Ranch War

by J. T. Edson

  “Why not?” Calamity inquired. “With all them guns you’ve got hired, you ought to be able to handle a four-man ranch crew.”

  Watching Florence’s face, Calamity could see worry lines on it. If the blonde was not grieving, she felt deeply concerned by Olaf’s death. Whatever caused the emotion went deeper than the demise of the bald giant. Florence’s cheeks reddened at the girl’s increasingly mocking tone. Sucking in a deep breath, the blonde allowed it to come out again in an annoyed hiss.

  “It was the law, not the ranch crew that stopped me damming the river.”

  “Day Leckenby?”

  “No. This’s ranching country and one of the State Legislature’s laws is that you cannot deprive a ranch of its water supply.”

  “Which you’d’ve done if you threw that dam across the Loup.”

  “Exactly,” Florence agreed. “It wouldn’t affect the ranchers further down the Loup; they have side streams that would give them enough for their needs.”

  “So that’s what’s behind it,” Calamity growled. “You’re willing to run the Trinians off their land just so that you can cut the timber up here.”

  “It didn’t start out that way,” Florence answered bitterly. “When I took the contract, nobody mentioned ab——”

  “About the water rights of the ranchers,” Calamity finished for her. “In other words, Flo, you got too——”

  Stepping forward, Florence swung her right hand in a slap that rocked the girl’s head and almost tumbled her from the bench. Vandor glided forward, catching hold of Calamity’s shoulder and forcing her to remain seated as she tried to rise and retaliate. Hotheaded as Calamity might be, she knew the value of caution. Trying to repay the blow right then would get her nowhere. So she held her temper under control and waited for Florence to continue.

  “Nobody took me!” the blonde gritted, her whole attitude showing that she secretly agreed with Calamity. “I offered to buy the Trinians out honestly enough. But they wouldn’t sell.”

  “Couldn’t sell,” Calamity corrected.

  “Wouldn’t, couldn’t, it all meant the same to me; that I wasn’t able to fulfill my contract. Then I learned they were trying to locate you to buy the ranch.”

  “And you fixed it through The Outfit so your hired guns got to me afore I saw Lawyer Talbot and learned about the ranch. Why not have me killed in Topeka?”

  “The Outfit didn’t want trouble there, or the chance of you being connected to one of their men,” Florence admitted and Vandor let out a worried growl.

  “Then you was real lucky that I had to be sent on to Counselor Talbot in Mulrooney,” Calamity remarked, guessing that Vandor did not approve of his employer discussing The Outfit’s affairs.

  “Like hell it was luck!” Florence protested. “I wrote to Pinkerton’s in Endicott’s name and told them to have their man take you to Lawyer Grosvenor instead of to Talbot. That was planning, not luck.”

  “Either way,” Calamity grinned, “it sure went sour on you.”

  “How’d you get hold of Ruiz’s sabino and Hogue’s bay?” Vandor demanded.

  “Me ’n’ the Kid killed ’em,” Calamity answered without thinking.

  “You and who?” Vandor spat out.

  His attitude gave Calamity a warning and she decided against making known the true identity of her companion. If Vandor learned that the black-dressed Texan was the Ysabel Kid, he would figure that the story of the desertion was a lie.

  “What’s the idea of fetching me up here, Flo?” Calamity asked, ignoring the man. “Did you figure I’d be scared enough to sell out to you if you got hold of me?”

  “Would you be?”

  “Would you believe me was I to say ‘yes’?”

  “No,” Florence replied. “You might agree to sell, but I doubt if you’d keep to doing it. So there’s only one thing left.”

  “What’d that be?” asked Calamity.

  “You’re going to meet with an accident,” Florence explained. “A very bad accident. It’ll be fatal.”

  “Who’d you say helped you to down Hogue and Ruiz?” Vandor growled, moving closer to the girl.

  Ducking her head, Calamity butted Vandor in the body with sufficient force to stagger him backward. Then the girl straightened up, meaning to use her feet or any other method to remove Florence from her path. Even as she came erect, Calamity felt a hand catch hold of her shoulder. Pulled around, she saw that Florence had not been taken as unawares as had the gunslinger. Having turned Calamity, the blonde threw a punch with her other fist. Putting her whole weight behind it, Florence drove up her hand. The knuckles impacted under Calamity’s jaw. Lifted on to her toes, Calamity pitched on to her back unconscious.

