Ranch War

by J. T. Edson

  “You’re right. Day’d’ve come barreling down that street, gun out and ready to use it if he’d been all right.”

  At that moment they came into sight of the sheriff’s house and any hopes they cherished that the Kid might be wrong were wiped away by what they saw. Leckenby’s big buckskin stood at the picket fence’s gate and the house’s front door was open. Staggering under his weight, Mrs. Leckenby was helping her husband along the path. She looked around as she heard the running feet. Coming up fast, Calamity and the two men closed around the couple. Although hit high up in the right side of his chest and with his shirt soaked by blood, the sheriff was still conscious.

  “It—It’s come—Doc!” Leckenby gasped. “Got me—Buck—carried me clear. Sen-Send—for Cash—Trini——”

  The words ended and the sheriff went limp in the men’s arms.

  Chapter 13 NOBODY LIKES HANGINGS

  “WHERE’S THE KID?” MRS. LECKENBY ASKED, COMING from the bedroom into which, half an hour before, her husband had been carried.

  “Some fellers come, toting shotguns ’n’ painted for war,” Calamity answered, drawing out a chair and seating the haggard-faced woman in it. “He’s got two of ’em watching front ’n’ back and’s took the other two into town to help ask questions.” She indicated the coffee-pot and other utensils on the table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I threw up some coffee for us.”

  “Thank you, Calamity.”

  “How’s the sheriff?”

  “The doctor’s still working on him.”

  “Looks like he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Manny’s good at his work,” Mrs. Leckenby confirmed. “Did you see Orde Endicott, Calamity?”

  Knowing that the question had come out of a desire to avoid thinking about her own troubles, Calamity told the woman what had happened. When the girl concluded her story with a blistering condemnation of the lawyer, Mrs. Leckenby shook her head.

  “He’s got cause for being what he is, Calamity. You said that you’d heard he was a good lawyer. He was, a great one.”

  “He sure ain’t now!” Calamity growled, pouring out cups of coffee.

  “No, not now,” Mrs. Leckenby conceded. “He used to be and had a fine future ahead of him, as a defense attorney back East. He was against hanging.”

  “Nobody likes hangings, but there’s times when they’re necessary.”

  “He didn’t think so and always claimed hanging didn’t stop people committing murders.”

  “Maybe they don’t stop ’em,” Calamity grunted. “But they sure make folks think twice afore murdering or stealing hosses. And hanging stops ’em doing it twice.”

  “Orde Endicott learned that, the hard way,” Mrs. Leckenby said gently. “He was so obsessed with the idea that he took up the case of a man, a butler, found guilty of the brutal murder of a woman. Although Orde knew the man was guilty, he obtained a retrial. At that time he had the political connections to do it.”

  “What’d he do a fool thing like that for?”

  “It was his belief that if he could make people think an innocent man had nearly been hung, there would be a public outcry to stop all hanging. In the retrial, he pulled every trick he knew—confused the witnesses, brought up misleading points and pieces of false evidence. He even had a false confession obtained from a dying criminal——”

  “The lousy son-of-a-bitch!” Calamity spat out.

  “He thought he was acting for the best,” Mrs. Leckenby answered gently. “And he paid a high price for it. The man was acquitted and set free. To show his faith in him, Orde hired him as his butler. It was a gesture designed to prove that even a guilty man could redeem himself given the chance—and it failed.”

  “How come?”

  “Less than a month later the man killed two more women in the same drugged rage that had caused his first victim’s death. He smoked marijuana cigarettes, which Orde had insisted were harmless. One of the victims was Orde’s wife.”

  “The hell you say!” Calamity breathed. “So that’s why he moved West for his health.”

  “That’s why,” the woman agreed. “He nearly went off his head. His health was ruined and he took to drinking. Naturally, all his influential political friends deserted him. They were a pack of liberal-intellectual scum who didn’t dare face up to the public outcry. Orde drifted around, until we found him and brought him here.”

  “You?” Calamity asked.

  “I’m his sister,” the woman said simply. “We fetched him to Hollick City, got him sober enough to hang out his shingle and do what little legal work’s needed here. There’s not a lot and he can handle it well enough, when he’s sober.”

