foot so as

to halt slightly behind Schatz’s back. At the same

time Danny brought up his right arm, across

Schatz’s body to grip the burly man’s shirt at the

right shoulder. Pushing hard on to the shoulder

with his hand, Danny hooked his right leg behind

Schatz’s left calf and thrust with it. The moves

took Schatz by surprise. He gave a startled yell as

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J. T. Edson

his feet left the floor and he went over to land on

his back.

Calamity gave a sigh of relief. It appeared that

Danny had learned fighting at the same source as

did his illustrious elder brother. From the expres-

sion on Schatz’s face as he came up from the floor,

Calamity figured Danny was likely to need all the

learning he could lay hands on.

Watching Danny’s fists come up, Schatz charged

at the blond Ranger with big hands raised to grab.

Only he fell into the trap Danny laid for him.

Danny did not figure to try using his fists against

the bigger man—not until after setting Schatz up

for them.

Suddenly and unexpectedly Danny raised his left

leg and drove it out to land a stamping kick on the

other’s kneecap, bringing Schatz’s rush to a sudden

halt. Even as agony knifed through Schatz and he

bent to clutch at the injured knee, Danny threw a

right-hand punch. It landed hard and with preci-

sion on the side of Schatz’s jaw and the big man

crashed to the floor again. Spitting out curses and

blood, Schatz jerked the Colt from his holster but

did not get a chance to use it. Danny leapt forward

and stamped down with his left foot. A cowhand’s

boots carried high heels designed to spoke into the

ground and hold firm while roping cattle or horses

on foot. Human flesh being less hard, it did not

stand up well to the impact of a boot heel smash-

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187

ing down upon it. Schatz let out a screech of pain,

lost his hold on the Colt and jerked up into a sit-

ting position. Like a flash, Danny kicked up with

his other leg. The boot toe caught Schatz under the

jaw, snapping back his head and slamming him

down again. This time he did not look like he

would be getting up to make more trouble.

“Hold it, Stocker!” a voice boomed.

Hearing the order, and the accompanying click

as a gun came to full cock, Stocker froze. He had

only half rose and his hand still gripped the butt of

his gun, but a glance at the main doors of the sa-

loon told him the futility of going further. Holding

his Remington ready for use, Jerome stood just in-

side the doors and Lyle leaned a shoulder against

the door jamb at his boss’s side.

“Who cut you in, Jerome?” Stocker growled.

“Danny there rides for me,” answered Jerome.

“What happened?”

“I’d say that Schatz just got round to picking the

wrong feller,” Lyle remarked calmly, looking to

where Danny stood over the burly hard-case.

Ella Watson knew better than allow such a situ-

ation to develop too far. So she thrust herself from

the bar and walked across the room, taking care

not to come into the line of fire.

“All right, boys,” she said. “The fun’s over.” Her

eyes went to Stocker and she went on, “I’ve told

you before about Schatz abusing the boys.”

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J. T. Edson

“Looks like he picked on one as didn’t take to

being abused,” Lyle drawled and walked to where

Mousey helped Tommy to rise. “You all right,

boy?”

“Just about,” Tommy answered and felt his jaw.

“Where’s he at?”

“Sleeping. Got his-self all tuckered out,” grinned

the foreman.

Seeing that nothing more of interest would come

from the situation, the occupants of the room re-

sumed their interrupted pleasures. Jerome watched

Ella’s bouncers haul Schatz from the room, then he

turned to Ella and asked what started the fuss.

“It wasn’t Danny here’s fault,” she replied,

“Schatz started to rough-handle Mousey and

Tommy, then Danny cut in. That boy’s some

fighter. Dirty, but good.”

“Always reckoned it’s better to fight dirty and

win, than fair and get all licked, ma’am,” Danny

put in and turned to Calamity. “Say, how’s about

taking a drink with me, Red?”

“Right with you and the name’s Marty, not

Red,” she replied.

Watching the two walk away, Ella decided that

an efficient young man like Danny Forgrave ought

to be a valuable asset to her organization. Of late

there had been a considerable amount of inde-

pendence building at Stocker’s end and she guessed

that the rancher might be figuring he could run the

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189

business without her aid. Wren could take Stocker,

but lacked the experience in cattle matters to han-

dle the holding of the stolen stock. Given the right

kind of bait, say plenty of money, that blond Texas

cowhand might make an ideal replacement should

Stocker go too far.

For a time Calamity and Danny celebrated in

typical cowhand-saloon-girl style, helped by

Mousey and Tommy. They had a few drinks, tried

the gambling games with Tommy winning a few

dollars, danced and generally enjoyed themselves.

Ella watched it all, noting the way “Marty” per-

suaded Danny to spend more and more on her. The

girl had the right idea and it seemed that Danny

was struck on her. This showed in the way he

blocked any other customer’s request that the girl

danced or joined him. So Ella watched and waited

for a chance to speak with her latest employee

away from the crowd.

Ella’s chance came when Calamity and Mousey

left the room to go out back. On their return, the

girls found their boss waiting in the rear passage

behind the bar room. Telling Mousey to go on in,

Ella kept Calamity with her.

“You’re handling that cowhand real well,

Marty,” she said as Mousey went through the door

to the bar room.

“Shucks, that’s no problem. He reckons I’m the

only gal in the world and wants to prove it.”

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J. T. Edson

“Keep him going. I want him broke, but eager to

come back for more.”

“Sure, boss. Say, he wants to go to the cabin

with me for the night.”

“Take him up on it and sting him for ten bucks.

If you can get any more than that off him, it’s

yours.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Calamity said eagerly and turned

to go.

Shooting out a hand, Ella caught Calamity’s arm

and stopped her. “Don’t act stupid, Marty. No

rolling him or anything like that. I want him com-

ing back here all hot and eager for another session.

Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

While Mousey did not go to the cabin with the

customers herself, she had a fair idea of what went

on in it. She wished that Marty would not go, but

made no objections when her new friend left with

Danny. Sighing, the little girl looked at Tommy and

wondered whether she ought to make an exception

in his case, then decided against it as they could

not afford the money Miss Ella insisted was paid

for the loan of a room.

“We’re going to have to play this straight,

Calam,” Danny remarked as he entered the dimly-

lit cabin and located the room allocated to them.

“Reckon we are,” she agreed with a grin. “I won-

der how much can be heard in the other rooms?”

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191

“I don’t know, but let’s hold our voices down.”

Calamity stripped off her dress and sat on the

edge of the bed to peel the stockings from her legs.

There was not much room in the section allocated

to them and the window had heavy drapes cover-

ing it. Danny blew out the lamp and blackness de-

scended on the room.

“How’s it going, Calam?” he asked, holding his

voice down.

“Fair. I don’t figure they know me or think I’m

anything but what I say I am. And I know how

they get the cowhands involved. Fact being, I’m

supposed to be involving you right now.”

“That figures. Young Sammy was caught like it.

He was one of the pair Gooch gunned down.”

“I know,” Calamity grunted. “Had words with

his grieving sweetie, only she wasn’t grieving until

after I got through with her.”

“Know anything more?”

“Not much. Ella’s in this real deep, likely behind

it. She slips out of the saloon at nights, and some-

times in daylight, dressed in man’s clothes and goes

off some place.”

“Does huh?” said Danny.

His interest sounded plain in his voice and

Calamity tried to see him in the blackness of the

room. “What’s that mean?”

Quickly Danny explained his findings when he

located the bodies of the two cowhands, then of

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J. T. Edson

the circumstances surrounding Gooch’s death. He

mentioned the fact that the bounty hunter’s gun

had been in its holster; and also about the third

cow thief, the one who escaped death at Gooch’s

hands.

“What do you reckon about that?” he asked.

“Same as you,” Calamity replied. “Gooch

wouldn’t’ve gone up to any man with his gun still

in leather, but he might to a woman. I could say

she done good for the world if it was her who

downed Gooch.”

“Maybe,” Danny drawled. “Only don’t let that

stop you finding out all you can. The sooner we

nail this business shut the happier I’ll feel. Tempers

are a mite high about Sammy and Pike. Comes pay

day and the Forked C getting to town at the same

time as the Bench J, there might be trouble. The

boys are sore enough to start it. Say, do you see

much of that lawyer?”

“He comes around visiting with the boss. I don’t

know how he figures in the game though. Reminds

me of somebody, only I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Looks and sounds like one of them radical Re-

publicans who used to run with Carpetbag Davis’

bunch,” Danny remarked.

“You hit it!” Calamity whooped.

The next instant Danny’s hand clamped over her

mouth. “Hold it down, hot head!” he growled.

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193

“Sorry, I forgot,” she whispered when he moved

his hand. “That Soskice acts and talks like that

cuss who was strangling the gals early this year in

New Orleans. He was one of Henry George’s

bunch, them Socialists or whatever they call them-

selves and Soskice carries the same brand.”

“Then why’s he down here?” Danny mused.

“They hate the guts of us Southern folks and I can’t

see one of ’em coming down here to live unless he’d

good reason. We bust up the best reason when we

run Carpetbag Davis’ bunch of scum out.”

“I’ll watch him, see what I can learn. Say, how

do we play this lot between you and me?”

“Just how Ella Watson wants it. I’ve been trying

to make her think I’m a young hard-case with a

yen for money and who isn’t too particular how he

gets it.”

“You’ve done it,” Calamity told him. “I’ve got

to lead you on, get you all broke and eager for

more of me. Then she’ll move in, or I miss my

guess.”

“Then that’s how we’ll play it,” drawled Danny.

“What’re we going to do right now?” inquired

Calamity, sliding into the bed.

For a moment Danny did not reply, then he said,

“Well, I have paid my ten bucks.”

“Danged if I ever afore got paid for that, ” re-

marked Calamity.

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J. T. Edson

Half an hour passed before either spoke again.

“Say, Calam,” came Danny’s voice.

“Yeah?”

“How in hell do I mark down that ten dollars on

my expenses?”

Chapter 12

I WANT TO STEAL SOME OF YOUR

CATTLE

5 %

By Tuesday Danny figured he had set things

up to the point where Ella Watson would make

him an offer. He spent the night with Calamity on

Saturday and took the girl along with Mousey and

Tommy on a picnic the following afternoon. Mon-

day evening found him in town again, watched by

a worried Mousey as he spent money on Calamity

and the redhead urged him to extravagance. All in

all, Danny gave a good impersonation of a lovesick

young cowhand making a big play for a money-

hungry saloon-girl.

Ella Watson walked across the room on Tuesday

evening and looked down at Danny as he sat

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J. T. Edson

moodily staring into a glass of beer. Knowing the

signs, she came to a halt and smiled at him.

“Hi there,” she greeted. “You look like a man

with worries.”

“Reckon I am, ma’am,” he replied. “Where-at’s

Marty?”

