Troubled range

by Edson, John Thomas

  "Why bless your good lil Yankee heart," grinned Mark, then he became serious. "Who killed him?"

  "Framant."

  "Fair fight?"

  "Looks that way," Stocker admitted. "It happened down in the Black Cat Cafe where that feller was having breakfast. Framant come in and told him he wanted to see him outside. The feller got up and went for his gun, started first. Framant didn't even use his shotgun, drew his Colt and put one through the feller's head."

  "I'll buy it," Mark drawled. "Who was the feller?"

  "Don't know what name he was using in town. Framant had a wanted dodger on him under the name of Wicker. Stands to collect seven hundred dollars on him."

  "Reckon he's the reason Framant came here?"

  "Maybe," Stocker grunted, looking sleepily towards the hotel. "Had three pards with him in the Crystal Palace when I looked in last night."

  "I never saw you," Mark drawled.

  "You was too busy a-drinking, gambling and carousing. Saw Framant sat near to them four, but he didn't make a move."

  "Like you said, there was four of them. Maybe he didn't like the odds."

  "Could be," Stocker admitted. "Went around looking for

  Wicker's three pards, but they've left town. Feller down to the livery barn on Clark Street says they pulled out right after the shooting. Wonder what they wanted from Miss Tre-mayne?"

  "Likely figured she'd be carrying her cut of the game and figured to relieve her of it," Mark suggested.

  "Yep! Well, I got me an office to run. You fixing to ride out to Tom Gamble's place today?"

  "Soon as I hire a buggy. I'm taking Marigold along and we aim to have a picnic on the way back."

  Stocker studied Mark with admiration. No other man in town, and plenty had tried, even got to the stage where they could call the Crystal Palace's lady blackjack dealer by her first name.

  "How'd you do it?" he asked.

  "Us rebs have to stick together in the hostile north," Mark replied. "And now, sir, you-all causing me to keep a lady waiting."

  "See you," grunted Stocker and ambled away whistling.

  A grin flickered across Mark's face for he recognised Stocker's tune to be "Dixie".

  That slow-moving, sleepy-looking marshal had a far quicker set of wits than a man would think just by looking at him. Mark knew Stocker had something on his mind. Something to do with the shooting that morning. Maybe Stocker was wondering, as Mark wondered, why a man holding a shotgun, and in the right, should take time out to draw a revolver.

  On his return with the buggy, Mark found Marigold standing before the hotel. A picnic basket covered by a clean check cloth lay on the sidewalk at her feet. In her right hand she held her vanity bag, but in her left—

  "I thought you might like this along," Marigold said, tossing his Winchester to him. "Don't look so surprised. I asked the hall clerk for your key, told him you had forgotten something. The closet seemed the most likely place for you to have left your rifle."

  "And I've got the key in my pocket," he pointed out.

  "Yes," she replied in a tone which hinted the subject was closed.

  Jumping down, Mark helped Marigold into the buggy, went to the other side and swung in beside her.

  'Til take the reins, if you wish," she said.

  This had long been the accepted western convention. The woman handled the team and left the man free to use his weapons in an emergency. Marigold appeared to be fully capable of handling the spirited horse Pop Larkin had guaranteed to be the best buggy-hauling critter in Montana and one which would eat the trip to Tom Gamble's ranch.

  For the first couple of miles Mark and Marigold talked of this and that, and the girl showed a surprisingly wide range of knowledge. She clearly had done a good bit of travelling around the west. Somehow or other the conversation turned to the hold-up in Newton.

  "Way I heard it," Mark said. "Those fellers hadn't much of an idea how to handle the job. They hit the bank at evening, when there was only one teller in it. Then they only took thirty thousand, although there was nearly three times that in the vault."

  "Maybe they didn't have time to get more," Marigold replied.

  "That's what the teller said. Allows their lookout yelled that somebody was coming and they took off like the devil after a yearling. Only when he got outside there wasn't anybody in sight and he had to go and yell for help."

  "That sounds like the gang spooked, or bad management."

