Trouble Trail

by J. T. Edson

  ‘You gals had best go back over the rim,’ Calamity said, jumping down from her wagon. ‘We’ve got some skinning to do.’

  ‘Is it as bad as that?’ asked Eileen.

  ‘Bad enough, Boston, gal.’

  Neither Eileen nor Molly argued for they knew Calamity was giving them a frank, honest warning and not flaunting her superiority over Eastern-born women in a practical, if bloody, piece of Great Plains business.

  Watched by an interested Bigelow and the two butchers, Resin drew his Ames knife and approached the buffalo. First the scout cut through the skin in a circle around the neck and just behind the horns, rolling some of the freed hide back. With that done, he slashed through the hide from neck to the end of the belly and opened the leg skin up to join the belly cut. Turning, he looked to see if Calamity was ready to do her share.

  Telling the butchers to bring out the rope, spike and hammer with them, Calamity uncoupled the double-tree from the wagon but still left her horses harnessed to it. One of the butchers sprang down from the wagon and handed her the coil of stout rope, then stood back to see what she aimed to do with it. Securing one end of the rope securely to the clevis of the double-tree, Calamity carried the other end to where Resin had started to do his part in the skinning.

  With his cutting done, Resin took the sledgehammer and stout, pointed iron rod from the other butcher. He drove the spoke through the buffalo’s nose and deep into the soil so it held firm, then took the other end of Calamity’s rope, gathered up a roll of skin on the animal’s back and lashed it firmly and securely to the rope. Testing the knot’s hold, he looked at Calamity.

  ‘Let ‘em go, gal!’ he ordered.

  Cracking her whip with one hand and controlling the reins with the other, Calamity started her horses forward. She watched the rope grow tighter and made sure the knots would hold before giving her next order. On a shout and whip crack from Calamity, the two horses started forward, thrusting into their harness to get more power as they felt resistance. With a sickening, soggy, rending sound, the hide peeled backwards over the rump of the carcase and trailed on the ground behind Calamity’s horses.

  All in all it had been a neat piece of skinning in the manner devised by buffalo-hunters. However, there was one difference between Calamity’s party and the buffalo-slaughtering hide-hunters; where the hide-hunters left all but the skin to rot—unless they happened to take a tongue or other choice part—Calamity’s party planned to take along every piece of meat, hide and bone, leaving as little waste as possible.

  ‘There’s your hide, Wade,’ Resin remarked after unfastening the rope and rolling up the skin with the deft touch of a master.

  ‘Thanks,’ replied the captain, not showing the interest one might have expected at being presented with a prime buffalo’s hide; especially as he particularly wanted one to make into a carriage-rug for Molly. ‘I reckon I’ll go join the ladies.’

  Resin and the other two men did not regard that as a show of weakness. Fact being the two butchers looked a mite green around the gills and Resin hated the sound of stripping off a hide in such a manner. So did Calamity and she wanted to get the work done as quickly as possible.

  The other three hides were removed, though each took a longer time as the body under it cooled. A cursing Calamity watched the last hide come free and stopped her horses. Even though she felt sickened, Calamity’s first thought was for her team. She unhitched the two horses, watered them from the five-gallon keg fastened to the wagon, then left the animals to graze. Walking up the slope and passing over it, leaving the three men to handle the butchering and loading of the wagon, Calamity found Eileen lazing by the bushes, but no sign of Molly and Bigelow.

  ‘Hey, Boston,’ she said, shaking the dozing girl. ‘Where’re the love-birds?’

  ‘Huh? Oh, they went for a ride.’

  ‘They did what?’ gasped Calamity, staring in disbelief at the tracks of two horses leading from the bushes. ‘Didn’t reckon they was headed for the wagon train, did they?’

  ‘No,’ Eileen replied, standing up as she saw the concern on Calamity’s face. ‘They said they’d take a short ride and join us in an hour or so.’

  ‘Danged fools!’ grunted Calamity. ‘Wade’s a nice feller and smart in a lot of ways. Only he’s no plains scout and it’s hellish easy to get lost out here. I reckon I’d best go look for them.’

  ‘Shall I come along?’

  ‘Nope. I don’t want to fuss with that mean Appaloosa and there’s only one other hoss.’