“She’ll be down soon. How serious are you

about her?”

“Mighty serious, ma’am. She’s a real nice gal.”

“But expensive. A girl like Marty is used to liv-

ing high on the hog, Danny.”

“Yes’m.”

“Short of money, are you?” asked Ella sympa-

thetically.

“Not short, ma’am. Flat busted.”

“The trouble is that Marty likes money spent on

her,” the saloonkeeper went on, glancing to where

Stocker sat by the door. “That’s the way we women

are. She loves you, of course, but a girl has to live.”

“Reckon so, ma’am. Trouble being, a cowhand’s

pay don’t go far.”

“I know. Well, I’ve work to do. If you want an-

other drink, Danny, tell Izzy to let you have what

you feel like and pay me back when you’ve some

money.”

“Gee, that’s swell of you, ma’am,” Danny an-

swered. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Just keep Marty happy is all you need do,” she

smiled and walked away.

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197

Although Ella did not go near Stocker, Danny

saw her nod to the man and then walk into her of-

fice. A few seconds later Stocker rose and slouched

out of the main doors. For half an hour nothing

more happened. Danny crossed to the bar and

gave the bartender Ella’s message, then asked for

another bottle of beer. He took his seat again, sip-

ping the beer and idly smoking.

The batwing doors opened and Danny saw

Stocker and Soskice enter. Crossing the room, they

halted at his table.

“Mind if we join you?” Soskice asked.

“Feel free,” Danny replied, glancing first at the

lawyer then looking hard in Stocker’s direction.

“But I thought——”

“Hell, I had to stand by Dutchy,” Stocker inter-

rupted. “He rides for me and comes cheap. Mind,

I admit he’s a mean cuss when he’s likkered.”

“Sure!” Danny grunted.

“Liked the way you handled him, though. Have

a drink to show there’s no hard feelings.”

“Couldn’t buy you one back,” Danny warned.

“Don’t expect it. I know having a gal keeps a

young feller short of cash.”

“It sure as hell does,” agreed Danny, wondering

why the lawyer sat in on the deal and waiting to

find out.

Both men bought Danny a couple of drinks

without bringing up anything more than casual

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J. T. Edson

conversation. So Danny decided to put out a cou-

ple of feelers and see if he could stir anything up.

“You fellers being so friendly and neighborly, it

sure riles me that I got to wait to pay day afore I

can repay you.”

“Reckon you’d like to earn a mite more, afore

then?” Stocker asked.

“I sure as hell would.”

“Look, boy,” the rancher said, dropping his

voice. “I got crowded up on the Rock Pile because

the big ranchers took all the good land. A fair

number of my cattle stray down there. I’d pay well

for any you found and brought back.”

“How’d I know which was yours?” asked

Danny.

“If they’d got the Bradded S brand on ’em,

they’d be mine.”

“Shucks, I’ve not seen any Bradded S stuff on

our range,” Danny groaned.

“How about unbranded stuff?” the rancher in-

quired.

“You mean unbranded Bench J stock?”

“Under the law, Danny,” Soskice put in, “an un-

branded animal is property of the man who lays

his brand on it.”

“Is that the legal law?” asked Danny, wide-eyed

and eager.

“It sure is,” agreed the rancher. “Hell, I bet all

the ranchers have branded dozens of mine. You’ll

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199

only be helping me get my own back. It’d be jus-

tice and I’d pay you five dollars a head.”

“I’ll just bet you would,” Danny drawled, a

crafty glint coming into his eyes. “I risk a rope for

five dollars a head, when you’ll likely sell them for

thirty. Mister, I may be——”

“Hold your voice down!” Soskice hissed. “You

want money——”

“Not bad enough to risk a hemp bandana for

that price.”

“You risked it when you rode the Rafter O’s

bay,” Soskice pointed out, silencing Stocker’s

angry growls with a wave of his hand.

“Sure, but for a damned sight more than you’re

offering,” Danny answered. “I’ll sell at ten dollars

a head, no less.”

“Ten doll——!” began Stocker.

“All grown beef. Got me twenty head located right

now, not a brand on ’em and ready for picking.”

Suspicion glinted in Stocker’s eyes. “How the

hell——”

“Shucks,” drawled Danny. “Word’s got around

about the cow stealing up here. Why’d you reckon

I come. I figured sooner or later I’d tie in with the

right folks. Where’d you want ’em bringing?”

Stocker and Soskice looked at each other, then a

grin creased the rancher’s face. “You’re a smart

cuss,” he told Danny. “Brand ’em someplace and

deliver ’em to Bowie Rock. Do you know it?”

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J. T. Edson

“That one with a top shaped like the clipped

point of a bowie knife, down by where the Talbot

River flows off the Rock Pile?” asked Danny.

“That’s the one. I’ll be there from midnight until

three in the morning tomorrow night. You deliver

the cattle and collect your money in town.”

“Can’t say I like that idea.”

“It’s the way we do it,” Stocker growled.

“And it’s better that way, Danny,” the lawyer

put in. “Safer too. If anybody sees you, you claim

you found the cattle straying. They can search

you and Turk and not find any money on you, so

they can’t prove you aimed to sell them to him.

And if your boss catches you coming in late and

wants to know where you’ve been, he’ll not find

you with more cash in your pockets than you

should have.”

“You fellers look like you’ve got it all worked

out,” Danny said admiringly.

“We sure have,” agreed the rancher. “Do you

want in?”

“Deal me in,” drawled Danny, glancing to

where Mousey and Calamity entered. I’ll see you

all tomorrow night.”

“What do you think?” Soskice asked as Danny

rose and walked to meet the two girls.

“He’s a slicker young cuss than I reckoned,” an-

swered the rancher.

“Too slick, maybe,” said the lawyer. “Of course,

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201

the ones who think they’re the smartest always fall

for a girl. Watch him, Turk, and if he makes a

wrong move, kill him.”

“Dutchy’d like the chance to do that,” the

rancher replied.

Danny managed to get Calamity alone long

enough to tell her of his progress, then he left the

saloon, collected his sabino and rode back to the

ranch. On his arrival, he put up the horse and

walked across to the main house.

“Like to see you, boss,” he said when Jerome

answered his knock on the front door. “Can you

take a walk down to the corral with me?”

One look at Danny’s face told the rancher that

something serious was afoot. So, without asking

any questions, Jerome stepped out of his house and

walked toward the corral at Danny’s side. Jerome

did not know what to expect. It could be that the

youngster had found some serious disease among

the stock and wanted his boss to hear of it in pri-

vacy. There might be any of a dozen other reasons

for the request. Never would Jerome have guessed

the real reason for Danny’s visit; and when he

heard, he could hardly believe his ears.

“I want to steal some of your cattle,” Danny re-

marked casually.

While noted for his skill as a poker player,

Jerome could not help coming to a halt and staring

at Danny.

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J. T. Edson

“Reckon you’d best take that again—slow,

Danny.”

Reaching into the concealed pocket built into his

gunbelt, Danny extracted his badge and held it so

Jerome could see the star in the circle. “I’m a

Ranger in Captain Murat’s company and was sent

up here to bust up the cow stealing.”

“Well, I swan!” swore the rancher. “You sure as

hell had me fooled.”

“And a few other folks—I hope,” drawled Danny

and went on to tell the rancher of his activities, in-

cluding the offer he received. “I want proof enough

to take the whole danged bunch into court, boss.”

“Then we’ll jump ’em when they take the cat-

tle,” Jerome suggested.

“It wouldn’t do any good. They’ll just claim they

know nothing and it’s two men’s word against

mine. I figure to learn where they hide the stock,

who they sell to and bring in the whole danged

bunch.”

“We’ll play it your way. Say, can I let Ed in on

this?”

“Sure,” Danny confirmed. “I’ll need help to

handle the stuff, too.”

“Don’t reckon me or Ed’d do for that,” grinned

the rancher.

“Or me. Can’t see them being dumb enough to

buy a rancher or his segundo becoming cow

thieves. I’ll take young Tommy.”

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203

“Tommy?”

“Sure. He’s got a good head and he’s steady

enough where Mousey’s not involved. If you’ve

still got those two running irons we found by

Sammy and Pike, I could use them, too.”

“I’ll see to it,” Jerome promised. “And anything

else you may need.”

The rancher proved to be as good as his word.

Next morning Danny, Tommy and Lyle rode out

on what appeared to be an ordinary routine ranch

chore, except that the two younger members of the

party each carried a running iron hidden under his

saddle-skirts.

During the ride Tommy listened with awe and

admiration as Danny told what he knew about the

cow stealing. Although Tommy had a cowhand’s

disrespect for local law enforcement officers, he

regarded the Texas Rangers as being something

real special and his admiration for Danny grew

rather than lessened on learning the other belonged

to that famous body of men. Eagerly Tommy

agreed to help Danny and listened carefully to his

instructions.

Being older, Lyle hid his feelings and merely re-

marked that he had figured all along that there was

more to Danny than met the eye. With his knowl-

edge of the range, Lyle took the others to where

groups of cattle grazed. Scanning the animals,

Danny’s party picked out and cut any unbranded

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J. T. Edson

grown beef they saw, hazing it ahead of them until

they drove twenty head before their horses.

“We’d best play this the right way,” Danny re-

marked. “Let’s use that hollow where the boys

were killed to do the branding.”

“Sure,” the foreman agreed. “I sure as hell never

figured I’d be using a running iron on the boss’s

cattle.”

“Or me,” Danny admitted. “Say, Ed, I’ve been

kicking a fool notion around in my head. Let’s

make sure we can identify our stock by running a

small Bench J where it won’t show, say under the

animal’s belly.”

“You’ve got a right smart notion,” the foreman

grunted.

Once down in the hollow where two men died,

the three cowhands set to work and branded the

stock. While Tommy held the cattle, Danny cut out

each animal in turn and led it to where Lyle kept a

fire burning and the running irons heated to a

glowing cherry-red. Showing his riding and roping

skill, Danny put the captured animal down. Lyle

hawg-tied it and then burned a prominent Bradded

S on the animal’s left hip and traced a smaller

Bench J under the belly where it would escape no-

tice unless specifically searched for. In range terms,

a brand was “something that won’t wash off,” so

the cattle carried a mark of legal ownership as well

as the cow thieves insignia.

Running Irons

205

The hidden brand, known as a “sleeper” became

a standard weapon in the war against cow thieves

in Texas and more than one light-fingered, wide-

looped gent met his just deserts through Danny

Fog’s “fool notion.”

Hard work and skilled handling saw all twenty

head branded before darkness fell. With the prepa-

rations made, Danny and Tommy left Lyle to carry

out the next part of their business; meeting Stocker

and selling their “stolen” cattle.

“Good luck,” the foreman said as they parted.