  “I’m sorry I called him what I did,” Calamity said contritely.

  “He was misguidedly stupid,” the sheriff’s wife answered. “But he paid for——”

  A knock at the front door ended the words and brought both women to their feet. The Kid entered, crossing to the table and laying his rifle on it. Before leaving, he had collected the weapon from the rack.

  “I found the feller’s told the sheriff about that fuss,” he said. “He was scared white-haired.”

  “Afore, or after, you found him?” Calamity asked dryly.

  “Both. Seems like that Vandor hombre told him about seeing Old Man Skelter toting the scatter toward the Fittern place and he just brought the word out of civic duty.”

  “Does the feller still have his ears?” Calamity inquired.

  “Just about. I stopped them two gents I was with tearing ’em off,” the Kid replied. “Town’s about even in its feelings, ma’am. But most of ’em’re set to back up your husband, well or hurt.”

  “I knew they would,” Mrs. Leckenby sighed, eyes bright. At such a time, a local peace officer learned how his town regarded him. It seemed that the majority of Hollick City’s population respected her husband sufficiently to stand by him. Then she saw the misery on the girl’s face and asked, “What is it, Calamity?”

  “I feel that I brought all this on, coming here!” Calamity answered.

  “Like the sheriff said on the street,” drawled the Kid. “It’d’ve come sooner or later. You arriving likely brought it to the boil.”

  “Neither I nor Day blame you for coming, child,” Mrs. Leckenby went on. “We’ve been expecting trouble from that Eastfield woman for a long time.”

  “They’d never’ve dast make that play again’ us with the sheriff around,” the Kid stated. “So they lured him out of town and bushwhacked him. Ma’am, I’m real sorry. I should’ve asked when I come in. How is the sheriff?”

  “Doctor Goldberg’s still with him.”

  “He’ll pull through,” the Kid predicted. “And, ma’am, way I see it, your husband’s a forty-four-caliber man.”

  Knowing that such a tribute was high indeed when given by a Texan,* Mrs. Leckenby showed pleasure despite her worry.

  “Way those two polecats lit out when they saw the sheriff coming into town, I’ll go along with all Lon’s said,” Calamity remarked. “They didn’t have the guts to face up to your husband and Lon here.”

  The bedroom door opened and Doctor Goldberg stepped out. Coming to her feet, Mrs. Leckenby needed only to look at his face to know the answer, but she asked the question just the same.

  “How is he?”

  “Stubborn, ornery, with a body, that I should mention such a thing in front of a young lady, that would stop a cannon-ball,” Goldberg answered. “He’ll live, but he’s off his feet for a spell. I’ll ask Hal, or Swede to ride out to the Rafter C for Cash Trinian.”

  “Best let me go, Doc,” the Kid suggested quietly. “Might be they’ve got somebody watching the trail. If they have, somebody could get hurt.”

  “You go then,” Goldberg confirmed. “I’ve got enough sick folk on my hands right now and don’t want more.”

  “Don’t let that worry you,” drawled the Kid mildly. “Happen there’s anybody watching the trail, you won’t be needed.”

 
“Want me along, Lon?” asked Calamity.

  “I can handle it best on my lonesome,” the Kid replied. “You stay put, gal. Maybe Miss Eastfield’s decided the time’s come to stop looking and start owning. Which, she’ll likely be coming with help.”

  “If she does,” Calamity gritted. “Could be I’ll get her in that corral yet.”

  “Just do me one lil-bitsy favor, gal,” drawled the Kid, taking up his rifle. “Let her come and ask you, don’t you go looking for her.”

  “What do you reckon I am?” Calamity yelled at the Kid’s departing back.

  Waiting until he had reached and opened the door, the young Texan turned and replied, “That I can’t tell you, there’s a lady in the room.”

  Letting out a yelp like a scalded cat, Calamity grabbed for the coffee-pot. Then she remembered where she was, and, anyway, the Kid had already gone through the door. So she gave an exasperated groan.

  “Ooh! Them floating-Outfit yahoos’re all the same!”

  “He gave good advice, young lady,” Goldberg pointed out.