  ‘Why not tell Beau and let him go?’ asked Eileen.

  ‘ ‘Cause he’s more use down there helping with the butchering and loading than I would be. And the sooner we get back to the train, the better me ‘n’ him’ll like it.’

  ‘I thought you said there had been no Indian sign?’

  ‘Time to start worrying about Injuns is when you don’t see ‘em,’ Calamity answered. ‘Can I take the hoss?’

  ‘Do you need to ask?’

  ‘Sure do, with a gal who fights as good as you do,’ grinned Calamity. ‘And don’t worry, gal. I’ll bring that lil schoolmarm of our’n back safe and sound.’

  ‘You see you do,’ Eileen replied. ‘Or you and I’ll take another walk in the woods.’

  Eileen had been wearing a divided skirt and riding astride, which was fortunate, for Calamity had never been on a sidesaddle such as was popular among female riders back East. The way Calamity looked at the situation, she might need all her riding skill before the day was out.

  Collecting Eileen’s horse, Calamity saddled and bridled it. For a moment she thought of borrowing one of the rifles from the wagon, but discarded the idea. If any Indians had been in hearing distance, the sound of the shots fired at the buffalo might bring them in. Not even settlers were hated by the Indians as were hide-hunters; and the Indian did not draw any distinction between slaughter for hides and folks hunting food. If a bunch of Cheyenne came on the party, they would attack and having three rifles could mean the difference between life and death for Calamity’s friends.

  While Eileen walked down to the wagon to tell the others, Calamity took the departed couple’s trail. Although Calamity found little difficulty in following the tracks, she could not make even as much speed as Molly and Bigelow raised; and from the sign they had not been pushing their horses to any great extent. As she rode along, Calamity decided on just what she aimed to say to Captain Wade H. Bigelow when she caught up with him; it would not be ladylike, that was for sure, but aimed to tell him in pungent, profane terms just what she thought of his stupidity. Hell, not even being in love gave old Wade the right to take such damned fool chances with his and Molly’s lives.

  ‘Dang. that Wade!’ she spat out after trailing the couple for almost three miles. ‘Why in hell don’t he stop acting like a gentleman and take her off some place cool and shady?’

  A flutter of white caught the corner of Calamity’s eye and brought her twisting around in the saddle, right hand turning palm out by the butt of her Colt. One glance told her two things: first, she would not have need for the gun; second, that Bigelow appeared to have taken Molly some place cool and shady. The little schoolteacher stood on the edge of a fair-sized clump of bushes and waved as happily as if on a New England Sunday-school picnic.

  ‘Hey!’ Molly greeted as Calamity rode up.

  ‘Where in hell’s shiny-butt?’ growled Calamity in reply, seeing no sign of the gallant captain.

  ‘I thought we’d dropped that name!’ Molly said a trifle stiffly.

  ‘We dropped it when he stopped acting it. Which same he started again, or he wouldn’t’ve taken you lolly-gagging off like this.’

  ‘We only took a ride!’ Molly answered, a blush creeping to her cheeks as she dropped a hand to the blouse, discovering its buttons to be fastened in the wrong holes—which they had not been in leaving the meat-hunting party.

  ‘Sure, honey,’ Calamity replied gently. ‘Where’s he at?’

  ‘He’s just l
ike a boy,’ smiled Molly, although a few minutes before Bigelow’s actions had been anything but boy-like. ‘After we—Well, we went through the bushes and saw a herd of those little pronghorn antelope. I said I would like to examine one of them and Wade insisted on trying to ride one down for me.’

  ‘He went chasing a pronghorn on hoss-back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Danged if he’s not worse’n I thought. That’s like trying to out-swim a trout going up-stream.’

  The fact that Calamity said ‘danged’ and nothing stronger told Molly that her friend had partially forgiven Bigelow.

  ‘They are fast,’ Molly admitted.

  ‘He’s not slow his-self,’ grinned Calamity. ‘Only he’s got about as much chance of catching one of them white-romped streaks of lightning as I have of becoming a for-real lady.’

  ‘Calam!’ thought Molly, knowing better by now than expess it in words. ‘You may not dress the part, but you’re a for-real lady now.’ She went on aloud, ‘Are they that fast?’