“We’ll likely need it,” Danny answered with a

grin.

Turning his horse, Lyle headed back in the di-

rection of the ranch to report to his boss that all

had worked out satisfactorily so far. Danny and

Tommy moved the cattle a couple of miles from

the hollow which held such painful associations

for the animals, then halted to wait out the time

until midnight.

“Do we take ’em tonight?” asked Tommy as

they mounted their horses ready to make for the

rendezvous.

“Nope. Not unless we have to. I want them all,

from top to bottom, not just Stocker and his

bunch.”

“All?”

“There’s more than just Stocker involved,”

Danny told him. “All we do is ride up, deliver the

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J. T. Edson

stuff and pull out. Then I’m going to trail Stocker

to where he hides it. Once we know that, we can

move.”

“You’re the boss,” grunted Tommy.

Shortly after midnight the two young men drove

their twenty head of cattle toward the rock shaped

like the clipped point of a bowie knife.

“Just act natural, Tommy, boy,” Danny warned

in a low voice.

“I’m as nervous as a hound-scared cat,” the

youngster groaned back.

“That’s how you should be,” Danny replied

with a grin. “This’s the first time you’ve ever done

any cow stealing. Can’t expect you to act easy on

it. Just follow my lead though—and don’t spook.”

As they drew closer to Bowie Rock, the two

young men saw a pair of shapes ride into view

from a clump of scrub oaks at one side of the out-

crop. Coming closer, the shapes turned into a rec-

ognizable Stocker and his bulky foreman, Schatz.

The burly man’s right arm looked unnaturally

white but Danny realized this to be caused by a

bandage around the place where his heel stamped

into flesh.

“Hold it!” Stocker growled suspiciously. “There’s

two of you.”

“Needed two to handle the branding,” Danny

replied. “Anyways, there’s two of you, too.”

“Who’s the other one?”

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207

“Tommy Fayne.”

Hearing Danny’s reply, Schatz growled some-

thing inaudible but Stocker spoke to cover the

sound.

“Allus figured you for a ‘saint,’ Tommy.”

“Reckoned I’d never get enough money saved to

marry Mousey by sticking to cowhand’s pay,”

Tommy replied.

Relief hit Danny as he heard Tommy’s response.

While the youngster’s voice sounded a mite

strained and odd, it held nothing to make the other

men suspicious. If they noticed the difference, they

would put it down to his nervousness at becoming

a cow thief. More than that, the youngster had

given the one reason which might turn a loyal cow-

hand into a cow thief; Stocker had seen at least

two other hands go the same way.

Everything appeared to be going the right way,

Danny decided—then Schatz, still smarting under

his defeat at Danny’s hands, damned nigh blew the

whole thing into the air. A nasty snigger left the big

hard-case at Tommy’s words.

“So you’re fixing to marry that——” Schatz

began.

“Call him off, Turk!” Danny interrupted before

the other could finish his insulting words. “If he

doesn’t stop, I’ll muzzle him. And you watch the

cattle, Tommy, we don’t want to lose ’em now.”

The low-spoken warning prevented Tommy

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J. T. Edson

spoiling the business at hand. Like Danny knew,

the youngster tended to get a mite hot-headed

where Mousey was concerned. Normally Danny

would have regarded the loyalty to a feller’s gal as

being praiseworthy and expect one to defend his

sweetheart’s honor; but he did not want Tommy

tangling with Schatz until after they had finished

their business.

Stocker also appeared to desire peace. Being a

businessman, if one engaged in an illegal business,

Stocker had an eye on his profit and loss account.

While he would be paying Danny double the price

given to the more naïve local hands, Stocker fig-

ured the young cowboy would be worth it. Even in

the darkness he could form some idea of the qual-

ity of the stock Danny brought for sale. The cattle

appeared to be two to three-year-old animals, ideal

for marketing and most likely Danny Forgrave

knew where more of them could be gathered. So

Stocker did not want trouble.

“Go get the lantern, Dutchy,” he ordered. “And

leave Tommy be, we don’t want any fuss. No of-

fense meant, Tommy.”

“None took, neither,” Danny answered for his

young friend. “You sounded a mite edgy when we

rode up, Turk.”

“So’d you be in my place. It don’t do to take

chances.”

“Sure admire to be working with a careful

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209

man,” Danny drawled. “We’ve only brought

twenty head this time.”

“Mind if I look ’em over?” asked the rancher.

“Feel free,” replied Danny.

Clearly Stocker had the cow stealing business

well organized. On his return from the clump of

trees Schatz carried a bull’s-eye lantern and di-

rected its light on the “stolen” stock. While a

longhorn was dangerous to a man afoot, one could

approach the animal while riding a horse without

any great risk. Closing on the twenty head, Stocker

examined their running iron brands in the light of

the lantern. Watching the two men, Danny felt ten-

sion mounting on him but held it in check. His

right hand rested on the butt of his off-side Colt,

for if Stocker discovered the sleeper brands under

the cattle’s bellies Danny reckoned he would need

a gun in a hell of a hurry. Across at the far side of

the small bunch of cattle, Tommy felt sweat trickle

down his face. The youngster twisted restlessly in

his saddle and looked toward Danny; but his nerv-

ousness attracted no attention for Stocker and

Schatz had become used to such a reaction from

the cowhands they dealt with when handing over

the stolen stock.

After checking each animal in turn, Stocker nod-

ded and Schatz closed the front of the lantern. The

rancher rode to where Danny sat his sabino and

nodded in approval.

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J. T. Edson

“They’ll do, Danny. We can use more stuff like

this, and I’ll keep paying you ten dollars a head—

only don’t mention it to anybody else.”

“You figure a fair profit for yourself, Turk,”

Danny replied.

“Hell, they don’t cost you anything. And I’ve

overheads to meet out of my end,” the rancher ob-

jected.

“Likely. Want Tommy and me to lend you a

hand to move them?”

“Nope. You’d best not be out too late, you don’t

want to get Buck Jerome all suspicious.”

Danny had not expected finding the hideout for

the stolen stock to be so easy and was not wrong,

however, a man always liked to try to smooth his

path if he could. So he went on with something he

must not forget to ask.

“How’ll I let you know when I’ve some more for

sale?”

“Go to the Cattle Queen. If I’m not there, leave

word with Miss Ella. Say you’ve found some of my

strays and want to deliver ’em. She’ll pass the word

to me and I’ll meet you here at around midnight

the following night.”

“Mighty obliging lady, Miss Ella.”

“Sure,” the rancher agreed, then went on just a

shade too quickly. “She don’t know a thing about

what I’m doing. When you go in ask her for the en-

velope the man left and she’ll give it to you. You’ll

Running Irons

211

find the money for this lot in it. Only don’t men-

tion any names.”

“I won’t,” Danny promised. “See you, Turk.”

Turning, Danny rode to where Tommy sat wait-

ing for him at the rear of the bunch of cattle. Just

as he reached the youngster, Danny heard the

drumming of hooves. Somebody was riding

through the night, coming in their direction at a

fair speed. One thing Danny knew for sure. The

newcomer would not be bringing news of joy and

good cheer for him and his young friend.

“Coming from town,” Tommy said in a low

voice, showing again how clear-headed he could be.

“Get set for trouble,” Danny replied, swinging

his horse to face the suddenly alert and suspicious

Stocker and Schatz.

“Stacker!” yelled the fast-riding shape as it drew

closer. “Danny Forgrave’s a Ranger. Get him!”

Chapter 13

HOLD HER UNTIL I GET BACK

5 %

Business was slack in the Cattle Queen. Only

Wally Stirton, boss of the Rafter O, a few of his

hands and a handful of townsmen used the bar

room. Calamity Jane and Mousey sat at a table

clear of the men, idly talking and waiting for cus-

tomers to arrive. Phyl crossed the room and came

to a halt by the two girls.

“Aren’t your fellers coming in tonight?” she

asked.

“Don’t look like it,” Calamity replied. “It’s gone

nine now and no sign of them. They’d’ve been in

afore this if they was coming.”

“Things are always quiet on Wednesdays,”

Mousey went on.

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213

At that moment the batwing doors opened and

a man entered, halting just inside to look around.

Yet he did not have the watchful caution of a hard-

case gun fighter who might find enemies inside and

wanted his eyes to grow accustomed to the bar’s

lights after coming from the darkness. Glancing at

the door, Calamity stiffened slightly; recognizing

Jake Jacobs, the pedlar who sold information to

peace officers. For a moment Jacobs stood at the

door, then he walked forward in the direction of

Phyl and the other two girls. Calamity felt Jacobs’s

eyes studying her with more than normal care.

Maybe he recognized her, although she doubted it.

As far as she knew, the pedlar left Austin before

she arrived, but he might remember her from some

other town. Calamity decided she must find out

what brought the man to Caspar.

“Where’s the boss, Phyl?” Jacobs asked, giving

Calamity another long, searching look then turn-

ing to the buxom redhead.

“Up to her office. You want to see her about

something important?”

“She’ll think so.”

Phyl studied the man for a long moment. Know-

ing that Ella was preparing to ride out and visit

Stocker, Phyl did not wish to disturb her boss.

However, Phyl knew that Jacobs often brought

news of importance and so decided to take him

upstairs.

214

J. T. Edson

“Let’s go see her then,” Phyl said. “Only she’ll

for sure blister your hide if it’s not important.”

Watching Phyl and Jacobs make for the stairs,

Calamity decided she must try to learn what

brought the pedlar to town. A couple of the

cowhands drifted over and asked Calamity and

Mousey to join them. Rising, Calamity told

Mousey to go ahead and she would sit in once she

had been upstairs to collect a handkerchief.

By the time Calamity reached the head of the

stairs she found that Phyl and the pedlar were just

entering Ella’s room. Calamity waited until the

door closed, then walked over and halted by it.

Glancing along the passage, she could see no sign

of life. However, she wished she knew where

Maisie might be as the big brunette had not been

in the bar room. Calamity did not wish to be

caught eavesdropping at Ella’s door, especially by

Maisie for the brunette disliked her due to her

friendship with Phyl. Seeing no sign of Maisie or

any of the other girls, Calamity placed her ear

close to the door and listened to the muffled, but

audible conversation inside. She only heard a few

words before deciding it had been a good idea to

come up and take a chance to discover Jacobs’s

business.

In the room Ella Watson sat behind the table and

looked at Jacobs with cold, speculative eyes. For

his part, Jacobs stared back with frank interest. On

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215

his arrival, Ella had been about to change into the

clothes she wore when riding the range on visits to

the stolen stock’s hiding place. At such a time Ella

wore men’s clothing with only a pair of drawers

beneath the shirt, levis, boots and jacket out of

sight and pulled on her robe. While this covered

her naked torso, it gave more than a hint of her

state of undress underneath.