  “Get up!” Florence snapped at Vandor as Logger ran toward her. “She was right about one thing. We both had lousy luck in picking our male help.”

  Lurching erect, Vandor rubbed his chest and moved toward where Calamity sprawled motionless on the ground.

  “I’ll kill her!” the gunslinger spat out.

  “My way,” Florence interrupted. “Get hold of one of those crowbars, Logger. Lift that log on the carriage high enough for Mr. Vandor to slip a length of rope under it. Then put the girl on the log, fasten her there.”

  Picking up one of the big, wide-ended iron crowbars which were used for altering the positions of the logs on the carriage, Logger obeyed. Vandor paused for a moment, looking at the blonde.

  “You mean you’re going to——?”

  “I’m going to arrange for an ‘accident’ to happen to Miss Martha Jane Canary,” Florence answered coldly. “She has to die, or The Outfit will want to know why not.”

  “Yeah,” Vandor agreed.

  Already the girl knew enough to make trouble for a member of The Outfit and that organization was not noted for restricting its reprisals to the direct cause. If Martha Jane Canary lived, The Outfit were going to ask why and Vandor would be one of the people required to give an answer.

  “And, in case anything goes wrong,” Florence continued. “I want to be able to show anybody who can demand an answer that it was an accident. Way her body’ll look after it’s been through the saw, I doubt if there’ll be too close an examination of how she died.”

  Collecting a length of rope that hung on the wall, Vandor went to do his part in the execution. Florence took hold of Calamity’s ankles and dragged her toward the men. Leaving them to raise her, the blonde collected a small hammer and some nails from the stores area of the mill.

  Opening her eyes, Calamity groaned. First she tried to move a hand to her jaw, then to sit up. Through the swirls of dizziness, she realized that she was held down on a hard, rough surface. An attempt to move her legs warned that her trousers were fastened against the sides—of a log.

  Understanding of her position sank in like an icy cold knife. Turning her head from side to side, Calamity knew that her supposition had been correct. Managing to raise her shoulders, she looked down her body to where the shining serrated blade of the circular saw glinted at the other end of the carriage. Only by exerting all her willpower could she hold down a shudder as she swung her eyes back to Florence and the two men.

  “Is this because I helped get your brother killed?” the girl asked Florence.

  “Partly,” the blonde admitted. “Partly because you humiliated me in town. But mainly so that you meet with a fatal ‘accident.’ Naturally I’ll be horrified and distressed when I hear the news. But nobody can blame me if you get killed ‘accidentally’ while you’re snooping around my sawmill.”

  “Reckon these two fellers’ll go along with you on doing it?”

  “They will. Logger’s been blacklisted by every major timber company. He’ll never get another job. So he’ll do what I tell him to keep this one. And Mr. Vandor knows that he daren’t let you live. The Outfit wouldn’t like that at all. Start the saw, Logger. We’re going to fetch in the rest of the men from Burwell.”

  “Sure, Miss Eastfield,” Logger answered. />
  “Hey, fatso!” Calamity called as Florence turned away. “You’d better hope this works, ’cause if it don’t and I get loose, I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born.”

  Chapter 15 WHERE’VE THEY GOT THE GAL?

  “TEND TO THE BLASTED HORSES, BUNJY!” MUTTERED the man assigned to that task by Vandor as he removed the last saddle. “Get me another ready! I’d’ve been better off working as a wrangler on a ranch.”

  With that he let the third horse free in the corral. He had collected a rope from the bunkhouse and took his time in selecting then catching a mount for Vandor to use. While doing so, he looked at the sawmill and wondered what was happening inside. Still muttering, he leisurely saddled the horse and led it from the corral. About to replace the poles of the gate, a movement down the slope beyond the enclosure attracted his attention. Hand dropping to the butt of his Colt, he looked that way. With a grunt, he removed his hand. A dun gelding, riderless and without a saddle, was moving through the trees and bushes.

  “Damn it!” Bunjy spat. “One of ’em must’ve got out. I’d best go get it or they’ll say I let it slip by me.”

