The E. Hoffmann Price Spicy Adventure MEGAPACK ™: 14 Tales from the Spicy Pulp Magazines!

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “Talk about that when we get to Red Fork, Pete. Right now, you rest up, you look all fagged out and peaked.”

  He sat down, with Sally beside him, and drank coffee, and smoked. Later, when by common consent and weariness, the harmonica player quit competing with the banjo, and the emigrants made for their shake-downs, Barlow laid a hand on Sally’s arm and whispered, “You wait outside for me a minute.”

  He stood aside until Swift was apart from his admiring crowd. Barlow, accosting him, said in a matter of fact tone, “You and I had trouble. Not from the way you and your sidekicks mocked me, but because it looked as if you’d undermined me. Between here and Red Fork I am obligated to get along with you, and you have to get along with me. When we get to where we’re going, there is plenty of time to square our accounts if you think you’ve got something against me. That fair?”

  “I don’t bear you any personal grudge for the blow, though it was a dirty one and without warning,” Swift answered. “But striking me, the segundo, isn’t a personal matter—it was pretty nearly as bad as hitting Mr. Parker. We’re the law and the leaders.”

  “We weren’t on the march, that evening. Anyway you’ve not lost any respect, judging from the way your cronies hang on every word you say. You and I can keep peace till further orders, but your boon companions may not feel that way toward me. I want you to call them off before they start anything.”

  “Meaning,” Swift demanded wrathfully, “I need them to take my part?”

  “I’ll say you must’ve needed someone to do your dirty work! I’ve not said it to anyone else, and I won’t, because I can not prove it. But till my dying day, I’ll be sure you fixed it to have Jed Lathrop try to have me arrested for a horse thief, so I’d lie rotting in jail till Sally lost hope for keeps.”

  “Didn’t you tell everyone you were shot at?”

  “I noticed you looked funny when I told that part of it. The part you had not aimed to have done. I pistol whipped Lathrop after I made him out a liar. And that’s the man who laid for me with a gun. Who else would be lurking in that pass, with no stage, no freight, nothing expected? How would that man know way ahead of time I’d be passing through, excepting he’d been in cahoots with you?”

  “You dare start any such story,” Swift began.

  Barlow cut in, “My story sort of proves itself, don’t it? But you keep your boot lickers off of me, and I’ll save you the trouble of trying to live down a story that’ll prove itself. I’ll work with you as long as you are segundo. Turn my offer down and take your chances on what will happen.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he went to join Sally. Once they had spread a blanket beneath the Parker wagon, and wedged their backs against the spokes of a wheel, she said, “There’s a lot you’ve not told me, Pete. Don’t tell me there wasn’t more to it.”

  “You hush up, honey. This is kissing time, not talking time.”

  In the morning, Barlow set to work yoking and hitching oxen. Swift, riding one of Parker’s fancy horses, made a grand figure as he bossed the job. The lead position, being dust free, was a prize which went by rotation, but before the train got rolling, the captain had to settle a wrangle as to whose turn it was to lead. The loser showed his spirit by refusing to fall in at the rear. He swung out and found his own track, alongside the train.

  * * * *

  Within the hour, a dozen other wagons had pulled out, each bullwhacker bent on dodging dust. When a dry wash was to be crossed, there was a scramble of those from right and left trying to cut in ahead of those still keeping in column. Barlow, trudging along with his bull whip, figured that Saul Epstein had easier going.

  Toward sunset, there was a rush to be first at the water hole. The pool got all fouled and trampled. Later, Barlow said to Sally, “See what I mean? Fretting and wearing themselves out, running their animals extra miles that get them nowhere, and ending up with less time for the critters to graze—this outfit’s not going to Red Fork, it is bound plumb to hell in a hand basket!”

  “Is that why you were looking back, all day?”

  He was not aware he had done anything of the sort, but he answered, “Sure, looking at you, or trying to.”

  “But often it wasn’t in my direction. It was right back-trail.”

  “I deserted afore I got my discharge, and I’m nervous account they may be sending after me.”

  “Don’t you expect me to believe that! What are you expecting to put-over on us?”