“This’s private, Miss Ella,” Jacobs said, glancing

at Phyl.

“Likely,” the saloonkeeper replied. “Spit it out,

Jake, and put your eyes back in, it won’t do you

any good.”

“I got something to tell you,” the pedlar told

her, jerking his eyes away from the valley between

her breasts.

“I didn’t think you’d just dropped in to pass the

time of day.”

“Just come up from Austin way,” Jacobs went

on, not put out by her apparent lack of interest.

“So?” asked Ella calmly, although she did not

feel calm inside. The nearest company of Texas

Rangers had their base in Austin as she well knew.

“So I heard something as might interest the right

folks up here.”

“I’m busy and tired, Jake. Come to the point, or

let’s miss you?”

“I’m a poor man, Miss Ella,” the pedlar whined.

“Not like these cow thieves up this ways.”

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J. T. Edson

“Let’s have it!” Ella spat out, opening the table

drawer and taking out a five-dollar bill. “Damned

if I know why I’m bothering, but if you’ve some-

thing interesting you can have the five.”

“I hear tell Cap’n Murat’s sent a feller up here to

bust the cow thieves.”

“Why should that interest me?” Ella asked, try-

ing to keep her voice normal although her throat

felt dry and her body cold.

“No reason—’Cepting that if this feller does it,

you’ll lose a fair few good customers.”

“Hey——!” Phyl began.

“I see,” Ella interrupted.

Only with an effort could she hold her voice

even and Phyl’s obvious agitation drew a warning

scowl from Ella. Annoyance at the red-head’s reac-

tions stiffened Ella and enabled her to hide her true

feelings. Clearly the pedlar knew something. In

some way he must have learned that she ran the

cow-stealing organization. Yet he could not know,

unless—at that moment Ella remembered a remark

passed a few days before, about her bartender’s

friendship with Jacobs. Izzy must have sold her

out, either accidentally or deliberately. Well, that

matter could wait until later. More important right

now was to discover the identity of the man sent

by Captain Murat. Ella did not underestimate the

Texas Rangers. The trouble with a Ranger was

that he wore no uniform and kept his badge con-

Running Irons

217

cealed. There had been one new arrival in the area

who claimed to have come from down Austin way,

she recalled.

“All right,” she said. “Supposing I give a damn

for my customers! Who is this Ranger?”

“Like I said, ma’am——” Jacobs started to say.

“I know,” Ella cut in, “you’re a poor man.

Here’s twenty dollars. Who is he, Jake?”

There she had the pedlar, but he did not intend

to mention the point. While Jacobs had gathered a

vague rumor that a Ranger left town headed for

Caspar County, he could not learn which member

of Company “G” was assigned to the task. How-

ever, Jacobs could put two and two together so as

to come up with a reasonable answer.

“One of them fellers brought in Choya’s bunch

of Comancheros a few days back. Only he’s not in

town any more, left near on as soon as he come in.

I figure he’s the one.”

“And his name?” asked Ella.

“Danny Fog. He’s Dusty Fog’s kid brother.”

This time Ella could not hold down her startled

gasp. Danny Fog—Danny Forgrave—it must be

true. Ed Wren claimed that Forgrave reminded him

of the Rio Hondo gun wizard. So he would if he

was Dusty Fog’s younger brother.

“What does he look like?” she snapped.

“Tall, blond, youngish, not bad looking. Rode a

big sabino stallion last time I saw him.”

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J. T. Edson

“Forgrave!” Ella and Phyl said at the same

moment.

Even as they spoke the door of the room flew

open.

Calamity had just figured that she must find

some way of warning Danny of his danger when

she found she had troubles of her own. So inter-

ested in the conversation had she been, that she

forgot to stay alert. Maisie stepped from her room,

took in the sight and crept stealthily along the pas-

sage toward the listening Calamity. Instead of

hearing the gentle pad of bare feet, Calamity

missed the sound. The first knowledge she had of

Maisie’s presence being when one hand gripped the

scruff of her neck and another jerked her arm up

behind her back.

Dropping the hand from Calamity’s neck,

Maisie twisted on Ella’s door handle and pushed

open the door. Before Calamity could make a

move to prevent it, she was shoved into the room.

“What’s all this, Maisie?” Ella asked.

“I just caught her listening at the door, boss.”

Pain in her trapped arm, and a natural aversion

to being pushed around, caused Calamity to take

action. Lifting her foot, she stamped the heel down

hard on Maisie’s foot. The big brunette let out a

screech of pain and released Calamity’s arm, then

started to hop on her other leg, clutching at the in-

jured toes. Before Calamity could turn and take

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219

the matter further, Phyl leapt forward and pushed

her against the wall. Even as Calamity tensed to

throw herself into the attack, Ella rose, jerking

open the table’s drawer and bringing out the Rem-

ington Double Derringer which took Gooch’s life.

“Now just hold it right there!” the saloonkeeper

ordered. “Phyl, take her gun. Keep back, Maisie.”

The latter warning came as the brunette pre-

pared to hurl herself at Calamity and take reprisals

for the vicious stamp on her foot. Knowing her

boss’s temper, Maisie halted and watched, scowl-

ing and muttering to herself, as Calamity stood

still and allowed Phyl to pull up her skirt and re-

move the Derringer from its garter holster.

“She’s a liar, boss!” Calamity yelped, getting her

defense in before the attack began. “I’d only just

come up here.”

“She was listening, boss!” Maisie screeched.

“All right! Shut it, both of you!” Ella spat out.

Her fingers drummed on the table top, then she

frowned as she remembered that Calamity came to

town from Austin. “How many Rangers did

Murat send, Jake?”

“One. That Danny Fog like I told you,” the man

replied, staring at Calamity once more. “Say, I seen

that gal afore somewheres.”

“In the Golden Slipper at Austin, you skinny

goat!” Calamity snapped. “You come up here to

tell the boss how I got throwed out of town. I

220

J. T. Edson

knew you’d got me marked down from the minute

you come into the bar downstairs.”

“Hell, you saw the way he looked at me right

from when he come in, Phyl,” Calamity said, turn-

ing to the red-head.

“He sure did, boss,” Phyl agreed and glared at

Maisie as the girl gave a disbelieving sniff.

“How about it, Jake?” Ella inquired.

“Sure I looked at her. Thought I’d seen her

around someplace. Only I don’t reckon it was in

Austin.”

“Where’d it be?” asked Maisie, going back to

rubbing her aching foot.

“Sure it was Austin, you danged fool!” howled

Calamity. “You come here to tell the boss that I’d

been run out of town. I’ve heard about you.”

“What’ve you heard, Marty?” purred Ella,

watching the Jewish pedlar’s face rather than

studying Calamity’s expression.

“That he’d sell his own mother if he thought the

price was right,” Calamity replied. “Hell, I saw

him talking to Cap’n Murat down a back street in

Austin a couple of days before——”

“That’s a damned lie!” Jacobs screeched, and no

other word could describe the sound.

“Just stay right where you are, Jake!” Ella ordered,

swinging the Derringer in the pedlar’s direction.

“Hell, Miss Ella,” whined the pedlar nervously.

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221

“Murat only stopped me to ask about a gun I’d

tried to get for him.”

The pedlar did not make his words sound very

convincing and Ella’s suspicions deepened. If

“Marty” told the truth, Jacobs would just have

reached Austin after his visit to Caspar City. So he

might have been selling information which

brought Danny Fog to Caspar.

“All right, Jake,” Ella said. “I believe you. You’d

better get going and let me talk with Marty here.”

Turning, Jacobs hurried from the room. His one

desire was to collect his wagon and put as many

miles as possible between himself and Caspar City,

for Ella’s words had not fooled him at all.

“You letting him go, boss?” Maisie asked after

Jacobs left.

“Go get Wren,” replied Ella, which answered

the question after a fashion. When Maisie left the

room, Ella turned her eyes to Calamity. “I’m not

sure about you, Marty. Hold her until I get back,

Phyl.”

“Sure, boss,” Phyl replied. “Come on, Marty,

we’ll wait in my room.”

“Wait,” Ella ordered, rising and removing her

robe. “You saw a lot of Danny Forgrave, Marty.

Do you think he might be a Ranger?”

Calamity’s first instinct was to scoff at the idea,

then she decided not to appear certain. She figured

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J. T. Edson

Danny could take care of himself, and had her own

escape to think about.

“Seemed a mite slicker than most cowhands,”

she admitted. “Only I thought he was just more

crooked than most.”

Which just about coincided with Ella’s judgment

of Danny’s character. The saloonkeeper drew on

the man’s shirt, taken from its hiding place and

slipped into a pair of levis pants. Watching Ella,

Calamity remembered what Danny told her about

Gooch’s death. Calamity studied the bare flesh

under the shirt as Ella fastened its buttons and

formed her own conclusions.

A knock sounded on the door as Ella finished

buttoning the levis. She called “Come in!” looking

at Phyl and Calamity as Wren entered followed by

Maisie. “Take Marty to your room, Phyl,” Ella

went on.

“I’ll go with her,” Maisie growled.

Anger etched a scowl on Phyl’s face, but she did

not argue. Phyl and Maisie escorted Calamity to

their room, leaving Ella to give orders to the cold-

eyed hired killer.

Although she hid the fact, Calamity felt worried.

Danny Fog’s life hung in the balance and somehow

she must try to escape then warn him that his se-

cret had been sold out. Yet before she could do

anything, Calamity must escape from the two

buxom, powerful boss-girls. For once in her life

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223

Calamity knew fighting was not the answer. She

might be able to take one or the other girl, but not

both at once; and even against one of them, skilled

bar room brawlers that they were, she would be in

no condition to make a hard ride straight after the

fight.

The boss-girls shared a room slightly bigger, but

not much better equipped than the type used by

the ordinary female workers. On entering, Maisie

leaned her back against the door and stood scowl-

ing at Calamity. None of them spoke for almost

ten minutes. Calamity sat on the edge of Phyl’s bed

and the redheaded boss-girl crossed the room to

look out of the window.

“Girlie,” Maisie finally said, “I sure as hell hope

you don’t come up with the right answers.”

“Why?” asked Calamity. “So it’ll put Phyl in

bad with the boss.”

Turning from the window, after seeing Wren and

Ella leave by the side door, Phyl scowled across the

room at Maisie. Suspicion glowed in the red-head’s

eyes and she said:

“You may have something there, Marty.”

“Sure I have, Phyl,” Calamity answered, taking

her chance with both hands. “You’ve seen how

she’s always trying to put you in the wrong.”

“I don’t reckon I’m going to wait until the boss

gets back!” Maisie hissed and thrust herself away

from the wall.

224

J. T. Edson

Before Maisie could reach Calamity, Phyl

blocked her path. “You’ll leave her be, fatso.

