The Big Hunt

by J. T. Edson

  “I reckon he would at that,” grinned Killem, eyeing the wide mouth of the Evans big bore.

  “I bought the Winchester for saddle work and in case of fuss with the Indians,” Lord Henry went on. “Although I hope I don’t have to use it for that.”

  “We shouldn’t have any trouble with them in the Wind River country. It’s Cheyenne land and they’ve been peaceful, sticking to the treaty since Sand Runner got put under about eighteen months back,” Kerry replied. “You was on the wagon train that got him, wasn’t you, Dobe?”

  “Sure was,” agreed the freighter. “One way and another, it was quite a trip, too.”

  “The Indians won’t trouble us, with luck,” Kerry went on, deciding to hear the full story later. “Not that we’ll take any chances with them. How about spare horses?”

  “I’ve fixed for some to be brought here. They’re down at Wainer’s livery barn and we can pick from them in the morning.”

  “We’ll need a skinner to take care of the hides,” Kerry said. “Old Sassfitz Kane, the hound-dog man, can skin, but he’ll be needed to handle the dogs.”

  “That’s soon arranged. Frank Mayer offered to loan me his skinner, cook, horse-wrangler and camp help if I could find a reliable hunter—and I’ve done that, Kerry. I’ll have Wheatley shoot off a telegraph message in the morning.”

  “Then we’ve got about all we need,” commented Kerry, wondering if Frank Mayer would regard him as a suitable man to handle his trained team of assistants. “I suppose you’ve got enough ammunition?”

  “Two hundred rounds each for the rifles, three hundred and fifty shotgun shells, reloading tools,” answered Lord Henry. “I suppose we can get powder and lead in town?”

  “Sure. Corben stocks the best imported English powder and has lead——”

  The crack of revolver shots chopped off Kerry’s words, coming through the window Wheatley opened to allow fresh air in and tobacco smoke out. Thrusting back his chair, Kerry rose, crossed the room and looked out into the night. Like most sharpshooters, he learned to gauge accurately where a sound originated, and he felt he could make a shrewd guess at the source of the shooting. While revolver shots were not a novel sound around Otley Creek, hearing them late at night demanded investigation.

  “Down by the livery barn, I’d say,” he told Killem as he joined him.

  “Yeah,” agreed the freighter. “Reckon we’d best go down and take a look.”

  “I’d take it kind if I could borrow a gun, Henry,” Kerry said, knowing that the combination of shooting and the livery barn might make armament necessary.

  “Take the Winchester,” Lord Henry answered, going to the gun case and extracting boxes of bullets. “You’d best have a shotgun, Dobe.”

  Which did not imply a lack of trust in the freighter’s knowledge of weapons. Kerry knew the workings of a Winchester repeater, but Killem had never used a twin-barrelled rifle. Learning how to handle such a weapon in the heat of a gun fight would not be practical or sensible.

  Each of the trio carried a loaded weapon when they left the hotel room and hurried through the streets in the direction of the livery barn. One thought ran through each mind, the safety of the horses. Without them, the trip could not be taken.

  On arrival at the rear of the livery barn, the three men saw that their fears were groundless. Already a small group of citizens stood in the background, lanterns illuminating where Mark Counter, Calamity Jane and the owner of the livery barn stood at the edge of the corral, a body sprawled close by. Calamity and Mark had found time to dress fully before the arrival of the first of the townspeople and Wainer had been too concerned about his horses to notice their appearance when he came on to the scene.

  “Howdy, Kerry,” Wainer greeted. “It’s Siwash Jones. Mark there stopped him.”

  “Looks like he finally got ambitious and died of it,” Killem grunted, knowing the dead man to be a poor-spirited drunkard who hung around Otley Creek making out as best he could.

  “Looks that way,” agreed Wainer. “He didn’t make shucks at it like everything else he turned his hand to. That Texan was walking Calamity home when they saw Siwash and another jasper down here. The other one got away.”

  “We can’t win them all,” drawled Killem, overlooking the fact that Calamity and Mark had left the hotel long before the time of the shooting. “Did you lose any of the stock?”