  “Sure,” Calamity grinned. “And, for once just to rile him, I’m going to take it. Have some coffee, Doc.”

  “Going some place, Kid?” asked a gray-haired member of the quartet seated on the house’s front porch and nursing shotguns.

  “Got scared, Swede,” the Kid replied. “I’m running out.”

  “Scared of Flo Eastfield’s bunch?” asked the portly owner of the local bank.

  “Nope, of Calamity,” grinned the Kid. “Banged fool she-male, she wants to marry me and just now proposed.”

  “Marriage’s a wonderful thing, I allus say,” declared the Wells Fargo agent.

  “Then why’re you still a bachelor?” Swede demanded.

  “’Cause I never believe in doing nothing I ain’t done once afore,” the agent explained. “Where you headed, Kid?”

  “To tell Cash Trinian what’s happened,” the Kid answered and walked across to enter the stable.

  Leaning his Winchester against the wall of the stall, he saddled his white stallion. Taking up the rifle and leading out the horse, he decided against using the rest of the relay. If Florence Eastfield did have a man, or men, watching the trail to the Rafter C, he could handle the menace better with only one mount. The white stallion was the best choice for the work ahead.

  Once in the saddle, he kept his rifle in his hand and made his way out of town along the stage-trail. The stallion had been hard-pushed since leaving the trail herd and he wanted to conserve its strength. So he stuck to the easier going offered by the trail, instead of cutting across country, relying upon his and the horse’s keen senses to detect hostile presences. Nor did he make the white go at faster than a good trot. Unless Florence Eastfield had more men on hand—and the way she had handled things led him to believe she had not—she would have to either send for or fetch reinforcements from the sawmill. That meant there would be no further assault on the town before daylight. So he had time to reach the ranch and return with Trinian without causing the stallion to exhaust itself.

  The Kid approached the point where the track turned off the main trail without incident. Suddenly, about seventy yards from the old cottonwood tree, the stallion came to a halt and snorted. Knowing the sound to be that caused by the detection of a hidden human being, the Kid started to raise his rifle. Yet he felt certain that he had heard an animal’s low growl just as the horse gave its warning. There had been a bluetick hound capable of making the sound at the Trinian’s ranch-house.

  “Rafter C!” called the Texan. “This’s the Ysabel Kid coming with a message from Millie ’n’ Day Leckenby.”

  “Ride up here slow ’n’ easy, young feller,” answered a cracked, ancient voice from behind the tree.

  “I’ll do just that,” promised the Kid and, at his signal, the stallion started moving once more.

  Cradling his old Spencer carbine ready for use, Leathers of the Rafter C told the bluetick crouched at his side to stay put. Then the old-timer watched the white stallion drawing closer. There was one hell of a fine horse. It moved quietly, despite its size, like a wild mustang rather than a trained saddle-critter. The baby-faced young cowhand had looked to have Indian blood. Horse-Indian most likely. Only a better than fair rider could stay on the stallion’s back——

  Only the Texan might not be staying on it.

  “Hold it right there, feller!” Leathers ordered. “Them black duds make you sort of hard to see.”

  A low whistle came from the range, sounding uncomfortably like it originated from a position that put Leathers in its maker’s view. As the stallion stopped, a quiet, drawling voice rose from the same place.

  “Depends on where you’re looking.”

  “Stay put, Sam!” Leathers growled and the dog sank back to the crouching position that it had been on the point of leaving on hearing the Texan’s words. “Feller that sneaky’s likely to blow your bead off if you start gnawing on his arm.”

  “Only if he goes higher’n the elbow,” the Kid corrected, walking toward the tree. “You out a-courting this late, friend?”

  “Courting’s for young sprout’s hasn’t l’arned better sense,” Leathers answered, feeling admiration at the way he had been tricked. Concentrating on the approaching stallion, both he and the bluetick had failed to see or hear its rider quit the saddle and take up his present position. “I’m out coon-hunting.”

  “With that relic?” the Kid scoffed, taking his right hand from the rifle to jerk a derisive thumb in the direction of the old-timer’s highly prized Spencer. It was also a gesture of peace, for the Kid had removed the hand that would be needed to fire the Winchester.