She’s——”

Drawing back her arm, Maisie swung it, hand

knotted into a fist, against the side of Phyl’s cheek.

The blow landed hard, sending the buxom red-

head staggering. Maisie knew she had started

something she must finish with Phyl before at-

tempting to handle Calamity. So the brunette

hurled herself at Phyl and walked into a punch be-

tween the eyes which stopped her in her tracks.

The long pent-up hatred burst like a wrecked dam

wall and the two buxom women tore into each

other with flying fists, grabbing fingers, kicking

feet, oblivious of everything except for their dislike

of the other and desire to injure her as badly as

possible.

While Calamity would have liked to stay

through the fight and enjoy what looked like

being a hell of a brawl, she knew time would not

permit her to do so. Letting the two women be-

come fully engrossed in their hair-yanking brawl,

Calamity headed for the door and left the room.

She ran along the passage and into her own quar-

ters, closing its door behind her. Even while run-

ning along the passage, Calamity had been

stripping off the cheap jewellery. In the room, she

jerked off her dress and kicked aside her shoes.

Opening the cupboard door, Calamity lifted out

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225

the grip in which she brought her spare saloon-girl

clothing.

Before Calamity left Austin, a saddler worked all

night to fit a false bottom into the grip. Reaching

into the apparently empty grip, Calamity pulled up

the cover of the false bottom and lifted out her

normal clothing. The loss of her Derringer did not

worry her, for her gunbelt, Navy Colt and bull

whip all lay in the hidden cavity and Calamity had

managed to keep the gun clean even while working

in the saloon.

Outside Calamity’s room voices sounded. She

could guess what had happened. Hearing the

sounds of the fight between Phyl and Maisie, the

other girls were coming up to investigate. Moving

fast, Calamity drew on her shirt, then pulled the

levis pants on over her stockings. Her kepi and

moccasins came next, then she slung on the gun-

belt and when she thrust the bull whip into her

waistband, she felt at ease for the first time since

accepting this chore.

Most of the girls stood in the passage outside

Phyl and Maisie’s room and from the sounds be-

yond the door there had been little easing of the

fight. One of the chattering, excited girls happened

to glance in Calamity’s direction, then gave a yell

which brought every eye to the transformed red-

head. None of the girls made a move, but Dora

scowled and opened her mouth.

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J. T. Edson

“The name’s Calamity Jane, gals,” Calamity an-

nounced before Dora could say a word. “I’m

working with the Rangers to bust up this cow

stealing and I’ve no fuss with any of you.”

Most of the girls had nothing to lose by the

wrecking of the cow stealing organization and

anyway that bull whip looked a damned sight too

dangerous for them to start arguing. However,

Dora still hated Calamity for the humiliation

handed out on the red-head’s arrival. Now she saw

a chance to take her revenge.

“Get he——!” she began.

Once more Dora was interrupted. Mousey did

not know for sure what was happening, or why

her friend Marty dressed in men’s clothes and

claimed to be Calamity Jane. All the little blonde

knew was that she now had a good chance to tan-

gle with Dora and put Calamity’s self-defense les-

sons into use. Catching Dora by the arm, Mousey

turned her and brought across a punch which stag-

gered the bigger blonde back across the passage.

“Why you——” Dora hissed.

Down went Mousey’s head and she charged,

ramming Dora full in the middle of the body. In

her childhood, Mousey lived hard and still had

strong little muscles. These, backed by the lessons

Calamity gave her, enabled her to tangle with Dora

and make the bigger girl believe a bobcat had

jumped her.

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227

“Sic her, Mousey!” Calamity whooped. “And

use your fists like I taught you.”

The other girls let Calamity depart unhindered.

Unlike Mousey, Dora had never been popular, so

the girls saw no reason to halt what shaped up to

be a good fight; especially as Mousey appeared to

be getting the best of it.

Wally Stirton, boss of the Rafter O, his men and

the other customers gathered at the foot of the

stairs, listening to the screeches, yells and other

sounds of female brawling which drifted down.

Then the men stared as Calamity came into sight

and ran down the stairs toward them.

“What the hell?” Stirton growled. “Hey

Marty——”

“Get your boys on their hosses and lend me a

mount, Wally,” Calamity interrupted. “We’ve a

chance to bust up the cow stealing.”

Give him his due, Stirton threw off his surprise

and got moving without wasting time or asking

fool questions. He and his men headed for the

door on Calamity’s heels and the girl told him her

true identity, also of Danny’s danger.

“Lanky’s out back with one of the gals,” Stirton

drawled as they left the saloon. “Take his dun,

Mar—Calamity.”

At that moment the sheriff and his deputy came

running along the street. Calamity did not give

them time to start asking questions, but pointed to

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J. T. Edson

the saloon and yelled, “There’s a fight upstairs,

Sheriff!”

Then she and the Rafter O men hit their saddles.

Before the sheriff could ask any of the questions

which boiled up inside him, the entire bunch went

racing out of town. In the lead Calamity told Stir-

ton to head for Bowie Rock. She rode as never be-

fore. Knowing it to be a race against time—with

Danny Fog and Tommy Fayne’s lives hanging in

the balance.

Chapter 14

IT WON’T WORK THIS TIME, ELLA

5 %

Danny Fog and Tommy Fayne had one advan-

tage over Stocker and Schatz when Ella Watson

screamed out her warning. The two young men

knew they were fakes and both expected trouble as

soon as they heard the rapidly approaching horse

coming from the direction of town.

Even though Danny could not figure out how

Ella discovered his secret, he wasted no time in idle

speculation. Already he held a Colt in his right

hand for he had never professed to be real fast with

a gun and knew he could not match Stocker in a

straight draw-and-shoot fracas. Even as the

rancher heard the words, let out a startled curse

and grabbed for his gun, Danny went into action.

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J. T. Edson

“Yeeah!” Danny yelled and fired a shot into

the air.

Never the most stable and easily handled of an-

imals, even less so when newly branded and being

held against their will during the night hours, the

longhorns needed little encouragement to spook

and take to running. All twenty head heard the yell

and crash of the shot, then they went to running—

straight at Stocker and Schatz. While a longhorn

could be handled, under normal conditions, safely

enough from the back of a horse, that did not

apply right then. Both rancher and segundo took

one look at the wild-eyed, charging animals and

jumped their horses clear of the rush of scared

longhorns.

Cattle streamed by Stocker as he threw two

shots at Danny. Shooting from the back of a horse

had never been noted as an aid to accuracy, espe-

cially when using instinctive alignment, so the bul-

lets missed the Ranger. Danny fired in

return—only he took the extra split-second to raise

his Colt shoulder high and use the sights, and his

sabino stood like a statue under him. Flame licked

from the barrel of Danny’s Colt and the muzzle-

blast blinded him for an instant. When his vision

cleared, Danny saw Stocker pitching down from

his saddle. Even as he saw Stocker fall, Danny

heard the crackle of shots to his right.

Tommy had drawn his Colt even as Danny

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231

started the cattle running. Often Tommy day-

dreamed about becoming involved in a gun fight

and now he found himself tangled in a real shoot-

ing match. Buck-ague sent rippling shivers of ex-

citement through the youngster and his hand

shook at he threw up the Colt. Guns roared and

Tommy heard a flat “splat!” sound which he failed

to recognize as the cry of a close-passing bullet for

he had never heard one before. He saw the bulky

shape of Schatz charging at him and shooting as he

came. Only the fact that Schatz handled his gun

with his left hand saved Tommy from death. Three

times the burly man fired, his lead coming closer

with each successive explosion.

Pure instinct guided Tommy’s hand. He lined his

Colt, feeling his horse fiddle-footing nervously

under him and guessing the movement helped to

save his life. Tommy never remembered firing his

Colt. All he knew was that the gun roared and

bucked against his palm. Next moment Schatz

tilted backward, sending a bullet into the air, and

went down from his horse, landing under the feet

of Tommy’s mount and letting the gun fall from his

hand.

Tossing his leg over the sabino’s saddlehorn,

Danny dropped to the ground and moved toward

Stocker. The rancher had come to his knees, but

saw Danny approaching and noted the gun the

Ranger held. Remembering the lawman’s rule for

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J. T. Edson

dealing with such a situation, Stocker released his

injured right shoulder and raised his left hand hur-

riedly into the air.

“Don’t shoot, Ranger!” he yelled. “I’m done.

Hold your fire.”

The rancher appeared to be making more noise

than one would expect; or so Danny decided. With

every instinct alert and working full-time, Danny

soon discovered the cause of the noise. Dark

shapes moved out of the clump of scrub oaks from

which Stocker and Schatz had emerged. Even as

Danny saw the shapes, guns bellowed from them

and muzzle-blasts flared in the darkness—but not

aimed in his direction.

“Hit the ground, Tommy!” Danny yelled,

throwing two shots at the shapes and changing his

position as he fired.

Showing remarkable presence of mind consider-

ing it to be his first involvement in a corpse-and-

cartridge affair, Tommy left his saddle and lit down

on the ground. Although his horse spooked, it did

not go far with the reins trailing but came to a halt

a couple of hundred yards away. Crouching behind

a black mound, Tommy raised his Colt. Then he

realized that the hump hiding him was in reality

Schatz’s body. The man lay without a move.

“If you shoot, Tommy,” Danny called, rolling

over as he spoke and sending another shot at the

approaching men, “move straight after it.”

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233

Before Tommy could profit by Danny’s advice,

they heard more hooves thudding from the direc-

tion of Caspar City. So did their attackers. Coming

to a halt, the Stocker men read danger in the ap-

proaching riders, for they knew one set of hooves

could not make so much noise.

“Get out of here!” yelled a voice.

Not that the speaker needed to give any warn-

ing. Even before he yelled out his sage advice, the

others had turned and started to run back in the di-

rection from which they came. In his excitement

Tommy thumbed off two shots, but failed to make

a hit.

Stocker saw his hired help take a Mexican

stand-off and painfully dragged himself on to his

hands and knees after flattening down to allow his

men to shoot without fear of hitting him. Holding

his bullet-busted shoulder with his left hand, the

rancher prepared to make a dash for safety.

“Hold it right there, Stocker!” Danny barked,

coming to his feet and lining the Army Colt. “I

won’t tell you twice!”

Knowing that nobody would blame a Texas

Ranger for shooting down a cow thief, and not

being sure whether Danny would carry out the

threat or not Stocker came to a halt. Crashes and

the snorting grunts of disturbed horses told the

rancher that his men were going fast and that he

had no hope of escape.

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J. T. Edson

“All right,” he said. “I’m done.”

“Danny!” yelled a voice from the approaching

party. “It’s the Rafter O!”

“Come ahead,” Danny replied.

Bringing his horse to a halt, Stirton pointed off

to where the fleeing Stocker hands could be heard.