  “Nope. Which’s real lucky for me. I’m holding them for the owner, and if they’d gone he’d expect me to make good the loss.”

  “Strikes me as funny, though,” Kerry put in. “Siwash trying something like this. Sure he’d steal, given half a chance, but nothing as valuable as a whole bunch of horses.”

  “He stinks of rot-gut whisky, worse than usual,” Wainer replied. “Most likely that’s what did it.”

  At that moment Marshal Berkmyer made his appearance, scowling around and ready to make a big show of keeping the peace. He turned hate-filled eyes in Kerry Barran’s direction, noticed and gave a polite—if not friendly—nod to Lord Henry, and then demanded to be told what all the fuss was about.

  “Now me,” drawled Mark Counter, “I’d say that was obvious.”

  “So Siwash tried to steal the horses, huh,” sniffed Berkmyer, ignoring the blond giant’s lack of respect. “Who shot him?”

  “I did,” Mark replied. “His gun’s there, one chamber fired, and you’ll likely find the bullet-hole in Calamity’s wagon.”

  “Ain’t doubting you,” answered Berkmyer in a tone which showed he would like to do so but dare not. “He asked for it.”

  “Sure he did,” agreed Calamity. “But why’d he do it?”

  “Huh?” grunted the marshal.

  “I’ve seen him around town enough times to know he didn’t have the brains or guts to try anything this big. Why’d he try to run off the remuda?”

  “Those hosses arc valuable,” Berkmyer pointed out.

  “Sure. Too valuable for him to take.”

  “He’s drunk.”

  “He’d have to be real drunk to get up enough guts to try it,” Calamity insisted. “Even if that drunk, he would think about doing it.”

  “Maybe the other feller put him up to it,” Mark suggested.

  “What other feller?” asked Berkmyer, looking around him with more interest than the possible sight of a second horse-thief should warrant. A hint of relief showed on his face when he failed to see another body. “Where is he?”

  “Took off running,” Calamity answered. “I carved a smidgin out of his face with my whip afore he went though.”

  “Which ’ought to make him real easy to find,” Mark drawled.

  “Yeah,” agreed Berkmyer, although he did not sound convincing. “It should at that.”

  While Mark knew little about local conditions, what he had seen since his arrival did not fill him with faith in Berkmyer’s ability as a lawman. In fact, his views on the marshal, although accurate and correct, were not charitable to Berkmyer. Mark would be considerably surprised if the other ever located and arrested the second of the thwarted horse-thieves.

  “Where do you aim to start, marshal?” he asked.

  “I’ll bet it’s some drifter, new to town, got Siwash all stirred up and set him to it,” answered Berkmyer, confirming Mark’s belief that he would always take the easiest way out of any difficulty.

  “I’ll just bet it was,” sniffed Wainer, who had been close enough to overhear the words. “Town’s full of drifters who know that I’ve got a corral-full of unbranded hosses and know where they can sell ’em.”

  “What’s that mean?” Berkmyer demanded.

  “Nothing at all. Did your cousin say he’d made me an offer on my place?”

  “Any reason why he should?”

  “None as I know of,” admitted Wainer. “Only if those hosses had gone, I couldn’t pay the feller who caught them without selling out.”

  “Are you hinting at something?” growled the marshal.

  “Just talking is
all,” replied the barn’s owner calmly. “Say, didn’t Siwash do some swamping and heavy toting at times for Corben?”

  “Did, and for near on every other place in town as long’s they’d put up with him. Corben fired him out today because he never turned up for work sober.”

  “Maybe needed extra money then,” drawled Mark. “Losing his job and all.”

  “Sure,” agreed the marshal. “And he’d be ripe for an offer to make some. If I can find the feller who talked him into helping, it’ll clear up a whole heap of things around here.”

  “One thing, marshal,” Mark said quietly.

  “Yeah?”

  “I brought four men in with me. Not one of them needed money and I’m telling you that they wouldn’t steal. When I ride out of here tomorrow, I aim to take them with me.”

  “You’ll do it, too, as long as they’re not involved,” Berkmyer promised, seeing one chance of quietening suspicions drop away.

