by J. T. Edson
“How’d you do that?” the sheriff asked, still grinning.
“Got her fighting my way, ’stead of her’n,” Calamity explained. “And I’d got me a shy lil schoolmarm from back East helping me.”
Before the girl could go into greater detail, a gangling, excited-looking townsman appeared at the stable door.
“Day!” he said. “It’s old Skelter. He’s got this scattergun and’s headed for the Fittern place.”
“Damn it!” the sheriff snorted and looked at his guests. “Sorry, Calam, Kid. This’s an old fuss. I’ll have to ride out there and quieten things down.”
“Need any help?” asked the Kid.
“Nope,” Leckenby replied. “I’ll take ole Buck there and handle it on my own.”
Figuring that the sheriff was the best judge of the matter, the Kid did not press his offer. Courtesy had required that he make it, but he did not wish to leave Calamity unescorted in the town.
While the sheriff saddled his big buckskin, Calamity and the Kid attended to their horses. Night had fallen by the time they went up to the house and told Mrs. Leckenby of her husband’s departure. The woman heard the news with no sign of alarm. It was, she explained, not an unusual occurrence for the sheriff to have to quieten down either Skelter or Fittern. A pair of irascible old-timers, they carried on a long-standing feud. Mostly it simmered harmlessly, being continued, Mrs. Leckenby suspected, as a means of avoiding boredom. On the rare occasions when tempers rose too high, the sheriff was needed to apply a restraining influence.
“It’ll take Day about two hours to get out there and back,” Mrs. Leckenby finished. “We’ll wait supper for him, unless you’re hungry.”
“Ate right well with Corey-Mae and Cash Trinian,” Calamity told her. “What say we go see Lawyer Endicott right now, Lon?”
“Not until you’ve had a cup of coffee,” the sheriff’s wife stated. “It’s all ready for you.”
After drinking their coffee, Calamity and the Kid rose to leave. They had placed their Winchesters on the wall-rack and left them there. Mrs. Leckenby told them how to locate Endicott’s home and asked that they should bring the lawyer back with them. Agreeing to do so, Calamity requested that the woman keep her documents. Florence Eastfield and her men had left town, but there was no point in taking needless chances. Mrs. Leckenby accepted the envelope and locked it in the drawer of her husband’s desk.
Although Calamity and the Kid found the main street deserted on their return, they did not feel surprised. It was Thursday and in the middle of the month, so the town would not be over lively. Going between two buildings, they followed Mrs. Leckenby’s directions. By the livery barn, they located Endicott’s house. It did not strike them as the dwelling to be expected as a successful lawyer’s residence. The whole place was in darkness, which did not hide its tumble-down aspect.
“He ain’t to home,” called a voice from by the barn.
“Where’s he at, then?” asked the Kid, turning to face the speaker.
“Down at the Clipper,” the man answered. “Where else? Damned drunk.”
“Let’s go get him,” Calamity suggested and made a wry face. “From the look of this place and the way that feller talks, I can see why the pride of that fancy Eastern law school wound up here.”
Returning to the main street, they headed toward the Clipper Saloon. Its hitching rail was devoid of horses and trade seemed to be very bad, if the lack of noise from inside was anything to go on. Two boys stood on the seat, looking over the painted lower section of the left side’s window. Hearing Calamity and the Kid approaching, they turned.
“What’s up?” the girl asked tolerantly.
“They’re getting old Lawyer Endicott liquored up in there,” one of the boys replied. “He’s a screaming whoop when he’s that ways, until he falls asleep that is.”
Being aware that baiting a drunkard, especially if he also happened to be well-educated, was a favorite indoor sport of small-town loafers, Calamity let out an explosive snort and headed for the batwing doors. A good-hearted girl, she hated petty cruelty of that kind. Even without having need of the lawyer’s professional services she would have reacted in the same manner. Slipping her whip from its loop, she went striding into the Clipper Saloon.
Knowing his Calamity, the Kid followed on her heels. He reckoned that she might require some backing if the men concerned with the lawyer-baiting objected to her intervention. Just a moment too late, as the doors swung closed behind them, the Kid realized that they had walked into a trap.