“Want for us to take after them?”

“Nope. They’ll not be back,” Danny answered.

“How’d you get here just at the right time?”

“That gal Marty told us you was a Ranger and

likely to need help. Say, she reckons she’s Calamity

Jane.”

“Don’t you going tell nobody now,” grinned

Danny. “But she is Calamity Jane.” He looked

around then went on, “Say where is she now?”

“Took off after one of the bunch who cut away

across the range. Sent us on in to help you.”

“Stay on here and tend to Stocker, Wally. I’ll go

look for her.”

“Is Stocker in on this stealing?” growled the

rancher, looking at the suddenly scared, wounded

man.

“Up to his dirty li’l neck,” replied Danny.

“Then we’ll hold him for you,” Stirton promised.

Something in the rancher’s voice brought Danny

to a halt as he started to turn away from Stirton.

“I want him alive when I get back,” Danny

warned. “You hear me?”

“Danged if you aint’ a spoilsport,” grunted Stir-

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235

ton. “He’ll be alive and kicking when you come

back.”

Turning, Danny walked to the waiting sabino

and swung into the saddle. He looked to where a

couple of the Rafter O hands stood over Schatz’s

body, one of them holding the bull’s-eye lantern

and directing its beam downward. Tommy stood

to one side and even in the feeble light Danny

could see the pallor of the youngster’s usually

tanned cheeks.

“He’s done,” said the hand with the lantern.

“Hit straight between his two eyes. Who got him,

Tommy?”

“Let’s ride, Tommy,” Danny put in before the

youngster could answer.

Tommy raised no argument. One of the Rafter

O hands had collected his horse and he swung into

the saddle.

“I’ll tend to things here, Ranger,” Stirton called.

“Need any of my boys?”

“Reckon me and Tommy ought to be enough,”

Danny replied. “Fix Stocker’s wing and put out

some guards in case his boys come back to try and

pry him free.”

For a time Danny and Tommy rode in silence.

Danny looked sideways at Tommy and guessed

how the youngster must feel.

“It’s never easy, killing a man, Tommy,” he said.

“It sure ain’t,” agreed Tommy. “I felt like

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J. T. Edson

fetching up, only I didn’t want Rafter O to see

me do it.”

“There’s no shame in it. Only remember this. It

was him or you. He sure as hell aimed to kill you

and you’d every right to stop him any way you

could.”

“Yeah,” answered Tommy and gave a shudder-

ing sigh. Then he threw off the feeling of nausea.

“Say, how do we find Calamity?”

“Just ride on for a spell, then stop and listen

some.”

Following Danny’s plan, they rode on for about

half a mile before halting their horses and sitting in

silence. Only the ordinary night noises came to

their ears and after a few seconds Danny started

his sabino moving again.

“Which’s the shortest way back to town,

Tommy?” he asked.

“Over that ways,” Tommy answered, pointing

to the right.

Swinging their horses in the desired direction,

the two young men continued their ride. Ten min-

utes passed and Danny brought his sabino to a halt

again. This time he heard something, so did

Tommy.

“What the hell?” Tommy asked, listening to the

screams, squeals and scuffling noises that came

faintly to their ears.

“Reckon ole Calam done caught up with Ella

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237

Watson and just couldn’t resist temptation,”

Danny replied. “Let’s go take a look.”

When Ella Watson saw the approaching Rafter O

hands even though she did not recognize them as

such, she knew her reign as boss of the Caspar

County cow thieves had come to an end. From the

number of shots and the shouted conversation be-

tween Danny Forgrave—or Fog, whichever it

might be—and Stocker, she figured that the at-

tempt at killing the Ranger had failed. So she de-

cided to pull out, make a fast ride to town, empty

her safe and be well clear of Caspar before the

posse could return with news of Stocker’s capture.

A yell from the posse told Ella she had been seen

and one of the riders spun out of the group to give

chase. Ella urged her horse to a gallop, yet she

doubted if the animal could outrun her pursuer’s

mount. Hearing the yell Stirton let to warn Danny

of his coming, Ella knew she did not have a chance

in a race. The Rafter O specialized in breeding

good horses, while her own mount had been se-

lected more for its gentle qualities and steadiness

rather than speed.

After half a mile of riding Ella swung her mount

in the direction of the distant town and safety. Al-

though still ahead of her pursuer, she figured it

would not be long before they came together. Yet

she did not wish to kill the one following. With

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J. T. Edson

Gooch it had been different. Then she fled before

a wanton murderous bounty hunter and her life

would have been forfeit if she fell into his hands.

So she decided to use her trick merely to draw her

pursuer in close. Then she would take his horse,

leaving him afoot and unable to interfere, ride

relay with it and her mount, make better time to

town and have a longer start on the posse.

Having made her decision, Ella unbuttoned the

shirt and pulled it open to expose her naked

breasts. With bait like that any cowhand would

walk straight into her trap and fall easy prey to her.

Twisting around in her saddle, Ella glanced back

at the other rider. At the distance separating them

she could not distinguish the other, or recognize

him. It was not Danny For—Fog, of that she felt

sure. However, he might prove too smart to fall for

her trick. Probably the rider was one of Stirton’s

younger hands trying to make a name for himself.

If so, he ought to be easy to handle.

Ella’s horse slid down a gentle slope and as it

reached the open ground at the bottom she reined

it in. Before the pursuer came into view, Ella slid

out of her saddle, dropping to the ground and

lying flat on her back. She tossed the hat aside with

her left hand, allowing her hair to hang over her

face. With the right she took out her Derringer and

held it concealed. From above came the sound of

the other horse, then the noise ended and she knew

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239

the rider had halted. She figured he could not see

enough yet, but would come in closer.

For a few seconds nothing happened. Ella lay

still, hardly daring to breathe in case she scared the

other rider into shooting in panic. A faint scuffling

sound came to her ears as the other started to come

down the slope. Any second now he ought to come

close en——

“It won’t work this time, Ella, gal,” said a voice.

Shock ripped into Ella at the words, for she saw

the failure of her plan. No man addressed her, but

the voice sounded mighty like that of the girl she

knew as Marty Connelly. Somehow, Ella could not

think how, the girl must have escaped from the

Cattle Queen, gathered a posse and ridden to

Danny’s aid. Cold fury gripped Ella and she tensed

to roll over with a roaring Derringer in her hand.

Even as the thought came to her, Ella heard the low

click of a Colt coming to full cock.

“Don’t try it, gal!” the voice went on in cold

warning tones. “A stingy gun like that Derringer’s

no good at over fifteen foot and I’m more than that

away.”

“What’d you want?” Ella asked, debating

whether to chance rolling suddenly and throwing a

shot at the other girl.

“Throw the gun well clear of you,” came the

reply.

“Go to hell!”

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J. T. Edson

“In good time, I reckon. Only this’s the last time

I’ll ask you to throw that stingy gun away.”

Ella could tell from the tone of Calamity’s voice

that argument, or trying to roll over and shoot,

would do no good. Being a smart girl, Ella knew

when to call the game quits. Carefully she lifted

her right hand, then tossed the Derringer a fair dis-

tance away across the level floor at the foot of the

slope. Then she sat up slowly and shoved her hair

back before turning to look at her captor. One

glance told Ella the other girl spoke truly in the

matter of relative gun ranges. From the casually

competent manner the red-head held the Navy

Colt, she knew how to handle it and could likely

have put a bullet into Ella had the saloonkeeper

made a wrong move.

Standing up the slope, Calamity watched the

Derringer sail away into the darkness. On her ar-

rival at the head of the slope Calamity had left her

borrowed horse standing with trailing reins, hung

her whip around the saddlehorn and moved in

ready to hand Ella a shock.

“Who are you?” Ella asked, coming to her feet.

“The name’s Martha Jane Canary——”

“Mar—Calamity Jane?”

“I’ve been called worse,” Calamity admitted.

“Let’s ride back to Bowie Rock and meet Danny

Fog.”

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241

“If he’s still alive,” answered Ella.

“I figure he will be. That boy’s real smart.”

“How’d you get away from Maisie and Phyl?”

“They got to fussing with each other after you

left.”

“I should have figured that,” Ella sniffed. “Say,

you and I can’t come to some arrangement, can we?”

“Sure. You just arrange for yourself to get on

that hoss and we’ll head back to Bowie Rock.”

“You’ve nothing on me,” Ella remarked as she

walked slowly toward Calamity.

“Maybe. Only I figure somebody’ll start to talk

once we begin the round-up and haul them down

to the pokey.”

Knowing some of her confederates, Ella did not

doubt Calamity’s words. So she decided to try an-

other line of reasoning, one which might appeal to

a young woman like Calamity Jane.

“What have I done that’s so wrong?” asked Ella.

“All I did was buy a few head of cattle from the

cowhands——”

“Don’t say you didn’t know they’d been stolen,”

Calamity interrupted.

“Had they? They weren’t branded——”

Once more Calamity cut in. “Most of them

come from branded herds, and you knew it all

along.”

“All right, so I knew it. I gave the cowhands a

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J. T. Edson

few bucks. Hell, the ranchers would lose more to

the weather or stock-killing critters in a year than

I took.”

“Losing’s one thing. Having ’em stolen’s an-

other.”

“So who got hurt?” asked Ella.

“How about Sammy and Pike from the Bench J?”

“You can’t blame me for that!” Ella gasped, for

her conscience troubled her more than she cared to

admit over the death of the two young cowhands.

“I only happened to be along that night. They al-

ways used that same place to brand the stuff. Even

if I hadn’t been along, Gooch’d’ve found them.”

“And how about Gooch?” said Calamity quietly.

“If you are Calamity Jane, you’ve been around

long enough to know what Gooch was. He aimed

to rape me before he killed me—Hey, how did you

know that I killed Gooch?”

“That was easy. Jake Jacobs told Cap’n Murat

you was running the cow stealing. Both me and

Danny figured you must have killed Gooch. Gooch

might have been as bad mean as a man could be,

but he’d a damned sight more sense than walk up

to a man with his gun in leather. So it figured that

a woman killed him and you seemed most likely to

be the one. When I saw you coming in wearing

those men’s duds, I knew how you got Gooch in

close and stopped him being suspicious.”

“And you blame me for killing Gooch?”

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243

“Nope. For turning decent kids into thieves. Get

going.”

“Nobody made them steal,” Ella pointed out as

she walked by Calamity.

“Nope. Only your gals got them so they didn’t

know which way to turn.”

Slowly Ella walked up the slope with Calamity

following. Suddenly the saloonkeeper appeared to

slip. Ella’s feet shot behind her, striking Calamity’s

legs and tangling with them. Letting out a yell,

Calamity went over backward and lost her gun as

she fell. Even as Calamity rolled down the slope,

Ella stopped herself sliding after the red-head and

grabbed up the fallen Navy colt. Coming to her

feet, Ella lined the gun down at Calamity.