  In many a town along the railroad, a cowhand could be framed for crimes and killed without arousing hostility among the local citizens. Berkmyer knew that any attempt to do so in this instance meant facing Mark, and that he did not intend to do.

  “Everything appears to be all right, marshal,” Lord Henry remarked, coming from where he and Killem had been inspecting the freight teams. “Can we help you in any way?”

  “There’s not much to do, it being dark and all,” Berkmyer answered, grabbing the opportunity to change the subject. “Do you aim to have a guard on the corral all night, Wainer?”

  “Sure,” agreed the barn owner, “If I can find anybody to do it.”

  “I’d say that would be your job, marshal,” Lord Henry commented. “You or one of your men.”

  “I don’t have but the one deputy and he’s stove up from the fight,” Berkmyer answered sullenly.

  “It’s on your head,” warned the peer. “But I expect to find those horses there in the morning.”

  “Don’t fret, they will be,” snarled the marshal, thinking of the letter carried by the Englishman.

  If looks could kill, Lord Henry Farnes-Grable would have died at that moment. However, Berkmyer raised no objections, although he did not relish standing guard all night, especially as he doubted if any other attempt would be made to remove the horses. Yet if he failed and the remuda went—well, he knew the Englishman possessed the necessary social contacts to cost him his post as marshal. After ordering that the body be removed, he looked up at the sky. At least there did not appear to be any sign of rain.

  “Dang spoil-sport,” said Calamity, her voice pitched so that only Mark caught the words. “Now I’ll have to go to Ma’s place for the rest of the night.”

  “He sure is one obliging marshal,” Mark replied. “Real smart, too. He knew that feller had been drinking——”

  “That didn’t take smart thinking,” objected Calamity.

  “It did the way he did it,” Mark said. “He knew without going anywhere near the body—and that’s what some folks might call smart.”

  Chapter 8

  A LADY TAKES TO THE SADDLE

  “GREAT SCOTT, BERYL,” LORD HENRY EJACULATED, staring at his sister as she entered the sitting-room of their suite. “Where did you get those clothes?”

  Considering that Lady Beryl wore a Stetson hat perched on her head, bandana knotted at her throat, man’s shirt and levis pants, and high-heeled riding boots, his surprise had some foundation. Beryl smiled at her brother’s reaction.

  “Calamity and I bought them yesterday. She said they would be more suitable than my riding habit for when we’re on the Great Plains.”

  “Then you should have waited until we got to the Plains before—oh, well, have it your own way. You usually do.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Beryl replied and stretched. “I don’t know what that oil Calamity used on me was, but it’s taken all the stiffness out. When do we look over the horses?”

  “As soon as we’ve breakfasted, so let’s make a start.”

  Despite her bold front, Beryl felt just a few qualms as she approached the door to the hotel’s dining-room. Her clothing did not fit as snugly as Calamity’s outfit, but still exposed considerably more of her shape than convention allowed. With Calamity, completely at ease in the revealing men’s clothing, the feeling had not been too bad. However, Calamity left after arriving early to apply the soothing oil to Beryl’s aching frame, and the blonde wondered what people might think of her appearance. Then a thought struck her and she smiled. Taken with the blackened eye and scratched cheek gained in the fight, and her activities the previous night, she doubted if her appearance would cause too much comment.

  Her guess proved to be correct. After a long, searching glance at her, the few people using the dining-room returned to their eating. Letting out a slight sigh, Beryl sat down and made a good breakfast.

  On arrival at the livery barn, Beryl and Lord Henry joined Calamity, Killem, Kerry and Mark—the last-named being introduced to Beryl by Calamity.

  “Well,” Killem said to Beryl, “what do you reckon to them, ma’am? Wainer here says they’re the best he’s had through his hands in years.”

  “I’ve never yet met a horse-trader who didn’t,” smiled Beryl, and Wainer took no offense, but grinned back. “May we look them over more closely?”

  “Feel free, ma’am,” Wainer answered.

  One horse took Beryl’s eye as soon as she walked to the side of the big corral. Although nothing showed on her face, she knew that she must have the paint gelding as her personal mount. It might not be the biggest horse in the remuda, but that deer-red and white gelding conveyed an impression of alertness, intelligence, speed, agility and stamina that pleased Beryl more than she could say.

