by J. T. Edson
“Who’s asking?” Stern asked, taking courage from the fact that none of the Cousins’ bunch fitted Mark’s description.
Swinging from his saddle, Mark walked forward. The crowd parted to let him pass through. Calamity stayed where she was, leaning forward on the horn of her Cheyenne roll saddle, watching all of them.
“I’m Tune Counter’s nephew,” Mark replied. “Where’d I find him?”
“You find him up here, friend,” Connel answered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Tune took lead a couple of days back. He’s sick and sorry, but he’s still living.”
“And he’s got the Cousins bunch after him,” Stern went on, for once having to look up to a man. He weighed somewhat heavier than Mark, but stood two inches shorter. “You kin of his?”
“So my pappy allus told me.”
“Then you talk some sense into Doc there!” yelled Stern, pointing to Connel. “Get Tune out of here and to Sand City afore the Cousins boys come in after him.”
“I’ll tell this feller what I told you, Stern,” said Doc Connel calmly. “Old Tune’s not fit to be moved for a week at least.”
“Which means he stays right where he is,” drawled Mark and stepped forward, meaning to go up and see his uncle.
Never before had Stern seen his wishes flouted in such a manner. He shot out a big hand to clamp on Mark’s left bicep—and got himself a shock. Despite having been in the saddle for four days Mark’s clothes still retained their costly, and rather dandy, appearance and his voice held the cultured tones of a wealthy, well-bred southerner. Stern made the mistake of thinking Mark to be no more than a fancy dressed kid. Now he felt a bicep which in size and hardness exceeded his own. Only he noticed it too late to stop his words.
“Listen!” he began, as he reached for Mark’s arm. “We’re wanting Tune—”
“Just take your cotton-picking hand off my arm.”
From her vantage point on the buckskin, Calamity looked expectantly as she heard Mark’s soft drawled reply. The last time she heard him speak in such a manner there followed a brawl she would never forget in which two U.S. cavalrymen were taken off with broken jaws. So she knew the danger signs.
Unfortunately for him, Stern did not.
Releasing the arm, Stern drew back his fist and threw a punch. He had something of a reputation around town as a fighting man of the first water. Against that same reputation most folks around the town felt under a disadvantage from the start.
Only Mark did not live in Tennyson, had never heard of Stern’s reputation and most likely would not have been impressed by it if he had heard. All he knew was that this loud mouth wanted a fight, which same Mark sure don’t aim backing away from.
Mark’s left hand rose fast, deflecting the blow over his shoulder, then his right fist shot out. To the amazement of the watching crowd—and even more to the amazement of Stern—the blacksmith caught a punch with enough power to propel him backwards and knock him from his feet.
After reeling back a few steps, and causing a rapid scattering of the crowd, Stern lit down on his seat in the dust. He shook his head dazedly, then came up fast. Being trained in the old toe-to-toe bare-knuckle boxing school, Stern took a dim view of a man who avoided a blow, then hit back. With a roar like a starving and enraged grizzly, Stern charged at Mark with his fists flying.
He hit nothing but air, for Mark learned his fighting skill in a different, but much more effective school. At the last instant Mark weaved aside and clipped Stern’s jaw, snapping his head back, the other hand followed and cracked the blacksmith’s unlovely looking nose. Once more Stern retreated, shaking his head and wiping blood from his injured nasal organ.
“Let it drop, hombre!” Mark growled.
Instead of taking Mark’s advice Stern came into the attack again. He took a punch in the mouth, then threw his arms around Mark’s waist then clamped hold his pet hold. Mark let out a sudden grunt, for Stern had developed the crushing bear-hug hold to perfection. To get it clamped on mostly wound up with the one receiving it also collecting a couple or so broken ribs.
Mark felt the power of the crushing arms and then rammed his hands under the other man’s chin. The strength in Mark’s arms prevented Stern’s next surging crush, holding him off just enough to prevent his obtaining full power from it. Now it became a trial of strength and Mark knew that he could hold off the other man, but wanted to get the business over with so he could go up and see his uncle. Mark remembered a trick Dusty Fog pulled once to escape from such a hold.
