The Big Hunt

by J. T. Edson

  Jerking out his axe, Kerry slashed the leather of the saddle-boot and his other hand tore free the rifle. Letting the axe fall, he threw the Evans to his shoulder as he whirled around. The gun rose just as smoothly as when he tried it in the room at the Otley Creek Hotel, its hammers gliding back easily under his thumb and the twin tubes aiming in the required direction almost without conscious effort on his part.

  With a strange rifle in his hands, Kerry did not dare go for the deadly and immediate-resulting neck shot. If he missed the comparatively narrow vertebrae, all he would achieve was enraging the animal even more. Nor did time permit him to make a lung shot which would kill eventually. Instead, he aimed at an angle that would drive the lead into the bear’s thick coat and break one, if not both, shoulders. If he could do that, the grizzly would go down.

  Squeezing the trigger for the right barrel, Kerry learned what it felt like to use the big double. The Evans roared, its recoil slamming Kerry back on to his heels and tilting the barrels high into the air. If a second shot had been needed, Kerry could never have brought the gun down into line fast enough to fire it.

  Caught in the shoulder by the shattering impact of the heavy bullet, the grizzly was knocked staggering. That rifle had been designed to halt a charging elephant, Cape buffalo or rhinoceros in its tracks and, formidable though it might be, the grizzly could not be compared with any of them in size or bulk. If Kerry had been using a less powerful rifle, even his Sharps Old Reliable, Lord Henry might have been badly mauled. Catching his foot on something, already off balance and reeling from the horse’s shove, the peer went sprawling on the ground just ahead of the bear. He saw his danger and rolled hurriedly aside, but the bullet deflected the bear so that, when it fell, it missed his body by inches. For all that, Lord Henry continued rolling until safely clear of the snarling, thrashing animal.

  “Grab the hoss!” Kerry yelled.

  Rising hurriedly, Lord Henry dived for and grabbed the horse’s reins just as they parted company with the bush. He went hand over hand up to the head-stall, caught hold of it and drew down the horse’s head. Retaining his hold, he used his hands and voice to restrain and calm the frightened animal. With that vitally important task completed, he looked in Kerry’s direction.

  “Finish him off, old chap,” Lord Henry said, nodding to the struggling bear. “He’s your bird.”

  “Now me, I’d say he was more bear than bird,” Kerry replied. “Toss me a bullet for your Remington and I’ll slop him.”

  “I only heard you fire the Evans once,” Lord Henry pointed out, reaching into his jacket pocket.

  “And that’s all you’re likely to hear me fire it,” stated Kerry. “Any time I want a bust shoulder, I’ll lie down and let Calam run her wagon over it.”

  “As you wish, old chap,” grinned Lord Henry. “And thanks.”

  Watching Kerry load the Remington, Lord Henry decided that today was a day on the Great Plains he would never forget. Kerry took aim with the Remington and drove a bullet into the grizzly’s head. After the impact of the Evans eight-bore, the kick of the ninety-grain powder charge used by the .44 ‘Special’ caliber Creedmore seemed barely noticeable.

  “No sign of your horse, old chap,” Lord Henry said. “He took off fast.”

  “Likely still running,” Kerry replied. “We’ll load up the pronghorn and make for the wagons. With any luck, he’ll find his way to them.”

  Chapter 12

  A BUNCH OF UNWELCOME VISITORS

  “NOW YOU STOP YOUR WORRYING, GAL,” CALAMITY told Lady Beryl as the blonde stood by the end of her wagon and looked off through the gathering darkness. “They’ll be along soon enough.”

  “I suppose so,” Beryl replied. “I’m not really worried, Kerry knows what he’s doing.”

  “I’d say old Hank does too,” grinned Calamity. “Or if they don’t by now, I reckon they never will.”

  “It’s just that Ker—they’ve never stayed away this late before.”

  “There’re a whole heap of reasons for that,” Calamity pointed out. “I know hunting men. There ain’t the one of them who remembers time or anything when he’s out hunting.”