  ‘Danged fastest thing on four legs on the plains,’ replied Calamity, seeing Bigelow ride into sight. ‘Here he comes, without a pronghorn.’

  The girls walked together through the bushes and halted at the other edge to wait for Bigelow’s arrival, keeping under cover for Calamity never liked to be unduly exposed when out on the Great Plains. Riding up. Bigelow came to a halt in the bushes and threw a glance at Molly.

  ‘He got away, darling. Say. while we’re waiting for my horse to cool out why don’t we—?’

  ‘Reckon I ought to close my eyes?’ asked Calamity who had been standing to one side and behind a bush.

  ‘Hey. Calam,’ Bigelow greeted. ‘We’ve just been resting Molly’s horse and I thought—’

  ‘Yeah,’ Calamity said dryly. ‘I know it. Only—Hell fire, Wade, we got us some real trouble!’

  From where they stood, Calamity had a good view of the country traversed by Bigelow in his fruitless chase after the pronghorn herd. Turning, Bigelow saw what had turned Calamity’s voice from faintly ironic to dead serious. A cold, sick feeling hit Bigelow in the pit of his stomach as he saw the deadly danger into which he had brought the girl he loved.

  They came into sight over a rim not half a mile away, riding slowly as one of their number followed Bigelow’s trail—almost twenty Cheyenne warriors led by a tall war-bonnet chief with a yellow-ochre covered face, wearing much-decorated cavalry gauntlets and with an old Colt Dragoon revolver thrust into his waistband. At that distance Bigelow could not pick out the details of the chief’s dress and Calamity had not heard a description of Sand Runner. So, although they did not know the great war-leader was present. both knew for certain sure they had found about as bad trouble as three palefaces ever came across upon the Great Plains.

  One thing—and it was not much—remained in their favour. So far the Indians only knew of Bigelow’s presence. The bushes prevented the approaching Cheyenne from seeing the girls. No Indian would have contented himself in riding at so leisurely a pace had he known that two prime white-brother squaws stood just ready for the taking. However, that thought did not give Calamity any great joy. Happen they tried to run for safety, the Cheyenne could not miss seeing them and each man rode his war-relay. Using their spare, fresh horses, the Cheyenne could ride down the three palefaces before covering a mile, especially as Bigelow’s mount had been hard-ridden.

  Yet if they stayed, Calamity, Molly and Bigelow would be in no better shape for one man and two girls—even if one be Calamity Jane—could not hold off the attack of a score of was-wise Cheyenne braves hot and eager for coups or glory. Calamity knew that all too well. So, it seemed, did Bigelow.

  He had dismounted on arrival and swung to face Molly, placing his hands on her shoulders. Lowering his head, he kissed her.

  ‘Molly.’ he said gently. ‘I love you, my darling. I love you. Never forget that.’

  Without any warning of what he meant to do, Bigelow bunched his right hand into a fist and drove it against Molly’s jaw. The little blonde collapsed, but Bigelow caught her and lowered her gently to the ground. Then he looked up at Calamity expecting to find her showing amazement, anger or curiosity. Instead all he could read was admiration and realised he did not need to explain his action or what he aimed to do next,

  ‘Let me go,’ Calamity said.

  ‘I’d never find my way back to the others, Calam.’ Bigelow replied. ‘Don’t argue, there’s no time and I don’t want to leave you lying by Molly. Take care of my little girl, Calam.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Calamity promised, gripping the man’s hand. ‘Try to get that damned war-bonnet chief there. Drop him and the rest might pull out. Good luck, shiny-butt.’

  ‘And you, red top. Tell Molly I love her.’

  Vaulting on to his horse, Bigelow kicked it into movement and sent it charging out of the bushes, headed off at a tangent from the Indians. Even as he went, Bigelow realised that for the first time in his experience the words ‘shiny-butt’ had not been used as an insult, but came out full of Calamity’s unexpressed pride.

  On seeing the captain burst out of the bushes, every Cheyenne voice lifted in a wild, ringing yell and each man started his horse forward at a gallop, in doing so, they swung clear of the bushes and headed away from the girls, just as Bigelow hoped they would.