The barman stood behind the counter, looking scared. Off to the right of the room, Olaf was seated facing a tall, thin, unshaven man wearing a threadbare, but once expensive suit, a grubby, collarless white shirt and scuffed, cracked town boots. Two grimy hands gripped at a beer schooner into which the giant was pouring the contents of a whiskey bottle. The long-handled axe lay across the table.
Even as a realization of the danger bit at the Kid, he heard a footfall from behind him and felt the hard muzzle of a revolver gouge into his back. At the same moment, a muffled curse from Calamity caused the Kid to turn his head. The smallest of the three gunslingers they had last seen with Florence Eastfield stood behind the girl. He had his arms locked tight about her elbows and torso, and knew enough to keep his face clear of her head.
“Unbuckle the gunbelt, cow-nurse!” ordered Vandor’s voice from beyond the revolver. “And don’t you make fuss, gal, or he’s dead.”
Calamity knew when to surrender. So she stopped struggling; but still retained her hold of the whip. Equally aware of the futility of resisting at that moment, the Kid slowly obeyed the order. Unbuckling his gunbelt, he let it slide to his feet. Vandor placed his left palm against the center of the black shirt and pushed the Kid forward.
“What’s on your mind, hombre?” the Kid inquired.
“You disrespected Miss Eastfield out there in the street, while you was stood behind a rifle and backed by Leckenby,” Vandor explained, following him and thrusting him farther from the door. “Olaf didn’t like it. Did you, Olaf?”
Turning his head slowly, the giant hurled the empty bottle across the room. He lurched to his feet, ignoring the lawyer who sat drinking from the schooner.
“Olaf didn’t like it!” the giant rumbled. “Olaf’ll break him in two.”
“You standing for this, barkeep?” asked the Kid, watching the giant. “I don’t reckon the sheriff’ll be too happy if you do.”
“Maybe Leckenby won’t be coming back,” Vandor sneered, retreating toward the door. “And if he don’t, Miss Eastfield’ll want to know who her friends are. Take him, Olaf!”
Letting out a bellow more animal than human, the giant lurched in the Kid’s direction. At the table, Endicott set down the glass and stared through bleary eyes at the big man.
“Wha-Wha——!” the lawyer mumbled. “Dish-grashe-ful be-hav-hav——” He took up the schooner again and drank deeply.
Separated from his weapons, the Kid was far from helpless. Although the Comanches preferred more direct, permanent methods of settling quarrels, they knew some effective bare-hand fighting tricks. In addition, the Kid had watched such masters as Dusty Fog and Mark Counter perform, learning valuable lessons from them. So he reckoned that he would not be the easy victim the men—and maybe Calamity—expected.
Gripping the back of a chair, the Kid leaped to meet the advancing giant. At the last moment, the Kid weaved aside and crashed his weapon into Olaf’s chest. Wood splintered and the chair disintegrated in the Kid’s hands. Apart from a single grunt, the giant gave no sign of feeling a blow that would have felled most men. As the Kid started to go by, Olaf swung his left arm. It caught the Texan a glancing blow on the shoulder. Glancing, maybe, but the force of it sent the Kid staggering across the room.
“That does it!” Vandor said enthusiastically, watching the Kid’s attack. “There’ll be no stopping that crazy bongo until he’s killed the Texan. Hold on to the gal, Torp. I’ll go fetch the ho
sses.”
“Sure, Van,” the other man replied, tightening his grip on Calamity. “I’ll stop in here ’til you get back. I’m enjoying this.”
“Want to bet you stay that way, you stinking son-of-a-bitch?” Calamity thought, her eyes on the fight.
With surprising speed, the bald man turned and charged after the Kid. Managing to turn, the Texan struck with his back against the wall. Pinned there momentarily, he saw Olaf coming closer. When in range, the man launched up his right leg in a kick. Crossing his wrists, the Kid interposed them between his body and the rising leg. Even with the support offered by the X-block he had learned from Dusty Fog, he only just halted the boot clear of him. Changing his hand position fast, he gripped the raised ankle in them. Then he leaped to one side and gave the trapped limb a savage lateral swing. For a moment Olaf’s other spiked boot held on to the planks beneath it. Then it slipped and he spun around, away from the Texan. Following the staggering man, the Kid interlaced his fingers and smashed his hands as hard as he could against the base of Olaf’s spine. Again the giant grunted, stumbling but not going down.