Raising his hands, suddenly Mark chopped down, the edges biting either side of Stern’s neck even before the blacksmith could tighten his hold again. Stern let out a squawk of pain, lost his grip and took an involuntary pace to the rear.
Mark followed him up, stepping in with a fist he smashed into Stern’s belly. It thudded home with a boom almost like a struck drum. Stern doubled over, legs caving under him. He did not go all the way down, for by this time Mark was riled. Up lashed Mark’s other fist, catching Stern’s jaw, lifting him erect, up on to his toes, then straight over on to his back. Stern landed hard, rolled over to his face, tried to push himself up. Then he went limp and collapsed to the ground and lay still.
One of the men in the crowd had long been a crony, sidekick and helper of Stern in anything the big man began. He took a look at Mark’s back, forgetting the girl seated behind him, dropped his hand to his gun butt.
Calamity saw the move. Her right hand stabbed down, gripping the handle of the whip and snapping it free from the saddlehorn, she jerked her arm and the lash curled up, then shot out to crack like a rifle shot within an inch of the man’s ear.
“Try it!” she warned.
The man had no such intention, being more concerned now with holding his ear and shaking his head to try and clear it of the sounds which seemed to be bouncing around inside it. He twisted around, anger plain on his face. The anger died again as he saw that Calamity still held the whip and looked capable of using it. The man gained the correct impression that had Calamity wished she could just as easily carved his ear off.
“All right, all right!” bellowed Doc Connel, walking to where Stern lay and rolling him over ungently. “You folks have had your say and seen your fun. Now for the Lord’s sake let’s us have some sense.”
Turning towards the crowd Mark looked them over. They were the sort he expected to see present, idlers who would join any cause or follow any leader and do anything but work or wash. It would be easy to persuade such men that they represented public feeling and were acting for the best in getting Tune Counter out of Tennyson, especially when their own valuable hides might be endangered by his presence.
“One thing’s for sure,” drawled Mark. “Uncle Tune stays right here—unless any of you bunch want to call it different.”
“In case you bunch reckon all of you agin one’s good odds,” Calamity put in, “I’m siding Mark, so the odds are halved. And in case any of you are wondering, they don’t call me Calamity Jane for nothing.”
Once again the crowd muttered, but they saw the cold gleam in Calamity’s eyes and read the warning in Mark’s. So they broke up their gathering, separating into chattering groups and heading away from the doctor’s home. Two of the men helped the groaning Stern to his feet and steered him towards his forge.
“You got a powerful way about you, friend,” Connel remarked calmly. “Yes, sir, real powerful. So’s your lady friend.”
“Whooee!” Calamity whooped. “I ain’t never been called a lady afore.”
“There’s always a first time for everything Calam,” Mark replied. “Say, take my hoss down to the livery barn and give him a loose stall, will you?”
“Why, sure, right next to this here ole buckskin of mine.”
“Another thing, Calam.”
“Yeah?”
“Stay clear until I’ve seen Uncle Tune and found what he wants.”
Calamity threw back her head and laughed. “For you, anything. And I do mea
n anything. I’ll book in a room at the hotel and you can buy me a meal there.”
Watching Calamity ride off Mark felt even more sure his job would not be made any easier by her presence.
“Nice gal,” Connel said dryly. “Even if she does think she’s Calamity Jane.”
“I think she is, too,” Mark answered. “And mister, I know Calamity Jane.”
Connel threw a look after the departing girl. “Land-sakes, friend, you mean that gal really is Calamity Jane?”
“Yeah. That’s just who she is. Now where’s Uncle Tune?”
“Up in my office. Come on up, but you can’t be spending long with him.”
They climbed the stairs and passed through into the small room where Connel’s patients waited until he could see them. The next room had an examination couch, cupboards with medicines and other supplies and had a couple of limp white coats hanging behind the door. Connel led Mark into the small room at the rear of the building and waved a hand to the shape on the bed.