  “Which one do you like?” Calamity asked as Wainer returned to talk with Lord Henry.

  “The skewball.”

  “The what? Oh, you mean the paint. Sure, he’s the one I had my eye on.”

  “Let’s start having them out, old chap,” Lord Henry suggested.

  “Any particular one first?” inquired the barn’s owner innocently.

  “You trot them out how you like,” countered the peer, too old a hand to be caught in such a manner.

  Grinning, Wainer looked to where two of his men stood ready to start work. That dude might talk fancy, but he sounded like he knew horse-trading. It showed in his refusal to pick out a specific animal which might have caught his eye, allowing the seller to adjust the price accordingly.

  “Bring out that dun,” ordered Wainer.

  Mounting the corral rails, one of the hired men swung his rope and sent its loop sailing forward in a nearly perfect hooley-ann throw to head-catch the required horse. From the way in which the dun allowed itself to be drawn in peaceably, it knew what the manila rope about its neck meant.

  Giving the horse a quick but thorough check, Lord Henry nodded his approval. “Looks all right,” he said cautiously. “Trot it up and down for a time, so I can see if its legs fall off when it moves.”

  After a brisk trotting and walking back and forward, during which all four legs stayed firmly in place, Lord Henry was satisfied. The dun looked up to carrying weight, had the build for speed and staying power. Nor did it show any undue signs of distress when Kerry fired off a shot from his carbine close by.

  “I’ll take that one,” the peer stated.

  “Hello,” Beryl suddenly remarked, swinging away from watching her brother examining the next horse to be led from the corral. “I certainly didn’t expect to see one of you out here.”

  Turning, Calamity saw Shaun approaching. The big wolfhound had been left at Ma Gerhity’s place, but must have got out and trailed its master to the barn. To Calamity’s horror, Beryl walked toward the dog. Having a shrewd idea of how Shaun would react to such a liberty, Calamity reached for the handle of her whip, ready to use it to protect Beryl from an attack. Already the big dog had come to a halt, standing on rigid legs, tail stiff and unmoving, his top lip curling b
ack to expose the upper canine fangs in silent warning.

  “Watch him, gal!” Calamity hissed, realizing that a sudden yell might make Beryl start back and precipitate Shaun’s attack.

  She did not need to bother. All Beryl’s life had been spent in and around the country and she knew better than to ignore the dog’s warning.

  “All right, I understand,” she said quietly, and looked in Calamity’s direction. “He’s a beauty and as well bred as any I saw in Ireland.”

  “You mean there’s more like him?” asked Calamity.

  “Irish wolfhounds? I’ve seen several of them, both in England and Ireland, and this one is as good as any. I wonder who owns him?”

  “I do. Miss—ma’am——” Kerry put in, having seen his dog’s arrival and come to protect Beryl if she should be foolish enough to go too close. His words died off as he could not decide how a Lady should be addressed.

  “Why not say ‘Beryl’ and avoid confusion?” the blonde smiled. “I hope you are taking him with us, Kerry.”

  “I sure am, Mi—Beryl.”

  “Good, then I’ll have a chance to get to know him better.”

  Something about the girl’s attitude told Kerry he did not need to waste time giving warnings. She knew enough about dogs not to make any fool mistakes like trying to pet Shaun; and he still had work to do. Telling the dog to settle down and keep from underfoot, Kerry rejoined Wainer, Killem and Lord Henry. While doing so, he noticed Potter’s bunch among the crowd of loungers who gathered—as such always did whenever anything out of the ordinary happened—to watch the selection of the horses. It seemed that the quartet had been on the point of leaving town, for their mounts stood in the background, bedrolls on the cantles. Kerry doubted if the four would cause him any trouble, especially as he now wore his weapon belt and carried his carbine.

  Horse after horse came out, to be examined, accepted or rejected. At last the paint came from the corral and passed into those selected to be used on the hunt. Beryl walked forward as the paint was led toward the group at one side.

  “I’ll take him, Henry,” she announced.