Going after the giant, the Kid learned the advantage offered by the caulked boots. Ramming down his forward foot, Olaf halted. He pivoted around, swinging his right fist. Desperately the Kid tried to twist aside. The back of the forearm crashed into his chest and the force of the blow pitched him backward. Hitting a table, he went over it and landed on the floor. Dazed and winded, he saw Olaf stalking with measured strides toward him. Taking hold of the table in both hands, the man swung it above his head as if it weighed no more than a matchstick.
Down drove the table. Throwing himself over, the Kid just managed to roll clear. He heard the table drive edge-first into the floor and shatter, continuing to roll. With a bestial snarl, Olaf flung away the ruins of the table and stalked after the Texan.
At the door, Calamity watched the fight with worried eyes. She knew that she could not break Torp’s hold on her by sheer strength. However, as the fight progressed, his attention became absorbed by it. That was what the girl had been hoping for. Feeling his grip slacken a little, she raised her right foot and stamped it down hard on to Torp’s left instep. Worn for utility rather than feminine fashion, Calamity’s footwear was solidly constructed. So the force of her attack drove pain through her captor’s foot and leg. Torp let out a howl and his arms loosened their hold.
Not much, but enough. Drawing forward, Calamity propelled the handle of her whip to the rear. The hard knob of the butt rammed into Torp’s solar plexus. Belching out a gasp of agony, he released her entirely and started to go backward. Calamity swung around and lashed out with her whip-filled right hand. The back of her fist caught Torp at the side of the head. Spinning in a circle, he blundered into the batwing doors and passed through. Still unable to halt himself, he crossed the sidewalk, collided with the hitching rail’s end-post and tumbled on to his hands and knees in the street.
On the point of following Torp and making sure he could not return, Calamity heard the crash of the table. Turning her head, she saw that the Kid needed help in the worst kind of way. Three strides across the room carried Calamity close enough to give it. Already her right arm had sent the whip’s lash curling behind her. Forward the arm snapped and the lash reversed its direction.
Looking up, the Kid saw Olaf’s right foot raised and poised to crash the sharp spikes into him. If he could only have a moment to catch his breath, he might yet escape. The moment was to be granted to him. Something brown wrapped itself around the man’s head. Still standing on one leg, Olaf screamed in agony as the whip’s lash bit into his face. Calamity tugged back on the handle, pulling the man off balance. Although he sent the boot driving down, he just missed the Kid. Up rose Olaf’s hands, tearing the lash from his face and flinging it aside. Then he started to rush across the room.
Seeing in which direction the giant was headed. Calamity dropped her whip and reached for her Navy Colt. Then she heard the rumble of hooves and voices raised in the street. Realizing that the sounds heralded Vandor’s return, and noticing that the Kid was already on his hands and knees as he started to get up, she knew that she must try to prevent the gunslingers from coming back into the barroom. Backing hurriedly toward the doors, she hooked her left boot under the Kid’s gunbelt and sent it skidding across the floor in his direction.
“Lon!” she yelled, drawing his attention from the bald giant and to the belt which halted several feet from the Texan.
Sweeping Endicott aside as he tried to rise, Olaf snatched up the axe. Mouthing barely human sounds, the giant turned and rushed toward the Kid. Still only half erect, the Texan saw the man approaching. Around whistled the axe, swung with the speed, power and precision of a trained lumberjack. The Kid propelled himself toward his gunbelt, barely passing clear of the axe’s swinging arc. Diving, the Texan extended his right hand as he landed belly-down on the floor. His fingers closed about the butt and he plucked the old Dragoon from its holster. Nearer came the giant’s feet, sounding and vibrating through the planks. Twisting on to his back, the Kid saw Olaf looming toward him and the axe swinging into the air. Thrusting the Dragoon upward, the Kid drew its trigger to the rear with his right forefinger as the heel of his left hand flashed over to drive back and release the hammer.