  “When I shoots ’em,” Leathers replied, lowering the .52-caliber Spencer, “I aims to see’s they stops shot. What’s up in town, young feller?”

  “Day Leckenby got shot tonight.”

  “The hell he did! Who done it?”

  “One of the sawmill bunch. Sheriff asked for us to come and tell Cash Trinian.”

  “Figures,” Leathers growled. “Cash was a damned good deputy. Get your hoss ’n’ ride on, I’ll catch up to you along the track. My hoss’s hid in a hollow out there.”

  When Leathers joined him, riding a leggy dun gelding, the Kid explained why he had not come at a faster pace. Then they continued to ride in the direction of the ranch-house. On arrival, they left their horses before the building and went across the front porch. Leathers knocked on the door of the darkened building and, after a moment, a light glowed in one of the windows. Raising the window, Trinian looked out. Telling the men to wait, he disappeared. A minute or so ticked by, then the window went dark and the parlor was illuminated. The door opened and Trinian stood at it, barefoot and with his night-shirt tucked hit-and-miss into his pants. Beyond him, wearing a night-cap and with a robe over her nightgown, Corey-Mae looked worriedly across the room.

  “Oh. It’s you,” Trinian growled ungraciously, letting the Kid and Leathers enter, directing his words at the Texan. “You was a mite cagey last time you called. Didn’t hit us until after you’d gone, but Endicott’s law-wrangling pard lived in Mulrooney and Calamity Jane ’n’ the Canary gal’s got one name the same.”

  “Calam’s Martha Jane Canary all right,” the Kid admitted. “Only we didn’t find them two hosses straying. We’d had to gun down their owners to stop ’em killing us. Thing like that happens, it makes a man careful. And you didn’t act any too sociable when we rode up.”

  “We’d got our reasons——!” Trinian began hotly.

  “Why have you come, Kid?” Corey-Mae interrupted.

  “Day Leckenby got tricked out of town tonight,” the Kid replied. “He was bushwhacked, but got back wounded. It was done so that the Eastfield gal’s guns could sic that Olaf hombre on to me safe-like.”

  “Only they didn’t sic him on to you, looks like,” Trinian growled.

  “The hell they didn’t!” snapped the Kid, temper starting to rise. “I had to fan two forty-four bal
ls into him to sort of cool him out of the notion. Calamity helped some——”

  “What’s happened to Day Leckenby?” Corey-Mae cut in. “That’s the important thing right now.”

  “He’s hit bad. Sent me to fetch your husband in,” the Kid supplied.

  “To help him,” Trinian demanded, “or you?”

  “Cash!” Corey-Mae gasped.

  “Him, mister. Your friend!” the Kid replied. “I’ve got all the helping I need on my belt and in my saddle-boot.”

  “Just a minute, Kid!” Corey-Mae snapped, advancing across the room with bare feet making determined slaps on the floor. “Now both of you stop behaving like stupid boys and start acting like grown men! I’m ashamed of you, Cash Trinian. And you’re no better than he is, Lon Ysabel. Sit at that table, both of you!”

  There was something commanding and impressive about the way the woman glared at the two abashed men. Under her cold scrutiny, they took seats facing each other across the table. Placing herself in a chair between them, she looked from her husband to the Kid.

  “Men!” Corey-Mae snorted. “I guessed who Calamity was while we were making the meal. But when the same notion finally struck Cash, he wanted to charge into town for a showdown. I thought that I’d talked him into enough sense to wait until morning and go in to ask what Calamity intends to do with the ranch. One thing I know. Whatever she decides, it will be a fair decision and not based on who rode with what damned stupid outfit in the War.”

  “You can count on Calam for that, ma’am,” the Kid admitted,

  “If she was a man I’d not be so sure!” Corey-Mae answered, eyeing the men coldly. “Day Leckenby’s your friend, Cash. And I’d say you like him, Kid. Even if you don’t, it was because of you, and Calamity, that he was shot. But instead of deciding how the hell you can best help him, you’re both thinking of who rode in what damned color uniform.”