Tune Counter looked at his nephew and managed a grin. He lay in the bed, a sling on his left arm and bandages showing around his chest. He tried to sit up and brought an angry growled curse from Connel.
“Just stay where you are, this feller don’t expect you to get up and dance with him.”
“If he’s like his pappy, and he looks like he is, he wouldn’t want to dance with a man, though I’d sure keep your daughters locked up, Doc.”
“Never been fool enough to have any,” Connel grunted. “He allows to be kin to you.”
“My nephew, Mark,” Tune introduced. “Mark, this here’s Doc Connel, best dang doctor and biggest fishing and hunting liar in the county.”
Which told Mark that the doctor was an old friend of his uncle’s and a man he could rely on in whatever blew wild around Tennyson. He shook hands with Connel and the doctor grinned.
“Cap’n Fog and the Ysabel Kid aren’t coming along, are they?” Connel asked.
“Not unless they’re needed real bad.”
“Set and we’ll tell you,” Tune said.
It took Mark just five minutes to know that the situation was not as bad as he might have thought—it was a damned sight worse. Only that morning Hank Cousins had sent word from a Wells Fargo way station up country that he and his boys aimed to visit Tennyson in the very near future and they did not aim to come peaceable.
“What was that ruckus on downstairs?” Tune asked as Mark reached his conclusions as to the state of affairs.
“Nothing,” Mark replied.
“You never could lie worth a cuss, boy.”
Connel snorted. “Just a few of the town bums got all yeller bellied and wanted to ship you out to Sand City for safety—their safety. Mark talked ’em out of it though. He’s got a convincing way with him. That right hand of his ‘minds me of you’n.”
“You say the word and I’ll get in the wagon,” Tune replied. “Sheriff Haydon’s got every man tied up out at Sand City and—”
“And you lay easy there,” Connel growled. “I reckon, from the way he handled Stern, young Mark here can hold down the town. ‘Sides he could always deputize Miss Calamity Jane.”
“Calam—!” Tune put in. “You brought Calamity Jane here, boy?”
“Not so’s you’d notice it,” Mark answered. “I met her on the trail and she was already headed here. Apart from shooting her boss from under her and leaving her hawg-tied I couldn’t see any way around it.”
“Why’s she here?” Tune growled.
“Why’d you think?”
“Madam Bulldog?”
“Sure,” drawled Mark. “I could try and get Calam out of town.”
“Would it work?”
Connel looked from uncle to nephew and suddenly the light dawned. He cut in before Mark could reply to Tune’s question.
“You mean Calamity Jane’s here to tangle with Madam Bulldog?”
“Why sure,” Mark agreed.
“Whew!” Connel let out his breath in a gasp, then went on, “It’d be a sight to see, only Madam Bulldog’s got trouble of her own. She’s the one who cut Breck Cousins down.”
Weakly Tune forced himself up on one elbow and gripped Mark’s arm. He pointed to the town marshal’s badge which lay beside his fully loaded and capped Army Colt on the chair close to the bed.
“Never had no call to take on a deputy, boy,” he said. “You take this badge to the bank and ask Hoscroft, the owner, to swear you in. He’s the mayor as well so he can do it. You’ll maybe find him a mite pompous, boy, he acts that way. But you can reckon on him all the way should Cousins come.”
A flat grin creased Mark’s face. “He’ll come all right. You know he will.”
“All right, that’s enough talk for now,” growled Connel, in a tone which warned Tune he would allow no objections. “I’ll go along with Mark, down to the bank, just in case any other damned fool wants to run you out of town.”
“See you, then, Uncle Tune,” drawled Mark, taking up his hat and settling it at the right jack-deuce angle over his off eye.
“I’m not going any place, boy,” Tune replied.
At the bank Mark found Hoscroft to be affable, friendly and grimly determined to back the law to the hilt. He raised no objections and willingly swore Mark in as temporary town marshal. Nor did his help end with just swearing Mark in. He clearly did not aim to just sit back and allow Mark to face the Cousins gang alone. Opening his desk drawer Hoscroft took out a large map and spread it out before Mark. He tapped his forefinger on a point some distance from the town of Tennyson.