  "1 bet you could have handled it better."

  Just why he said it, Mark would never know. It may have been a clumsily worded compliment, meant to show his appreciation of her ability. Or it could have been a blind flash of intuition. Certainly he meant little enough by the words.

  A low hiss left Marigold's lips. Her right hand dipped into the vanity bag, came out again with something in it. Mark felt that something boring into his side.

  "How long have you known?" she asked; her voice sounding as it did when she saw the girl steal Mark's wallet.

  "Known what?" Mark replied, looking down.

  "That I'm Belle Starr."

  For a long moment Mark did not reply. He looked down

  at the gun boring into his side. At first glance it looked like a Navy Colt. Marigold—or Belle Starr—held it like she knew which end the bullet left from. She held the hammer back under her thumb and her forefinger curled around the trigger.

  "I didn't know," he said. "But come to think of it, that explains a couple of things which have been bothering me since we met."

  "Such as?"

  "Like why the four hard-cases were watching you last night. Why you didn't scream for help when they jumped you in the alley. If you had, and they'd been caught, they might have told Joel Stocker who you are. And like why you wanted me around last night, so they couldn't slip in on you while you slept."

  "That wasn't the only reason, Mark," she answered. "But it was one of them and I don't think you've cause to complain."

  "I'm not complaining. What're they after? Do they reckon you know where the money from the Newton bank job is?"

  "They reckon I know," she agreed.

  "And do you?" Mark asked innocently.

  The gun bored a little harder.

  "I do not!" she snorted. "Land-sakes, Mark, do you think I'd be working with a fool bunch of green hands like that lot must have been? I wasn't even near Newton when the hit happened."

  "Where were you?"

  "On the way here from my folks' place down in the Indian Nations."

  "Why here?" he went on.

  "Elkhom's growing," she replied. "The banker here is a fat, bulging-eyed pillar of the church with more money than it's decent for anybody but a Southern gentleman to have. So I figure to relieve him of some of it—but not with a gun. His kind fall easy, get them in the right conditions. Only he's gone east on vacation and so I'm getting things set up ready."

  "You've done it real well," he smiled. "Maybe just a little mite over-done, but just right for the audience. Put the gun away."

  "Why?"

  "You aren't going to use it, Marigold—or can I call you Belle?"

  "Feel free, if you're so sure I won't use the gun."

  "You won't use it for two reasons. One, you know I wouldn't turn you in."

  "And the other?" she asked; not moving the gun, but keeping the buggy rolling across the range.

  "Those three yahoos from last night are following us."

  "Soskin's bunch?" she breathed and looked back.

  Mark's left hand stabbed down, closing over the cylinder of her revolver. He dropped his thumb so it lay between the hammer and the percussion cap. The move was done only just in time. On feeling her revolver grabbed, Belle's finger closed on the trigger and she released the hammer. Instead of it striking the percussion cap and firing the chamber's contents, the hammer landed harmlessly on Mark's thumbnail.

  A sudden twist plucked the gun from Belle's hand. She clenched her fists and glared at Mark, then dropped her eyes to the gun.


  "Oh, Mark!" she gasped, reaching out to draw the hammer back to the half-cock position. "I'm sorry."

  "My fault," he replied, changing his hold and placing the hammer down after turning the cylinder so the striker rested between two of the percussion caps.

  For the first time Mark saw the revolver was not a Navy Colt. It appeared to be one of the copies produced by various little companies during the Civil War, when the relaxing of patent restrictions gave them a chance to sneak in and grab a quick profit. The gun looked better made than many of the copies and its cylinder had only five chambers, instead of the Navy Colt's six.

  "A Manhattan, isn't it?" he asked, offering the weapon butt forward to the girl.

  "Yes. I like its balance," she replied. "Is Soskin and his bunch on our trail, or were you only bluffing?"

  "Take a peek and see."

  She obeyed, and saw.

  "They're following."

  "Would a Southern gentleman lie to a lady?" Mark grinned. "Who are they?"