“It looks like we don’t need any arrangement

now, Marty,” Ella said.

“Reckon not?” replied Calamity. “There’s no

percussion caps on the nipples.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ella answered and

squeezed the trigger.

Instead of the crack of exploding powder, a dull

click came to Ella’s ears as the Colt’s hammer fell

on a bare cap-nipple. Fury gripped Ella as she

thought of how she had been tricked into tossing

aside her fully-loaded Derringer—which used rim-

fire bullets and did not need separate percussion

caps to ignite the powder charge.

Calamity had not made the move intentionally.

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J. T. Edson

While she had stored the Colt with powder and a

lead ball in each of the cylinder’s chambers,

Calamity knew too much about guns to leave per-

cussion caps on the nipples when the weapon was

not in regular use. In her rush to get out and try to

save Danny, she clean forgot to put the caps in

place and did not remember this basic—and vitally

necessary—precaution until just before she caught

up with Ella. Then it had been too late, so

Calamity made a damned good bluff.

Giving a squeal of rage, Ella charged down the

slope. She swung up the Colt and launched a blow

aimed at Calamity’s head. Bringing up her hands,

Calamity caught Ella’s wrist as it brought the Colt

down. Pivoting, Calamity heaved on the trapped

arm and her pull, aided by Ella’s forward momen-

tum, sent the saloonkeeper staggering by her. Ella

lost her hold of the Colt and went sprawling face

down on the ground. Rolling over, she spat out a

curse and sat up, glaring at the advancing

Calamity.

“Give it up,” Calamity ordered. “Or do you

want to wrassle it out?”

Seeing that she could not escape unless she got

by Calamity, Ella prepared to take action. Quickly

Ella hooked her left foot behind Calamity’s right

ankle, rammed her right boot against the red-

head’s knee, pulled with the left, hoved with the

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245

right, and brought Calamity down on her back.

Then Ella reared up and flung herself on to

Calamity.

From the moment Ella landed, Calamity knew,

as she figured on their first meeting, that the sa-

loonkeeper could take care of herself in any girl’s

kind of tangle.

Calamity’s kepi went flying as two hands dug

deep into her hair and damned near tore out a pile

of red curls by their roots. Pure instinct guided

Calamity’s response. Even as she screeched in pain,

her own hands hooked strong fingers into Ella’s

black hair and Calamity braced herself, heaving up

then rolling Ella from her. Swiftly Calamity twisted

on to the top of Ella, trying to bang the black head

against the ground. Not that Calamity stayed on

top for long. Over and over the two girls rolled

and thrashed. Neither showed any kind of skill, or

gave a thought to anything more scientific than

clawing hair, swinging wild slaps and punches or

biting at first.

Nor did the situation improve for almost three

minutes. Then, how it happened neither girl could

say, they found themselves on their feet. Ella stood

behind Calamity, arms locked around the red-

head and pinning Calamity’s own arms to her

sides. Just what advantage Ella aimed to take

from the situation is hard to say. She retained her

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J. T. Edson

hold and crushed on the red-head, but could do

little more. Gasping in fury more than pain,

Calamity lashed backward, her heels landing on

Ella’s shins hard enough to make the other girl

yelp and loosen her hold a little. Then, Calamity

clasped her hands together, forcing outward

against Ella’s grip with her elbows and sucking in

a deep breath. Suddenly Calamity exhaled and felt

the encircling arms relax their grip. Before Ella

could tighten again, Calamity twisted slightly and

rammed back with her elbow, driving it into the

other girl’s stomach.

Giving a croaking gasp, Ella lost her hold and

stumbled back. Jumping in to attack again,

Calamity discovered that the other girl was far

from beaten. Ella’s left hand shot out, driving the

fist full into Calamity’s face, then the right

whipped across to connect with the other girl’s

jaw. Staggering, Calamity caught her balance just

in time to meet Ella’s rush.

For over ten minutes the girls put up a hell of a

fight. They used fists, elbows, feet, knees, punch-

ing, slapping, kicking, pushing and shoving. Twice

they rolled over Calamity’s Colt without giving it a

glance or thought. However, Calamity slowly

gained the upper hand. Her normal working life

offered greater advantages in the matter of staying

fit and strong than did Ella’s career in the saloon.

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247

Gasping in exhaustion, her shirt torn open and

minus one sleeve, Calamity landed a punch which

sent the sobbing, exhausted Ella sprawling to the

ground. Calamity stumbled forward. Through

the mists which roared around her, Calamity

heard horses approaching. She came to a halt and

started to look at the newcomers. That look

nearly cost her the fight. Ella had come to her

feet, swaying and barely able to stand. Yet she

still swung a wild punch that ought to have flat-

tened Calamity; only it missed the red-head by a

good two inches. Once more Calamity’s instincts

came to her aid. Ignoring the two men who rode

toward her, she turned and lashed out with all she

had. In missing, Ella staggered forward and

walked full into the punch Calamity threw. It

clocked like two rocks cracking together as they

fell down a cliff, Ella shot sideways, landing face

down and lying still. Weakly Calamity followed

the saloonkeeper up and dropped to her knees by

the still shape.

“Ease off, Calam!” Danny yelled, leaping from

his horse and running to where Calamity rolled the

unconscious Ella over. “She’s done!”

“Know something?” Calamity gasped. “I’m not

much better myself.”

Five minutes later Calamity recovered enough to

tell Danny what had happened. Ella sat moaning

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J. T. Edson

on the ground to one side and Calamity looked at

Danny with a wry grin as he said:

“I’d swear you let her jump you and get your

gun just so you could fight.”

“Shucks,” grinned Calamity. “Can’t a gal have

any fun at all?”

Chapter 15

CLEAN UP IN CASPAR COUNTY

5 %

At nine o’clock on Thursday morning, Danny

Fog stood before the desk in the Caspar County

Sheriff’s office and looked at Simmonds. The

young Ranger had not shaved and looked tired

after a night without sleep. Once Calamity patched

up her own and Ella’s injuries, Danny took them

back to Bowie Rock. There he found Stocker to be

in a most cooperative mood and from the rancher

learned all he needed to know to make sure he

could smash the cow stealing in Caspar County

forever. Once Danny knew everything, he left Stir-

ton’s party to bring in the prisoners and rode

ahead. In Caspar City he visited the sheriff’s office

250

J. T. Edson

to offer the local law enforcement officers the

chance of winding up the affair.

“And that’s how it was, Sheriff,” Danny said,

finishing his explanation of why he came to Cas-

par County and what he had achieved. “Ella Wat-

son suckered the cowhands into stealing for her.

Then she took the money paid to them back out of

their pockets in the saloon. Stocker got all eager to

help and talked up a storm.”

“Where’d he hide the stolen stuff?” asked

Deputy Clyde Bucksteed, an attentive listener to

the Ranger’s story. “I was out with the ranchers

when they went over the Bradded S range and we

never saw hide nor hair of any stolen cattle.”

“You just didn’t know where to look,” Danny

explained. “There’s a hidden valley, got good

water and decent grazing in it. You can only get in

through a tunnel at the back of a cave the ranchers

probably never bothered to search. They’d figure

the cattle couldn’t be inside, I reckon, so they

missed finding the hideout.”

“How’d they get rid of the stolen stuff?” inquired

the sheriff, showing interest for the first time.

“The agent at the Kaddo Reservation bought it

from them. Got it at cheaper than the market

price.”

“You should have told me you was a Ranger,”

Simmonds complained. “Sounds like you didn’t

trust me.”

Running Irons

251

“Figured I’d work better alone,” Danny replied.

“There’s only one thing left to do now.”

“What’s that?” grunted Simmonds.

“Go to the Cattle Queen and pick up Soskice

and Ed Wren.”

A look of worry came to the sheriff’s face. “I

don’t figure this’s any of my fuss, Ranger. You

come here without asking, played things as they

suited you. Don’t rightly see that I should tangle

with a feller like Ed Wren just to please you.”

“Won’t come, huh?” asked Danny.

“Can’t see my way to doing it,” Simmonds

replied.

“Then I’ll take them alone.”

Turning, Danny walked toward the office’s front

door. Clyde Bucksteed watched the Ranger and an

admiring look came to his face. Slowly Clyde lifted

his left hand to touch the badge he wore. In that

moment Clyde Bucksteed changed from an office-

filler, holding down his position because of his re-

lationship with the sheriff, and became a man.

“I’m with you, Ranger,” he said and followed

Danny from the room.

Just as they stepped from the office, a man came

racing his horse toward them. Seeing how excited

the newcomer appeared to be, the two young law-

men halted and waited to see what caused the

man’s haste.

“I just found that pedlar, Jacobs. He’s lying out

252

J. T. Edson

there ’bout a mile from town. Somebody shot him

in the back. From the look of his wagon, feller who

done it was after his money.”

“How about it, Ranger?” Clyde asked.

“Let’s go see Wren first. We might save ourselves

some work,” Danny answered. “Jacobs sold me

out to Ella Watson, but he’d sold her to Cap’n

Murat first and I reckon she sent Wren after him.”

“Best go see him then,” said the deputy.

“Sure had,” Danny agreed. “Let’s go.”

Before they had taken three steps along the

street, both saw the batwing doors of the saloon

open. Wren, Soskice and one of the bouncers

walked out, all wearing guns. While Soskice re-

mained standing on the sidewalk, Wren and the

bouncer stepped out, moving across the street.

“What’re you wanting, Forgrave?” Soskice

called.

“You and Wren. We caught Stocker last night

and he told us everything.”

“So now you plan to arrest me,” the lawyer

went on.

“That’s about the size of it,” Danny said, not

breaking his stride.

“How about it, Mr. Wren?” asked the lawyer, a

sneer playing on his lips.

“He’ll have to pass me first,” Wren replied.

“My brother managed it easy enough that time

in Granite City,” Danny said quietly, watching

Running Irons

253

Wren’s face and leaving the handling of the

bouncer to Clyde.

For an instant the confident sneer left Wren’s

face and he stared at the tall, blond young Ranger.

“Your brother?” croaked Wren and Danny de-

tected a worried note in the hired killer’s voice.

“My brother, Wren. My name’s Danny Fog.”

In that moment the scene came back before

Wren’s eyes. He was standing with the two men

who hired him, looking at the Rocking H wagon

and three cowhands who flanked it. The small,

blond man on the big paint stallion did most of the

talking for the other side, winding up by saying,

“Start the wagon, cookie.”

“They’s in the way, Cap’n,” replied the cook

reaching for the reins.

“Happen they’ll move,” Dusty Fog replied.