  Having seen no sign of Kerry and Lord Henry since breaking camp that morning, the remainder of the party continued their journey and made camp by a small lake. They halted earlier than usual, the lake offering the best camping ground available in the area. While the men set up tents and attended to their chores, Calamity and Beryl had been hunting for camp meat and the girl shot a prime bull elk which necessitated the services of Wheatley, Sassfitz Kane and the skinner loaned by Frank Mayer to butcher and collect. Neither the butchering party nor the two male hunters had returned as the sun began to sink in the west and Beryl spent enough time standing by Calamity’s wagon staring off into the distance, that the other girl joined her with a word of advice.

  “Then stop tearing lumps out of that fancy lady’s nose-rag,” Calamity said.

  “I’m not te——” began Beryl, then looked at the crumpled wisp of cloth clenched in her hand. “Why you——”

  “Yeah, I know I am,” admitted Calamity. “It’s—who’s this coming?”

  Muffled by the springy, close-cropped grass, even a large party of horsemen did not make too much noise as long as they held their horses to a walk. Eight men approached the camp, three of them leading loaded pack mules and one with a saddled, riderless horse fastened to his mount’s rig.

  “That horse!” Beryl gasped. “It’s Kerry’s gray.”

  “Damned if it’s not,” Calamity replied and shot out a hand to catch the other girl’s arm as Beryl started to move forward. “Hold hard there.”

  “But it’s his horse!” Beryl gasped.

  “There’re a whole heap of good reasons why they’ve got it,” Calamity replied. “Might be they found it straying and brought it here to ask if we know who owns it.”

  “But what——”

  “A good way to find out’d be wait and see.”

  “I—I suppose you’re right,” Beryl said, making an effort and regaining her usual composure.

  While Beryl accepted Calamity’s judgment, the red-head felt just a mite uneasy as she studied the approaching party with range-wise eyes. Unless Calamity missed her guess, that bunch would be highly unlikely to return any horse they found straying to its owner, or try to locate the owner. All the group appeared to be well armed, rode good horses, yet did not have the appearance of ordinary Great Plains travellers. Their clothing, a hybrid mixture of town and range styles, did not point to their working at any of the normal Great Plains professions. Caution and sullen-eyed truculence showed in their attitudes, and most of them carried rifles on their saddles.

  Standing alongside the fire, Doc Killem threw a glance at the cook and then turned his gaze back to the approaching men. His conclusions followed the same line as Calamity’s and his eyes narrowed on coming to the gray. At that moment Killem realized just how few of his party remained in the camp. Three men butchering Beryl’s elk, the wrangler holding the remuda down by the edge of the lake; Kerry and Lord Henry away hunting, that left only the cook and the big freighter on hand. Not good odds when he took note of the newcomers’ behavior.

  Range etiquette required that a party approaching another’s camp halted at a distance and went through the formality of calling for permission to enter. Unless some emergency called for it, the newcomers should never come into a camp area with drawn weapons on their saddles. The eight men failed to observe either rule as they rode in.

  “You got coffee going?” demanded the big, scar-faced man who appeared to be heading the party and who had Kerry’s gray fastened to his saddle-horn.

  “Sure,” Killem answered coldly.

  “Food too?”

  A low snort from the cook showed his opinion of the newcomers’ behavior. He gave the stew in the pot over the fire a stir and threw a glance to where his ten-gauge shotgun rested in a handy position, but waited for Killem to make the play before tryin
g to reach the weapon.

  “We’ve food on,” Killem agreed.

  The scar-faced man threw a quick look around the camp area, taking in the two men and leering toward the women. Behind him, the others shot calculating glances about them. To the watching Calamity, their actions reminded her of a pack of wolves sizing up a deer herd for an attack. However, like the cook, she awaited Killem’s lead before taking cards.

  “Reckon me ’n’ the boys’ll take us a bite then,” announced Scar-Face.

  “Just like that, huh?” Killem grunted.

  “Just like that—all eight of us.”

  “I’ve counted you.”

  “You want maybe paying for the food?” sneered Scar-Face, his accent eastern even though he affected western clothes.