  "Two-bit long riders," she answered. "Must have seen me down in the Nations some time and recognised me. Soskin, he's the one who jumped you first, he runs the bunch. Wicker was the one you splattered against the wall. Varney's the one I used my knee on. And Carter—hey, there are only three of them after us."

  "Framant killed Wicker this morning."

  A shudder ran through Belle's frame and she moved closer to Mark at the mention of the bounty hunter's name. Ordinary men did not scare Belle Starr, but she knew Framant would kill her without thinking twice about it; shoot her in the back, if he thought he could get away with it, rather than take a chance.

  "Does he know who you are?"

  "No. That wanted poster in the saloon is flattering, but nothing like me," she replied. "What about those three?"

  "What about them?" Mark countered.

  "Mark," she said quietly. "I had nothing to do with that holdup in Newton. 1 give you my word on that."

  "And I believe you, gal," he replied, bending to take up the rifle. "Let's show them we know they're there. Stop the buggy."

  Without argument, she obeyed, nursing the Manhattan on her lap as she brought the buggy to a halt. Mark stood up in the buggy and turned to face the men. His action caused them to bring their horses to a halt and show some consternation at finding their presence discovered. Taking off his hat with his left hand, holding the rifle in his right, Mark gave the men a wave 'round.

  In the sign language of the range country to take off the hat and wave it from left to right around the head when looking at approaching riders meant keep away, you are not wanted. If the warning should be ignored, the next move came from Mark's rifle in the shape of a flat-nosed .44 bullet powered by twenty-eight grains of powder.

  The three men clearly understood the sign. One of them reached down towards the butt of his rifle.

  "Get set, gal!" Mark warned.

  "I'm set," she replied calmly. "Anyways, they won't make a fight of it."

  If Belle did not know the men, she judged their characters correctly. Before the man reached his rifle, one of the others stopped him. They sat their horses for a moment, pointing and talking, then turned and rode away.

  "You called the play right," Mark drawled, not relaxing his hold of the rifle's foregrip and small of the butt; he had put his hat on his head after giving the wave 'round, so as to be ready for action.

  "Sure. I know their kind. Especially that bunch. Cheap, nasty and not brave. They saw me at my folks' place and know how far they can push me. And they'll reckon that wherever you are Captain Fog and the Ysabel Kid won't be far away. So I don't reckon they'll fix to tangle with us."

  Mark guessed he could take Belle's summing up of the situation as being accurate. She had been raised in the Indian Nations, Oklahoma Territory, a haunt of badly wanted outlaws of all kinds. Growing up among such men, Belle had learned to know them. Some were lions, afraid of nothing, honest within their code and lights. Others, like the trio following them, were coyotes, sneaky, treacherous, deadly if they had the other side at a disadvantage. Thinking that Mark's very able friends Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid might be around, those three would not risk an attack which might end in Mark's death.

  This belief that where Mark Counter was, his two amigos were sure to be, saved Mark and Belle from trouble, just as in a future meeting it would again save their lives.*

  "Told you so," Belle remarked calmly.

  "You told me," Mark agreed. "Let's get on our way."

  She looked at him, her face troubled.

  "Are you sure you still want me to go with you?"

  "Why not. You're still the girl I brought out with me— 'Sides which, you all-carrying the picnic basket."

  A merry smile took the place of the troubled look. The old Marigold Tremayne tone came into her voice once more.

  "Shall we go, sir?"

  *Told in The Hard Riders by J. T. Edson.

  "It'd be my pleasure, ma'am," Mark replied, taking his seat and putting down the rifle.

  "Then we will."

  While watching Belle put the Manhattan into her vanity bag, a thought struck Mark.

  "Say, weren't you scared of busting your gun when you hit that feller with your bag last night?"

  "Nope," she replied and held out the bag. "Look."

  The inside of the bag, apart from a few inches at the top which could be drawn together and fastened, was lined with leather. More, a holster had been built into the bag so she would always find her Manhattaa's butt pointing towards the bag's mouth and protected against getting the other items in the bag entangled with its mechanism.