“This’s the way station from which Cousin sent his message,” he told Mark and Connel. “I had the map out and checked on things when I heard of the message. Way I see it the station’s a good two days’ hard ride from here.”
Mark studied the map and nodded his agreement. “Even if he started off as soon as he saw the telegraph operator sending the message it’d be two days. I can’t see him getting here before noon tomorrow at the earliest.”
“That’s the way I see it too,” agreed the banker.
“They’d be lucky and need good horses to make it that early.”
“Couldn’t you get help from the OD Connected in time, Mark?” asked Connel, thinking of all he had heard of the murderous ways of the Cousins family.
“Not a chance of it,” Mark answered. “It took me near to four days to come.”
“It appears we stand or fall alone then!” boomed Hoscroft. “There are some of us, quite a few, on whom you can rely, Mark. We’ll back you to the hilt.”
“And there’s some who might go the other way when Cousins comes,” warned Connel. “That bunch you had fuss with when you arrived, Mark, some of them wouldn’t be any too steady behind us when the shooting starts.”
“You mean like that big feller I had fuss with?”
“Naw!” snorted Connel. “Stern’s not got sense enough to pack sand into a rat-hole, but he’s honest. Just hawg-stupid enough to let the bunch with him, some of ’em at any rate, talk him into thinking he was acting best for the town. Stern’d be the last one to want Tune out of town, happen he’d stopped to think it might kill Tune doing it. I reckon he was even convinced that it’d be best for Tune.”
Hoscroft nodded his agreement to the words. He had seen something of the meeting, guessed at its cause and was about to go along to lend his moral support to Connel when Mark’s intervention rendered the support-lending unnecessary.
“Tune ran the town with a tight, but fair, hand,” he stated. “With the backing of most of the people. However, as you may know, Madam Bulldog’s presence brings in much extra trade. Other people wanted to cash in on that trade—and I mean cash in. But Tune stopped it. There are some who wouldn’t mind seeing him out of town and a more amenable man in his place.”
“Madam Bulldog be one of them?” Mark inquired.
“Certainly not. She runs her place fairly!” barked Hoscroft. “And as I say, she put lead into Breck Cousins, so she’
ll be one on their visiting list when they get here.”
“Reckon I’d best go and see her then,” drawled Mark.
“Sure,” agreed the banker. “But she’ll be the least of your worries.”
A grin came to Mark’s lips. He thought of Calamity Jane’s proposed meeting with Madam Bulldog and doubted if Hoscroft’s prophecy would prove to be right. As town marshal even on a temporary basis, his responsibility was to keep peace in the town. Happen all he had heard about Madam Bulldog should be true, then when she and Calamity met the town’s peace looked likely to be disturbed.
After a few more minutes of talk, receiving promises of aid, Mark left the bank. Connel had to return to his place of business and so Mark walked alone to the hotel. He saw the citizens of Tennyson showed some considerable interest in him as he passed. People peered through their windows, or out of doors as he passed. The loafers on the sidewalk also looked him over with interest, nodding towards the town marshal’s badge he wore and muttering among themselves, but none offered to try and halt him or speak with him. They clearly did not aim to show their hand one way or another until he proved that he could take his fair share in the defense of the town.
He called in at the hotel’s stables and found Calamity had attended to his big stallion as well as her own horse. She appeared to have taken his saddle along with her, for he could not see it on the burro by the wall.
Mark went to the hotel and saw the clerk who gave him the key to his uncle’s room, for Mark intended to use it during his stay in town. He had barely entered when a knock came and he faced the door, his right hand Colt drawn and cocked ready for use.
“It’s me, Mark,” called Calamity’s voice.
Holstering his Colt again, Mark opened the door and admitted the girl. She carried his saddle in her right hand, putting it carefully on its side in the corner of the room, then looked at him with a cheery grin.
“See you took on as marshal,” she drawled. “How’d it go?”
“Uncle Tune’s all right. You know what’s happened here?”