The Big Hunt

by J. T. Edson

  Corben reached the same conclusions as the big hunter, and did not like them. Selling buffalo flints as a middle-man had proved one of the best investments he ever made, practically all profit and with very little risk. Such a deal possessed great charm to the avaricious storekeeper and he had no wish to see it slip away. Nor did he wish to lose Kerry’s services. Good hunters were hard to come by, and were mostly working under other employment. A man like Kerry Barran, skilled in his business, conscientious, willing to work hard himself and push the skinning crews just as hard, could not be found on a street corner, or loafing in any saloon.

  So the storekeeper wanted to retain Kerry’s services and could see no way of doing so. Offering a better financial arrangements would not work. Money meant little to a man like Kerry Barran. Appealing to the hunter as an old friend might, only there had never been friendship between the two men. Corben knew enough about Kerry to see argument, or pleading, would have as little effect as the threat of taking him to court. Anger boiled inside the storekeeper, but remained in his control, for he was no fighting man.

  “I’m not letting you get out of here like that!” shouted Corben, keeping a wary eye on the big dog, which now stood tense and watching at Kerry’s side.

  “Are you fixing to stop me?” asked Kerry quietly.

  “This’s Mr. Corben’s property, skin-hunter,” Berkmyer put in. “You keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  A smile twisted Kerry’s lips, only it had no mirth and did nothing to soften the gravity and hardness of his face. Then he moved away from the counter, the wolfhound gliding along as silent and menacing as a stalking cougar.

  “I’m going through that door, marshal,” Kerry said flatly. “You’re blocking my path.”

  There Berkmyer had it as plain as he could desire. Teeth drawn back in a threatening, challenging leer, fingers splayed out and hooked over the butt of his Colt, he stood full across the doorway. Silence dropped on the store, the three clerks and a couple of customers stopping their affairs to stare at the drama about to be enacted in the center of the room.

  Otley Creek lay too far West for cowhands and other gun-handy men to be common, and for the most part the railroad workers preferred to settle their quarrels with fists, feet, pick-handles or such methods. So the situation before the people in the store held an element of high excitement. All knew their marshal claimed to be real good with his tied-down Colt, having, he said, been trained by such masters as the Earp brothers and other trail-end town lawmen. He had shown to good advantage on several occasions while doing his duty as keeper of the town’s peace, handling trouble-causers with firmness and decision. Seeing his technique would make a conversation piece for weeks to come.

  Behind the counter, Corben stood silent, trying to communicate mentally with Berkmyer and request leniency in dealing with Kerry. A hunter shot dead, or even crippled, was unlikely to bring in any profit, and profit ruled Corben’s life. One thing the storekeeper knew, Kerry Barran did not intend to be prevented from leaving. How the affair went depended on what move Berkmyer made.

  Watching Kerry advance, Berkmyer knew he faced a real challenge. Suddenly he realized that he did not face a drunken bohunk lumper,* or celebrating gandy dancer, against whom he scored his other successes, and neither of which type was noted for skill in the use of firearms. The man advancing so purposefully toward the door was Kerry Barran, ex-rebel sharp-shooter, buffalo-hunter and fully conversant with the rudiments and refinements of handling a gun.

  At that moment Berkmyer recalled a couple of feats performed by Kerry with the carbine carried so negligently in his right hand. With two shots, the hunter tumbled a pair of turkey-vultures from the air as they glided down toward the rear of a railroad cook-shack. On another occasion, shooting from a distance of thirty yards, his first bullet severed the cord of a hanging bottle and the second shattered the bottle before it hit the ground.

  Of course, uncanny accuracy like that did not necessarily mean a man possessed the mental state needed to cut loose and kill a fellow human being; but nothing in Kerry Barran’s past life hinted that he would hesitate to kill should it become necessary.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, the marshal drew aside. He knew that word of his failure would pass around the town and hated the man who made him back water. However, he found that he lacked the courage to make a stand and face the consequences of his actions. Fury etched itself on Berkmyer’s face as he watched Kerry walk from the room. For a moment the marshal thought of drawing his gun and shooting, but sanity prevailed. He could not throw lead fast enough to kill the hunter and save himself from the dog’s attack.