  He rode his tiring horse for almost half a mile, hearing the enemy hooves drawing closer. Pulling the Army Colt from his holster, Bigelow swung his horse to face the Cheyenne. His face grew set and grim as he went to meet them. Twenty against one. Yet he must face them for Molly, his darling, loving little Molly’s life hung in the balance.

  Twice Bigelow fired as the men closed on him, but he did not find opportunity to take Calamity’s advice. Sand Runner’s name as a warrior had been long established and he did not need to take chances. So the chief hovered in the background and allowed the young bucks to bear the brunt of the attack. His bull voice roared out a deep-throated order and,- to Bigetow’s surprise the attacking braves made no attempt to use their guns or bows even though one of their number slid from the back of his pony.

  Then one of the braves cut loose with his buffalo-bow, sending its arrow into the chest of the soldier’s horse. Feeling his mount going down under him. Bigelow kicked his feet free of the stirrups. His luck ran out for the horse landed awkwardly and threw him off balance. Down he went, rolling over as the hooves of the horses churned around him. Just as he reared up to try to shoot, the butt end of a buffalo lance crashed down on to his head and everything went black.

  Calamity had watched everything and a shudder ran through her as she saw Bigelow taken alive. Even without being conscious of the action, her Colt slid into her hand. Just as Calamity prepared to charge out and attempt a rescue, or to kill Bigelow and save him from torture, a moan from Molly brought her to her senses.

  ‘Not a sound, honey!’ she whispered, dropping to her knees and laying a hand over Molly’s mouth. ‘Can I trust you?’

  Surprise, puzzlement came to Molly’s glazed eyes, then realisation, remembrance and understanding cleared them and Molly nodded.

  ‘Where is he, Calam?’ she asked when the hand moved from her mouth.

  ‘Out there—Keep still, gal, we can’t help so don’t let it be in vain.’

  ‘I—I don’t want to live without W—him.’

  ‘I do, and he wants you to!’ Calamity growled, holding her voice down. ‘The red-sticks took him prisoner, gal. Now hold yourself. For gawd’s sake don’t go all woman on me, or I’ll have to quieten you.’

  ‘C—can’t we do anything?’

  ‘Only one thing. Get back to the others, head for the train and get help to go and rescue him.’

  For once in her life Calamity had told a deliberate, serious lie to a friend. She knew in her heart that there was hardly a hope in the world of rescuing Bigelow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MISS CANARY HEARS AN ULTIMATUM

  A WHITE-FACED, dry-eyed Molly Johnso
n stared at Calamity as the full impact of the horror of the situation hit her. Yet she did not go ‘woman,’ turn hysterical. Moving cautiously, the two girls crept to the edge of the bushes and peered out, watching the Cheyenne ride away with Bigelow’s body draped across the back of a horse. Calamity could feel Molly trembling and laid a hand upon the girl’s arm.

  ‘We must do something, Calam!’ Molly moaned.

  ‘Sure, Molly, gal. We’ll let those red scouts get clear, then ride like hell to the wagon.’

  ‘Couldn’t we follow them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You mean I couldn’t!’ Molly gasped. ‘Leave me here—’

  Turning to face Molly, Calamity gripped her by the shoulders and shook her gently but firmly.

  ‘Don’t act loco, gal. And don’t say that I can go and leave you to find your way back to Beau. You’d be lost in a mile. The quicker we get back to Beau, the quicker he can decide what to do.’

  Molly nodded. Tears trickled down her cheeks and her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Taking the little girl into her arms, Calamity soothed her like a child, showing a gentleness which might have surprised many people who made an acquaintance with Martha Jane Canary at happier moments. When the flow of tears had passed and Molly regained something of a hold on herself, Calamity turned to look after the far-distant Cheyenne.

  ‘Let’s go, honey.’ she said, helping Molly to rise.

  Taking their horses, the girls rode cautiously from the bushes. Clearly the Cheyenne believed Bigelow to be alone for none of them even offered to look back in the direction of the bushes. For all that Calamity forced the pace; for protection and also to make Molly believe there might be a chance of rescuing Bigelow.

  By the time they returned to the wagon, they found that most of the butchering and loading had been completed. Eileen and the three men watched the girls ride up and all showed some curiosity as to why Bigelow did not come with them.

  ‘Where’s Wade, Calam?’ Resin asked.