Fanning a single-action revolver, which had to be cocked between each shot, was the fastest known way of turning lead loose. It was also a measure of desperation, especially when using the four-pound-one-ounce, thumb-busting old Dragoon Colt. Twice the Kid slapped back the hammer, riding the wicked recoil between the shots. Both bullets lanced into Olaf’s torso, but even then, if he had been using a lesser weapon, the Kid might not have saved his life. Each chamber of the revolver held forty grains of powder, almost twice the charge used in a Winchester rifle. That gave the Dragoon a power which would not be equaled in a handgun until superior steel and smokeless powder brought the mighty .44 Magnum cartridge into being.
Two 219-grain bullets, traveling at around 900 feet-per-second, were more than even Olaf’s giant frame could absorb and remain standing. Instead of completing his blow, he pitched over backward and the axe dropped from his hands. Olaf was dead before he hit the floor. Across the room Endicott lay crumpled against the front of the bar.
At the door, Calamity flattened herself against the wall and looked out. Vandor sat his horse, leading three others, in the center of the street. Suddenly, as the Kid’s Dragoon began to crash behind her, Calamity saw Vandor rein in the horses. Torp was lurching toward him, pointing toward the saloon and speaking, but Vandor hardly looked his way.
“It’s the sheriff!” the handsome gunslinger growled, indicating something beyond Calamity’s range of vision. “Poole must’ve missed him. Get the hell out of here, Torp!”
“What’s happening, Calam?” the Kid asked, forcing himself erect and moving toward her.
“It’s them two gun-slicks,” the girl replied, then hooves rumbled and moved away. “They looked like they was fixing to come busting in here. Only Vandor yelled something about the sheriff and they lit out like the devil after a yearling.”
Thrusting through the doors, the Kid lunged across the sidewalk and landed on the street. He saw the two men disappearing at a gallop into an alley farther down and across the street. As they went out of sight before he could raise the Dragoon, he looked for the reason behind their departure. Hearing another set of hooves in the opposite direction to that taken by the hired guns, he swung toward the sound. Patches of light scattered along the street, from the illuminated windows of various business premises. A big light-colored horse walked into one of them.
Instantly the Kid knew that something was wrong. He identified the horse as Leckenby’s buckskin. While the sheriff was on its back, he was not behaving in a natural manner. Instead of urging his horse to a better pace and holding a gun as he came to investigate, he sat stiff in his saddle with the animal moving at a steady walk. Even as the Kid looked, the buckskin turned and
continued at the same pace into an alley.
“Calam!” the Kid barked, ignoring the people who began to congregate. “Let’s go, pronto!”
Having seen that there was no chance of taking up matters with the gunslingers, Calamity had holstered her Colt, then returned to collect her whip and the Kid’s gunbelt. With the belt hanging over her left shoulder and coiling the whip, she joined the Kid in the street.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I reckon the sheriff’s been hurt,” the Kid replied. “We’d best——”
“What’s happened in there?” asked a tall, lean man in town clothes and carrying a doctor’s bag. He was in the front of the crowd, along with half a dozen men who looked like they had been a long time west of the Mississippi, even if they had lived in towns rather than on the range.
“Vandor set Olaf on the Texan,” the bartender replied, coming through the batwing doors.
“Seeing’s you’re here,” the spokesman spoke dryly to the Kid, “I’d say Olaf’s dead. I’m not surprised——”
“Are you a doctor?” interrupted the Kid.
“If I’m not, young feller, there’s a lot of people around here should have worries,” the man answered. “Who’s hurt in there?”
“Nobody’s you can fix,” growled the Kid. “I reckon the sheriff’s been shot!”
Talk rumbled up and, watching the faces around him, the Kid saw mixed emotions. Some of the people looked surprised, others appeared to be worried and cast anxious glances around them. The six men hovering behind the doctor reacted as the Kid had expected they would. All showed interest, concern, but not fear for their own safety. The doctor proved to be a man of action.
“Let’s go!” he snapped. “I don’t need a crowd to watch me work. Some of you help Sid to clear up in there. Harry, you and the boys head for home then meet me at Day’s house.”
“We’ll do that,” declared a gnarled old-timer among the six.
On joining the Kid, Calamity had returned her whip to its loop and taken his Dragoon, leaving him free to retrieve and buckle on his gunbelt. Returning the old gun to leather, he went with the girl and the doctor along the street. Taking the lead, the medical man swung down an alley. While walking, the Kid told of his suspicions and found that the doctor agreed with him.