  "I wondered why that bag didn't show the gun," he said admiringly. "That's a neat bit of work."

  "My pappy made it. Let's go."

  Although Mark kept a watch on their back-trail, he saw no sign of the three men following. It seemed that they had either given up the chase, or waited for a chance to hit at the buggy on their return to town.

  Mark collected the money from Gamble. The rancher and his wife insisted he and Belle stayed for lunch and Mark had been amused at how thoroughly Marigold Tremayne replaced Belle Starr in the presence of the Gambles. She charmed Mrs. Gamble, even though the rancher's wife did not look the kind of woman to treat a saloon worker as a friend, or have the cowhands of the ranch hanging around to try to win a smile from her.

  Not until they were on their return trip was any mention of the previous night's episode made.

  Mark reached up a hand to adjust his bandana and Belle glanced at him, a merry twinkle in her eyes.

  "Who bit you?" she asked.

  "You did," Mark grinned.

  "I mean first."

  "Calamity Jane."

  A smile flickered across Belle's lips as she studied his face, then died off again and a frown creased her brow.

  "You're funning me," she said, then shook her head. "No, you're not. Did Calamity Jane do that to you?"

  "Why sure. She's quite a gal," Mark answered. "Came through yesterday and she'll likely be back tonight."

  "Will she?" Belle sniffed.

  There Belle let the matter drop. Her attitude showed that she did not intend to discuss the matter of Calamity Jane further. Yet Mark's instincts warned him he had better try to keep Calamity Jane and Belle Starr well separated that night.

  Belle continued to talk about various things and drive the buggy. Both she and Mark kept alert for signs of the three men, but saw none. Either the trio had decided to call the game off when they saw Belle's escort, or they were lying low and waiting until conditions favoured them. Whatever the reason, Belle and Mark saw no sign of the men and reached Elkhorn without any incident.

  In town Mark saw something. Calamity Jane's wagon stood behind Larkin's livery barn and her team horses in Larkin's corral. Hoping he would not come across Calamity in the street and while escorting Belle, Mark headed for the hotel.

  "I'll expect to see you tonight," Belle told Mark as they stood in the passage of t
he hotel's upper floor. "You can bring a friend, if you like."

  Reading the challenge in Belle's voice, Mark groaned silently. From the way Belle looked, and what he had seen of Calamity Jane, Mark guessed one thing. Happen they got together, it wouldn't be bulls locking horns that Marshal Joel Stocker had to worry about.

  "I'll see you," he promised.

  "Make sure you do," Belle purred. "I'd hate to have to come looking for you-all, Mark honey."

  Kissing him lightly on the cheek, Belle turned and walked towards her room. Mark watched her go and grinned as he went along the passage to his. Maybe Calamity would not find him. She might even have found herself another feller by this time.

  Just as he unlocked the door, Mark heard a faint scuffling noise in his room. Almost without thinking about it, his right hand dipped and lifted his Colt from leather. Gripping the door knob, Mark pushed hard. The door swung inwards and thudded into something which gave a startled gasp. Mark had been right, he did have an unexpected visitor inside.

  Stepping into the room fast, Mark thrust the door closed behind him and lined his gun—on Calamity Jane.

  The girl stood with her back to the wall, a look of amazement and fury on her face as she put a hand to her nose. However her eyes dropped to the barrel of the Colt lined on her and the anger left her face.

  "Easy there, Mark!" she gasped. "I forgot what you come up here to collect."

  "Huh?"

  "That money. I should have known better than fool around like this when you're carrying it."

  Now Mark understood. Calamity put his reaction down to his expecting trouble, or at least being prepared for trouble, while carrying the money he collected from Gamble. He did not disillusion her, figuring the later she learned about Belle Starr the better for all concerned.

  Even as he holstered his Colt, Mark found Calamity close to him, her arms around his neck and her mouth crushing against his. She moved back a shade after the kiss, cocked her head on one side and grinned at him.