  Kerry stood for a moment outside the store, and the bitter, mirthless grin still played on his lips. First Sharpie, then Corben, and finally the marshal. It seemed to be his day for making enemies.

  Chapter 3

  A MIGHTY UNUSUAL FREIGHTER

  “HEY, KERRY,” CALLED A VOICE AS THE HUNTER walked back to his horses, ready to mount, “’Tis back you are sooner than I expected.”

  Ma Gerhity came along the sidewalk, looking as plump, white-haired and motherly Irish as ever. Of all the people he knew, Ma came as close to being a friend as anybody. In addition to running a rooming house that was clean, comfortable and offered real good food, the old woman raised no objection to Kerry bringing Shaun into her home. While the wolfhound merely tolerated most folks, he accepted Ma and would even allow her to enter Kerry’s room without giving any warning, touch his master’s property—which meant anything that bore Kerry’s scent—and even pat his head. Not that Ma often did so, being of the rugged, sensible kind who knew a dog should only be praised and patted when it did something to deserve it.

  “I’ve quit skin-hunting,” Kerry replied.

  “Then your room’ll be ready for you when you come.”

  “Well, Ma,” drawled Kerry, glancing at the store. “The fact is——”

  “Aren’t you staying in town?”

  “For a spell.”

  “Then you’ll be staying with me like always,” insisted the old woman. “What hotel would take you with that damned great darlin’ beast along?”

  “None, likely,” Kerry admitted.

  “Oh!” said Ma, noticing Kerry’s glance at the store and realizing how his retirement might be received by Corben. “And is it trouble you’re after having with that black-hearted skinflint?”

  “A mite, Ma. I don’t want to bring any of it on you.”

  “That you will not, the devil of a bit!” snorted the old woman. “’Twill be a sorry day for me when the likes of Corben and his mealy-mouthed lawman cousin say who comes or goes at my house.”

  Knowing that to leave town at that time might be construed as a sign of guilt, Kerry determined to stay on. He had been willing to live rough, sleeping down by the river and taking his food as it came, but preferred to stay in town. That way nobody could say that he hid to avoid meeting his obligations. Ma’s house offered comfort and also a safe place to leave Shaun.

  “If you reckon it’ll be all right—” he began.

  “That I do,” Ma answered, throwing a glance at Shaun and seeing the dried blood on his coat. “Mercy me! What’s happened to him?”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s blood on him!”

  “It’s not his. He had a run-in with a dog belonging to a deputy.”

  “The saints be praised!” Ma exclaimed in delight, beaming at Shaun. “’Tis long gone time that somebody settled the hash of that Sharpie’s Bully. The brute’s killed many a dog around the town.”

  “He won’t kill any more,” Kerry answered. “This’s not my day for making friends, Ma.”

  While walking toward her house, the old woman tried to learn what kind of difficulty Kerry found himself in. Never one to expect help in sharing his troubles, the hunter told her only that Corben was considerably riled about his decision to quit hunting. Ma knew everyone in Otley Creek and could guess at the rest of Kerry’s problems. However, without
showing far too much interest in his affairs, she could not offer to help. Nor did she know for sure just how she might give assistance. All in all, Ma felt pleased when her home came into sight, for it offered her a chance to change the subject.

  “Looks like I’ve got more roomers,” she remarked.

  Kerry nodded, his eyes on the couple standing before the house and looking toward him.

  Most Western trades wore a distinctive style or fashion of dress which identified the wearer to eyes that knew the range country. Buckskin jackets, levis pants tucked into low-heeled boots, long, coiled bull whips thrust into waist belts spelled freighter anywhere west of the Big Muddy. Not that Kerry felt surprised at the big, brawny man working at that trade. Handling a six-horse team took skill and a fair amount of strength, both of which the man looked to have in plenty. He dressed well and had an undefinable air about him which set him apart as a leader rather than one of the led.