  Cold anger glowed in Killem’s eyes at the words. A James Black bowie-knife hung at his left side and an 1860 Army Colt rode in a fast-draw holster at his right. He could use either weapon with some skill, but knew that he had not the necessary speed to draw and throw down on the men before one or more got a rifle working. What Killem needed right then was a diversion, something to take the men’s attention from him for a vital instant.

  “You could try paying by telling me where you got the gray,” Killem answered, as he watched Calamity walking in a significant direction.

  “There’s some’d call that question real nosey,” purred Scar-Face.

  Behind the leader, one of the bunch let his hand fall to the butt of his holstered revolver and felt sure that neither of the men by the fire could see him making the move. Nor could they, but Calamity stood in a more advantageous position and had the means to prevent such an action.

  Slipping free her whip, she snaked its lash behind her and gauged the distance with her eye. Too far to reach the man, or his horse, and no time to get closer; even if she could do so without drawing attention to herself. However, the man, on the flank of the party, led a pack mule and the animal stood closer than he did to Calamity’s position.

  Forward flickered the whip, its tip catching the mule on the rump in a manner liable to sting through the animal’s thick hide. Few creatures in the world were capable of showing their objections more thoroughly or spectacularly than a mule. On feeling the sting of the lash, the animal gave out a squeal of rage and bounded into the air, twisting its body in a manner that crashed its pack into the horse which led it. The horse’s rider, taken completely by surprise, yelled, pitched out of his saddle, and forgot all about drawing his revolver.

  Instantly one of the other mules joined in the fuss and some confusion disrupted the ranks of the newcomers. Nor did the explosive pop of Calamity’s big whip, drawn back and shot out again, lessen the desired effect. Given his diversion, Killem slid out his Army Colt and the cook discarded his spoon, replacing it by the shotgun, which he lined on the men.

  One of the men bounded from his horse, landed spraddle-legged and reached for his Colt. Being partially hidden from his companion, he failed to take Calamity into account. By that time Calamity had advanced to more accurate range and her whip coiled out once again, wrapping around the man’s right ankle and heaving on it. With a yell the man tipped sideways as his foot left the ground. Shaking free her whip’s lash in a smooth move, Calamity gave warning to her first victim as he came to his knees, spluttering curses and reaching for his revolver once more.

  “Try it and I’ll chop your hand off!” she snapped.

  At the same moment she felt her Navy Colt slide from its holster. “You don’t need it, Calam,” said Beryl’s voice.

  Having seen the blonde shoot a handgun, Calamity raised no objections. Beryl might not have Mark Counter’s ability or knowledge of gun-fighting, but could hit her target with enough accuracy to make her an asset in the game.

  “Let’s have no more moves, gents!” Killem ordered, his Colt being more than adequately backed by the yawning barrels of the cook’s pacifier.

  “There’d best not be,” agreed the cook, glancing quickly at his pot. “If that stew burns, somebody’ll wish his maw and pappy never met the one time they did.”

  Charging up, a Springfield Army carbine in his hands, the wrangler added his quota to the camp’s defense-force, which received further reinforcements in the shape of Wheatley and Sassfitz Kane, who had been riding in unobserved when Calamity stirred up the pot and brought it to a boil.

  Faced with so much opposition and thrown into confusion, the newcomers forgot any objections they might have felt to Killem questioning them and put aside whatever plans they might have made.

  “We’ll have all them rifles on the ground and you bunch stood in line so I can see you all,” Killem went on, after the newcomers managed to quieten down their mounts and pack animals.

  “Hell, this’s fine hospitality,” Scar-Face answered sullenly. “We ride in here looking for a meal——”

  A ringing whoop from the west broke through and ended the man’s words. Only Beryl of the party turned her head from the visitors and looked to where her brother walked alongside Kerry, leading a well-loaded horse from out of the west.

  “There’s a feller coming up now who’s going to be mighty interested in hearing how you came by that gray,” Killem warned.

  “And he’s got a real persuasive way with him for getting answers, too,” the cook continued, laying aside his shotgun and giving the stew a stir.