  With that, he fastened Vandor’s mount to the corral, closed the gate and picked up his rope. Walking toward the horse, he tried to think who owned it and how it had escaped. It must belong to the sawmill, no other horses strayed that far into the wooded slopes.

  Drawing closer, Bunjy noticed that the dun appeared to have been hard-ridden and was lathered heavily. Not a particularly bright man, he failed to detect any special significance from the animal’s condition. It stood grazing beyond a thick, heavily foliaged dogwood bush. Advancing slowly and cautiously, so that he could get within rope-throwing distance, he had eyes for nothing but the horse.

  Suddenly a hand and black-sleeved arm extended from beneath the bush and closed about Bunjy’s forward ankle as it touched the ground, giving a sharp tug at it. Tumbling forward, the man opened his mouth to yell. His arrival on the ground drove the breath from his lungs. To his ears came a rustling of the foliage, then a knee rammed into his spine and pinned him down. He felt his revolver jerked from the holster and tried to struggle. Apparently his unseen assailant had tossed the gun aside, for the same right hand which had removed it shoved off his hat and dug into his hair. Letting out a grunt, Bunjy prepared to cut loose with a louder sound as his head was dragged back and up. Before the shout could be uttered, he saw something which caused him to hurriedly revise his opinion. Passing slowly through his range of vision, the enormous, razor-sharp blade of a bowie knife sank and its cutting edge touched lightly against his tight-stretched throat.

  “Make one sound and it’ll be your last!” growled a savage voice. “When I move my knee, roll over slow ’n’ easy.”

  Feeling the knee and knife move, Bunjy obeyed. He knew that his assailant had not gone far, a view that was confirmed as he turned on to his back. A tall, bare-headed, black-dressed man dropped into a kneeling position astride Bunjy and the bowie knife’s point prodded under his chin. Held flat on the ground by the figure’s weight and threat of the knife, Bunjy stared up at an Indian-dark, savage face. Hearing footsteps approaching, Bunjy turned his head slowly. Any hopes of a rescue that he felt died as he saw Cash Trinian and a cowhand coming up the slope in his direction.

  “Wha—How——?” Bunjy croaked.

  “From where I’m sitting,” drawled the Ysabel Kid, “I’d say it was for me to be asking the questions.”

  “And, mister,” Staff went on, holding the Kid’s rifle almost reverently, “was I you, I’d right quick ’n’ truthful come up with the answers. We’ve been riding too hard ’n’ fast to want lies.”

  Clearly the young cowhand spoke from the bottom of his heart. In fact, Staff would never forget what he had just been through. Although able to ride almost from the time he could walk, the young cowhand had been hard pressed to keep up with his boss during the journey from Hollick City. Trinian, no mean hand on a horse, had at times been on the point of suggesting to the Kid that they make a slower pace.

  On being told the news of Calamity’s capture, the Kid, Trinian and Staff had reduced their horses’ burdens to a minimum. Carrying only a reserve of ammunition, they had set out for the sawmill. Born and raised in Hollick County, Trinian had led his companions by a shorter, more direct route than that taken by Vandor’s party. The way they had come did not offer easy traveling and they had crossed areas that would have been impossible to any but the finest horsemen. Avoiding the river trail, they had missed the men sent to cover it by Vandor.

  When Trinian had announced that the sawmill lay up the next ridge, the Kid had suggested that they should scout the area on foot. The fact that Vandor had taken Calamity alive hinted that she would still be that way. For her rescuers to be discovered might prove fatal to the girl.

  So the Kid had gone ahead, silently as a raiding Comanche. Seeing Bunjy leading the horses to the corral, the Kid realized that there was a chance of gaining information. Stalking the man would be difficult as there was a stretch of open ground to cover. So the Kid had decided that, if he could not reach Bunjy, the gunslinger must come to him.

  With that in mind, Staff had been instructed to remove the saddle and bridle from his horse. Taking the animal, the Kid had led it up the slope until sure that the man in the corral would see it. Then he had hidden himself under the dogwood bush to await developments. Bunjy had responded as required and the Kid now possessed the means of obtaining information.

  “Where’re they holding the gal?” the Kid demanded.

  “What g——?” Bunjy croaked.

  Instantly the position of the knife changed, its point going to the center of the man’s face.