  The second of the pair, though; now there was a real surprise, nor did it grow less so the nearer Kerry walked and the more he observed. Standing five foot seven in height, that one did not look like the normal run of freighter. Few women did—and, mister, that for certain sure was a woman standing at the big freighter’s side. Not even the fringed buckskin jacket could hide the fact. Her levis pants looked like they had been bought a size too small and shrunk during washing, and the shirt’s front was unbuttoned low enough to dispel any lingering doubts as to her sex.

  One idea for the girl’s presence rose instantly to mind, then died again under closer scrutiny. Maybe the freighter liked his comforts and dressed the girl in such a manner to take her into Ma’s respectable house. Only one would need to be blind not to see through that thin disguise. Besides, on going closer, Kerry found the girl far different from a brazen saloon-worker or denizen of a cat-house. Long hours spent in an unwholesome trade, with little time outside in the fresh air, left dissipated marks upon such women.

  Only the girl showed no such signs. A U.S. cavalry kepi, perched jauntily on a mop of almost boyishly short red hair that framed a freckled, tanned, merry and refreshingly wholesome face. Not real out-and-out beautiful, maybe, but pretty enough and enhanced by a zest for life that glowed inside.

  Ma clearly knew the couple and appeared to approve of the girl, despite the unconventional dress, bull whip thrust into the waist belt and ivory-handled Navy Colt riding butt forward in the fast-draw holster at the right side of those tight-stretched, well-filled levis pants.

  Moving forward, the big man placed hands the size of hams on to Ma’s shoulders, drew her to him and gave her a resounding kiss.

  “You look younger than when I saw you last, Ma,” he told her. “Dog my cats if I wouldn’t marry you——”

  “Only his wife won’t let him,” put in the girl, studying Kerry with interest, if not the predatory gaze of a woman wondering how much he might pay for her attentions.

  “Now you went and spoiled it, Calam,” said the man. “I’d have pulled it off this time if you’d kept quiet.”

  “That you wouldn’t,” snorted Ma. “I had the one worthless freight-hauling man in Rafferty, Lord bless his soul; and I’ve too much sense to take up with another.” Following the girl’s gaze, she smiled. “Kerry, do you know Dobe Killem and Calamity Jane?”

  “Howdy,” Kerry greeted, his dour face showing no expression.

  Which did not imply that he failed to recognize the names. Dobe Killem was known as a top-grade freighter and owner of a good-sized outfit with a reputation for delivering its cargoes in the face of opposition.

  From the first moment he realized that the girl was not Killem’s added comfort, Kerry had a suspicion of her identity. Only the last trip he read a story about Calamity Jane in a fairly recent New York Ledger that found its way west and into his hands. The story claimed her to be a rich Boston girl, crossed in love and living on the Great Plains, performing man’s work, so as to forget.

  An interesting, entertaining story—but untrue.

  Born Martha Jane Canary, the girl grew up wild and woodsy until her father died. Deciding that she could not bring up a family, Charlotte Canary left her children at a St. Louis convent and disappeared from their lives. Young Martha Jane had too much of her mother’s wild spirit to accept convent discipline, and on her sixteenth birthday slipped off to hide aboard one of Dobe Killem’s wagons. A full day’s travel lay behind when her presence had been discovered. Even then she might have been returned in disgrace but for the indisposition of Killem’s cook. Taking over his work, Calamity kept the drivers contented, and by the end of the trip had come to be regarded as a lucky mascot. From then on she worked with the Killem outfit. The drivers taught her how to care for, hitch up and handle a wagon team, to use a gun and wield the bull whip which served as tool, weapon and badge of office to their kind. Somewhere along the way, Martha Jane—the first part of which she cordially hated—became known as Calamity due to her habit of tangling in hair-yanking fights with jealous saloon girls and mostly managing to involve the rest of the outfit in a general melee while so engaged.