  “Hell, we found it straying and brought it along,” answered Scar-Face.

  “Yeah,” said Killem dryly. “We saw how eager you was to ask if it belonged to any of us.”

  “I figured you’d ask about the hoss if it did. And if we’d asked you, what’d stop you claiming it was yours whether you owned it or not?”

  On the face of it, the man could have been telling the truth. A fine animal like the gray was worth money, even without its saddle and the Winchester carbine. So Scar-Face could be exercising caution and trying to avoid allowing the horse to fall into the wrong hands. Only he and his party did not strike Killem as the kind who would bother unduly about such minor points.

  “Ain’t heard nor seen a thing to say that feller who’s coming owns it, anyways,” a bearded man growled.

  “Happen you aim to call him a liar, or take up the point, do it gentle, mister,” drawled the cook. “That’s Kerry Barran’s hoss and he thinks high of it.”

  Clearly Kerry’s name meant something to at least half of the surly bunch. One of its members, a slender, sallow-faced and untidy young man wearing a dirty town suit, showed some concern at hearing the identity of the approaching owner of the gray.

  Calamity sensed Beryl’s agitation and found it distracting at a time when she felt all her attention should be kept on the business at hand.

  “For Tophet’s sake!” she hissed. “Go meet him and tell him he’s been worrying you sick.”

  Throwing an annoyed look at the red-head, Beryl snorted, “It’s only natural that I should be worried about my brother.”

  “Oh sure,” agreed the unabashed Calamity. “And I just bet you never gave Kerry a single thought at all.”

  Fortunately the light had gone sufficiently to prevent Beryl’s blush showing. For the first time she appeared to have lost her composure, but regained it quickly. Calamity meant nothing by her comments and, after all, Beryl did regard Kerry with considerably more interest than one might expect between employer and a hired man.

  “I have been a little worried about Kerry, too,” she admitted.

  “Then you go tell him,” Calamity suggested. “We can handle this bunch. It’d be best if you told Kerry and Hank what’s happening.”

  Although Beryl ran to meet the approaching men, she could not force herself to show Kerry her real feelings for him. Nor, if it came to a point, had the big hunter ever given a hint that he might regard her as more than a friendly employer who was willing to lend a sympathetic ear to his dreams for the future. Not wishing to offend the hunter by appearing to throw herself at him, even if her upbringing allowed her to do such a t
hing, Beryl avoided making what might look like the first move to a closer understanding.

  “Is there some fuss down there, Beryl?” Kerry asked, holding Henry’s Remington in his right hand.

  “Not now. A bunch of toughs came into camp leading your horse and tried to cut up rough when we asked about it. Calamity, Dobe and Cookie handled them.”

  “We saw something of it, old thing,” Lord Henry put in. “Any idea who they might be?”

  “None at all. Those chaps just arrived without as much as a ‘by-your-leave’ and started demanding food and coffee. I—we—we were rather worried when we saw your horse, Kerry. Then when the men turned ugly, I—we thought something had happened to you.”

  “It nearly did,” Lord Henry said. “Had a little trouble with a grizzly.”

  At which point Beryl saw the pronghorn’s body draped across the saddle and the rolled-up bear’s hide lashed behind it.

  “I see you got your antelope,” she said. “Is it a good one, dear?”

  “Eighteen inches over the curves,” Lord Henry declared, proudly, meaning the length of the horns. “I bagged it on the run at three hun—over two hundred yards.”

  The correction came as the peer caught Kerry’s grinning face and accusing eye. However, by that time they had come close enough to the camp for Kerry to take a good look at the newcomers. What he saw and remembered about that bunch wiped the smile from his face. Beryl could see the uneasiness showed by the eight men as Kerry approached them.

  “Hello, Jenkins,” the big hunter greeted.

  “We found your hoss straying, Barran,” the scar-faced man answered hurriedly. “Brought it here and this lot jumped us afore we could say a word.”

  “I just bet they did,” drawled Kerry, his eyes running along the line of men until they reached the lean, sallow-faced one. “Looks like there’re a lot of old friends here, doesn’t it, Shaun?”