Well, the two fellers who hired Wren had

moved, but the gunman could not without losing

face. Instead he grabbed for his gun, meaning to

down the small man. Only Dusty Fog did not look

small any more. Suddenly he seemed to be the

tallest of them all; and never had Wren seen such

speed at drawing a gun. The Rio Hondo gun wiz-

ard’s left hand flickered across his body and

fetched out the Army Colt from his right holster

even before Wren could clear his Remington. Wren

remembered the sudden shock hitting him, the

stunning knowledge that his speed failed to bring

254

J. T. Edson

him through. Flame licked from Dusty Fog’s gun

and Wren’s world dissolved first into red agony,

then sank into black nothingness. When Wren re-

covered, he found he had lost a job and gained a

bullet scar across the side of his head.

Now Dusty Fog’s brother came toward Wren.

Cold fear gripped the man, driving out the smug

superiority which formed a gunfighting hard-case’s

best defense. Faced by Wren’s look of expectancy

and complete assurance that the gunman expected

to be the one on his feet at the end of the affair,

most men felt scared, unsure of themselves, hesi-

tant and marked down as victims. Only this time

Wren could not adopt the attitude as he studied the

resemblance between the Fog brothers.

Uncertainty filled Wren. Maybe Danny Fog was

not as fast as his brother. If so Wren ought to have

a chance. If Danny Fog should be fast—Wren did

not wish to think of the possibility. Yet Danny

had not looked fast that first day. Of course, Fog

would not have shown his true speed, knowing it

might excite interest he wished to avoid in the per-

formance of his Ranger chore. The thoughts ran

through Wren’s head as Danny and the deputy

came closer, by the end of the saloon and halted

not thirty feet away.

“Throw down your gun, Wren!” Danny or-

dered.

“Like hell!”

Running Irons

255

Letting the words out in a screech rather than a

defiant snarl, Wren went for his gun. He beat

Danny to the shot, but in his present nervous state

the bullet missed the Ranger by inches. On the

heels of Wren’s shot, Danny got his right hand Colt

out and working. Twice Danny fired, cocking the

Colt on its recoil and slamming the two .44 bullets

into Wren’s chest. Danny shot the only way he

dared under the circumstances, to kill. Knowing

Wren to be faster, Danny did not dare give the man

a chance to correct his aim. Caught by the bullets,

Wren reeled backward. His gun fell from his hand

as he crumpled to the ground.

Clyde Bucksteed had practiced fast drawing and

shooting and now the training saved his life.

Drawing, the deputy slammed a bullet into the

bouncer an instant before the other threw down on

him. Spinning around, the bouncer hit the hitching

rail and hung on it yelling he was done.

Before leaving the saloon, Wren had sent the

other bouncer through the side door to cover him.

Coming down the alley between the saloon and the

Wells Fargo office, the man stepped on to the street

behind Danny and the deputy and brought up his

gun. A rifle cracked further down the street and

the bouncer—he had been the second of the hired

guns reported by Jacobs to Murat—keeled over, a

bullet in his head. Whirling to meet what might be

a fresh menace, Danny and Clyde saw Simmonds

256

J. T. Edson

standing outside his office, a smoking rifle in his

hands.

“Watch Soskice!” yelled the sheriff, ambling

forward.

Although he wore a gun, Soskice did not stand

and fight. Instead he turned and flung himself back

through the batwing doors, meaning to make his

escape by the rear of the building. No sooner had

the lawyer entered than a thud sounded and he

shot out again, reeling backward across the side-

walk and crashing to the ground at Danny’s feet.

Blowing on his knuckles, Izzy walked out of the

building and looked down at the fallen lawyer.

Having seen the way things went in the street, Izzy

decided a change of sides might be to his advan-

tage. So he prevented the lawyer’s escape in an ef-

fort to prove his sterling regard for law and order.

His head spinning from the unexpected blow,

Soskice looked up at the three lawmen as they

gathered around him. Licking his lips nervously, he

forced himself to his feet. Suddenly he no longer

felt smug and superior to those humble, dull-

witted fools who became peace officers because

they lacked intelligence to do anything better with

their lives.

“I—I want to help you!” Soskice whined. “I’ll

tell you enough to convict Ella Watson. It was her

who sent Wren to kill that old pedlar.”

Danny gave a look of disgust as he turned to the

Running Irons

257

sheriff. At least Ella Watson had refused to say

anything either to avoid the blame or shift it on to

somebody else.

“Take him to the jail, will you, Sheriff?” Danny

said. “Hey what made you change your mind and

cut in like that?”

“Got to figuring what Maw’d say if anything

happened to Clyde and reckoned I didn’t want it,

her doting on the boy way she does. ’Sides, I might

not be the best lawman in the world, but I reck-

oned the folks paid me for more than I’d been giv-

ing ’em. Let’s go, Mr. Soskice, unless you know

some law’s says I can’t take you down to the

pokey.”

Clearly Soskice could not think up a single law

to avoid his arrest, for he went along with the sher-

iff in silence. Danny watched Clyde start some of

the onlookers on cleaning up the street, then

turned to the bartender.

“Is Mousey all right?” Danny asked.

“Got her a black eye and a few scratches and

bruises, but nothing worse,” Izzy replied. “She

licked Dora good though, Phyl and Maisie stove

each other up bad but the doctor tended to them.

I wasn’t in on anything, Ranger.”

“I just bet you weren’t,” Danny said dryly.

“Why’d Soskice and Wren stay on instead of run-

ning?”

“Miss Ella’s got all the money in her safe and

258

J. T. Edson

they hoped she’d get back to give them travelling

money. Is there anything I can do?”

“Sure, go back in there and hold the place until

we come and see you.”

Leaving Izzy to take care of the saloon, Danny

walked along to the sheriff’s office. There he and

Simmonds interviewed the scared Soskice. At first

the lawyer tried to lay all the blame on Ella Wat-

son, but found he failed in his attempt to shift the

blame.

“Us folks down in Texas might not be so full of

high-minded ideas as fellers like you,” Danny

drawled. “So I’d surely hate to see what folks

around here do to you when they hear that you’ve

sold out your partner and tried to rail-road a

woman to save your hide.”

“They’ll start reaching for a rope and looking

for a tree,” the sheriff went on.

Nor did Soskice doubt Simmonds’s words. “Y—

you’ll protect me!” he whined, yet his tones lacked

conviction. “It’s your duty to protect me!”

“After the way you’ve belittled and mean-

mouthed me all these months?” the sheriff replied.

“You’ve dripped contempt over us lawmen all the

time you’ve been here. So we’ll be as useless as you

reckon we are. If folks come a-lynching, me ’n’

Clyde’ll be long gone out of town.”

“You—you won’t let it happen, Ranger!” Sos-

kice squeaked, turning to Danny.

Running Irons

259

“My work’s done here,” Danny answered. “I’ll

be riding real soon.”

Raw fear glowed in Soskice’s eyes. “W—would

you protect me if I told you what brought me here?

It’s important to the peace of Texas.”

“Try telling us,” Danny said.

With the words pouring out in a flood, Soskice

told all and laid bare a vicious scheme to wreck the

flimsy peace of the Lone Star State. He belonged to

Henry George’s Socialist Party and was one of a

group of college-educated intellectuals who wished

to see Reconstruction continued until the South-

erners they hated were smashed and the ex-slaves

ruled the South. So some of their number came to

Texas with the intention of stirring up so much

trouble that the Federal Government brought back

the old Reconstruction regime. In his fear for his

life, Soskice named his friends and mentioned how

the Sutton-Taylor feud and the Shelby County war

had come about through the machinations of the

intellectual bigots.

“Another range war going would have done it,”

Soskice finished, after telling how he helped Ella

organize the cow stealing. “Not that I wanted

things to go as far as that.”

“Got to talking to Vic Crither the other day,”

drawled the sheriff. “He said as how it was you as

first put the idea of hiring Gooch in his head.”

“That’s a lie!” yelped Soskice. “You can’t prove it!”

260

J. T. Edson

“We’ll try, hombre, we’ll surely try,” warned

Danny. “Reckon you figured a killer like Gooch’d

stir up fuss between the ranchers, especially if he

downed the wrong men. It could have worked.”

“It would have, if you hadn’t happened along,

Ranger,” the sheriff put in. “I’m sure pleased I

wrote for help.”

And it proved later that Simmonds told the

truth. He had written to Murat, but the letter went

astray and did not arrive until days after Danny

left for Caspar County. Nor was Simmonds as dis-

honest as Danny imagined. The sheriff’s prosperity

came from having sold his business, not from ac-

cepting bribes.

A telegraph message fetched in a judge and the

heads of the Caspar County cow thieves were

brought up for trial. Despite the killing of Gooch

and Jacobs, Ella Watson received only five years in

the penitentiary. Stocker did not intend to be alone

in his punishment and so incriminated Soskice that

they each drew ten years and might have counted

themselves lucky to receive fifteen years each.

Rangers swooped on the other members of Sos-

kice’s political gang and drove them out of Texas

before they could make any more trouble.

“Well, that’s the end of it, Calam, gal,” Danny

said as he and the girl rode side by side out of Cas-

par County. “It’s a pity we couldn’t stay on for

Tommy and Mousey’s wedding. At least the folks

Running Irons

261

raised a collection that’ll give them a good start,

for Tommy’s part in ending the cow stealing.”

“Sure,” agreed Calamity. “There’s times I won-

der what it’d be like to marry and settle down.”

“Why not try it and see?”

“I’d never marry anybody who’d be fool enough

to marry a gal like me,” grinned Calamity. “Look

at all the fun I’d miss. Say, I feel a mite sorry for

Ella Watson. She was a dead game gal, even if her

tracks ran crooked. And she gave me a danged

good whirl. Wonder if she learned her lesson?”

Years later word reached Calamity of another

cow stealing gang operating in Wyoming and fol-

lowing the Caspar County methods of using

saloon-girls to ensnare the cowhands into the steal-

ing. Then came news that the irate ranchers had

caught and hung the man and woman involved.

People called her Cattle Kate; but Calamity knew

better, reckoning that Ella Watson had failed to

change her ways and so met a cow thief’s end.

About the Author

J.T. EDSON brings to life the fierce and often bloody

struggles of the untamed West. His colorful characters

are linked by the binding power of the spirit of adven-

ture—and hard work—that eventually won the West.

J.T. Edson has proven to be one of the finest craftsmen

of Western storytelling of our time.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information

on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Books by J.T. Edson

RUNNING IRONS

WACO’S BADGE

TEXAS KILLERS

COLD DECK, HOT LEAD

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and

dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be

construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

RUNNING IRONS. Copyright © 1965 by Brown Watson, Ltd. Copyright

© 1968 by Transworld Publishers. All rights reserved under

International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment

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Document Outline

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Other Books by J.T. Edson

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

Books by J.T. Edson