  Despite the habit, Killem regarded Calamity as a valuable asset. She could drive a wagon with the best, take care of her load if the need arose, and possessed virtues many folks might never suspect. Being a woman never hampered Calamity in the performance of her work; and was a distinct advantage on the current chore.

  Many a young man would have leapt at the chance of meeting Calamity Jane, but Kerry remained his usual, silent self. A sharpshooter led a lonely life; in fact, other members of his outfit tended to be wary of a soldier whose duty was to kill selected men rather than just tangle with and throw lead at the enemy in general. So Kerry made few friends. Nor had he found anybody among the gandy dancers who he regarded as worth befriending; the average railroad construction worker being semi-or completely illiterate, with no other interests in life than drinking, gambling, womanizing and discussing what bastards the ballet masters* were. Still less did he care to associate with the four men who acted as his skinners while buffalo hunting.

  So Kerry, used to living a lonely life, became dour, shy almost, around strangers and silent in the presence of most people.

  “Howdy,” answered Killem, never one to force his company on any man.

  “Say, what’s that critter?” asked Calamity, indicating Shaun and grinning amiably at Kerry. “Danged if he’s not big enough to be a wheeler in a wagon team.”

  “I tried it, but he sat down and wouldn’t pull,” answered Kerry and wondered why he spoke in such a manner.

  “Likely he’d eat up the whole danged team at one meal,” said Calamity, and turned to her employer. “Did you ever see so much dog in one piece in all your life, Dobe?”

  “Can’t say I ever have,” admitted Killem.

  “Come on in with you,” ordered Ma. “And what brings you up this way, Dobe?”

  “Some dude wants to go out hunting,” the freighter replied. “Real big hunt, too. Going to last for near on three months.”

  “Reckon I’ll go tend to my horses,” Kerry remarked. “Have you room in the stable, Ma?”

  “That I have,” Ma affirmed.

  Nodding to Calamity and Killem, Kerry led his horses off around the building in the direction of the stable. Shaun followed on his master’s heels and Calamity watched them go. “You looked a mite surprised when he answered up to me, Ma,” she said.

  “Aye, I was that,” agreed Ma. “Kerry Barran’s a lonely man and don’t take too easy to folks; but he’s a real nice young feller.”

  “Can’t say I’d want to be a skin-hunter,” Killem commented.

  “Nor does he, he quit this very day,” Ma replied. “Not that I’m surprised. I’ve seen his face after he come back from a trip. He hated doing it. Say, where’s your gear?”

  “We left the wagons down at the livery barn and come around to see about rooms while we stay here.”

  “And how long’ll that be?”

  “Two, three days, it all d
epends on whether our dude arrives on the westbound train today and if he’s ready to pull out again after the trip.”

  “Them Eastern dudes tire easy after a trip on one of our trains,” Ma said. “Where’s he from, New York?”

  “England,” Killem replied. “He’s a lord, or some such, so the Lord knows what he’ll expect.”

  “Got his wife along,” Calamity put in.

  “That’s why I brought Calam with me instead of one of the boys,” Killem went on. “Figured her and the dude’s missus’d be company for each other.”

  “As long as she don’t get all hoity-toity with me——” began Calamity.

  “You mind what I told you, Calam gal!” Killem growled. “Ma, so help me, if this red-headed lump of perversity——”

  “Isn’t that the train whistling?” interrupted Calamity, cheerfully ignoring her boss’s threats.

  “Sounds like it,” agreed Killem.

  “He’s early today,” Ma commented.

  “Sounds that way,” Killem answered. “Come on, Calam, let’s go see what our passengers look like.”

  On arrival at the railroad depot, Calamity and Killem stood at the rear of the usual crowd gathered to witness the day’s premier attraction. Bell clanging, steam hissing, the train drew to a halt. People descended from the cars, some to be greeted by relations or friends, others strolling off with the air of knowing their way around Otley Creek, and a few who stood looking about them in the interested but lost way of strangers.