  “It’s your nose,” the Kid remarked with an icy casualness that warned he was not bluffing.

  “Sh—They took her into the sawmill!” Bunjy yelped. “I dunno why or——”

  “Sit up,” ordered the Kid, coming to his feet.

  Obediently, Bunjy forced himself into a sitting position. Behind him, Staff raised the Kid’s rifle and drove it downward. The butt cracked against the top of Bunjy’s skull and he flopped backward limply.

  “Hawg-tie him,” ordered the Kid. “Why in hell didn’t you whomp him with your own gun?”

  “And chance busting it?” Staff replied, handing over the Winchester and kneeling to carry out the Kid’s instructions.

  At first, during the ride from the ranch to Hollick City, Staff had tended to be cold and distant toward the Kid. The young cowhand could not see why his boss had needed to ask a Texan to help them hand the sawmill bunch their needings. Before they had reached the town, Staff’s opinion had begun to change. The way the Kid had handled the white stallion started the change and nothing Staff had seen since caused him to alter his view that, Texan or not, the Kid would do to ride the river with. Impressed by the Kid’s ability as he had been while watching the capture of Bunjy, Staff answered the Kid’s complaint in a typical cowhand manner.

  Working quickly, Staff and Trinian lashed Bunjy’s hands and feet with pigging thongs they had brought for that purpose. Gagging him with his own bandana, they rolled the limp, unresisting man under the bush that had sheltered and concealed the Kid. Then they rose and followed the Indian-dark Texan toward the buildings. Revolvers in hand, Trinian and Staff watched the rear of the cabins. Nobody challenged them, but the Kid gave a signal that brought them to a halt as they advanced alongside the cookshack.

  Peering over the Kid’s shoulder, Staff saw Florence Eastfield and Vandor going into a cabin in front of which was hitched a saddled horse. The Kid let them enter before resuming his advance toward the open double doors of the sawmill. The three men heard the sound of the steam engine and whirring of the saw, without connecting them to Calamity.

  “Reckon that feller was telling the truth?” the Kid asked.

  “He was too scared not to,” Staff declared.

  “Best take a look inside and make sure,” Trinian suggested.r />
  Nodding his agreement, the Kid led the way into the building. Unemotional as he usually appeared, he slammed to a halt and stared. Behind him, Trinian and Staff stood transfixed with horror at the sight of Calamity stretched out on the log, with a rope about her arms and torso, and trouser legs nailed to the wood. Moving forward on the carriage, the log was bearing the girl toward the blurring, whirring blade of the big circular saw.

  “Lon!” Calamity croaked.

  Even as the word broke from the girl, Trinian growled, “We’ve got to stop this damned thing!”

  Looking for the means of doing so, and hoping that they would recognize it when it came into their range of vision, the trio saw Logger standing by the control lever. With a snarl, the big man snatched up a lumberjack’s peavey. Gripping the six-foot-long, stout wooden pole with its sharppointed spike and hook at the thicker end, Logger prepared to defend his last chance of holding down a well-paid job. Drink, the cause of his being blacklisted by the major logging companies, had dulled his mind to the point where he could think of only one thing at a time. So, concerned only with retaining a job that brought money for more liquor, he ignored the fact that the newcomers were carrying firearms. Not that he needed to worry on that count.

  “No shooting!” warned the Kid, thrusting his Winchester into Staff’s left hand as the young cowhand started to raise his revolver. “I’ll take him!”

  Given a moment and the cause to think, Staff saw the reason for the Kid’s suggestion. At the sound of the shot, the rest of the sawmill’s crew would return. Apart from Logger, according to Leathers’ reports, they were all hired gun-slicks. That meant they possessed sufficient skill to make life mighty hectic for the rescuers.

  So Staff held his fire and watched the Kid. Out slid the bowie knife and the Texan rushed toward the burly lumberjack. Snarling a curse, Logger sprang to meet his attacker. To Trinian and Staff, it seemed that concern for Calamity’s safety had driven thought and good sense from the Kid. He was charging at the big man, apparently oblivious of the danger presented by the peavey’s pike or hook. Drink had not slowed Logger’s ability with the peavey. Gripping it in his two hands, he swung it sideways and aimed the hook in the direction of the Kid’s ribs.