  “Being shot from ambush leaves a fellow skittish,” he answered, and realized that whatsover obscure reason he might have, he was undoubtedly expecting more trouble from Lathrop.

  And then it was time for supper. Barlow, joining up with his mess group, was just getting his portion of stewed dried peaches when one of his messmates exclaimed, “Well, can you beat that! One man covered wagon.”

  Saul Epstein had overtaken the emigrants. Several, remembering him from his tinkering, back in Kearneyville, greeted him and made room. But Barlow, aside from bidding him good evening, was casual as though they had never before met. He figured now that however much his pondering on Lathrop’s skullduggery had kept him looking over his shoulder, he had actually been anxious for Epstein to overtake and join the train, as they had arranged.

  “If something is wrong,” the newcomer announced, “Epstein will fix it. Young man, you need some good half soles, you are pretty nearly barefooted, and I give you a special price.”

  CHAPTER IV

  Redheaded Peril

  Like most of the girls and younger women, Laura Frazer tramped along, picking up brush for the evening fire. She contrived every so often to fall in step with Barlow as he drove Rafe Ainsley’s oxen. For all her apron-load of fuel, Laura managed to slip a couple of molasses cookies into his hand; and for a few strides, the curve of her hip brushed eloquently against him.

  The redheaded girl was slender enough, yet the wind driven calico of her dress clung close enough to make it plain that she was full breasted in a dainty way. She smiled from the shadow of her sunbonnet, and went on, leaving a promise behind her, and an invitation. She went on, easily outpacing the lumbering oxen, and still having time to stoop and pick up brush. Each glimpse of momentarily bared legs fascinated Barlow, mainly because of the smile and the promise she had left with him. He became riled with himself because it became increasingly difficult to keep his eyes and his mind off of Laura, who was by no means the only attractive and well shaped wench the wagon train offered. He did not want to think of her. Sally was plenty for any man to think of, the most exciting female critter he’d ever kissed or looked at: and he resented his response to Laura.

  He resented it because he began to feel awkward whenever he came within reaching distance of Sally. He began studying Sally of an evening, studying her face and her voice and her eyes, looking for her to reveal her awareness of his thoughts, and of the redhead’s attentions. And when he could find nothing of the sort, he was more than ever disturbed, for he felt then that Sally must know and was concealing, pretending to ignore the matter.

  Standing guard at night was different from watching cattle bedded down; oxen ordinarily were not spooky. The purpose of the guard was to keep a lookout for varmints, human or four legged, so when Laura found Barlow sitting on a blanket near the edge of the tinaja, one night, she did not interfere with his duties by joining him.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured. “I thought I screamed, but I couldn’t have, else someone’d have awakened—oooh, it’s chilly, Pete, let me have a corner of your blanket. I should’ve brought my coat.”

  “What was the nightmare about, Indians or renegades?”

  Laura shivered. “Just afraid, afraid of something. Dark, dangerous, all bad, but you don’t know what it is.”

  A coyote howled. “That’s maybe what gave you the creeps?”

  S
he drew some of the blanket over her shoulders and snuggled up cozily. Until that moment, Barlow had been wondering how soon he could get rid of her; but the first light touch made him fear that she would leave way too soon. Knees drawn up, she hugged them with her arms. Her legs gleamed in the moonlight; and then, after unclasping her hands and stretching her feet out before her, she hitched about to get the bunched up skirt back to her ankles. In this, she succeeded: but the shift of weight threw her closer to Barlow.

  Before he could even think of what he wanted to do, he had done it; he had the armful he had craved. After a moment of feeling her yield to his arms, the two were mouth to mouth, and he could not have let go. She would not have let him, even if he had had the will.

  “Oh…I shouldn’t stay here,” she murmured, finally. “There’ll be someone coming to take your place on watch.”

  He drew her closer. “Won’t be for awhile yet. I’ll hear him.”

  “Pete—you’re driving me crazy—you’re killing me—”

  But she pressed nearer, to hasten the fatality. And then, startled, she tried to get away, and might have, except that he could not so suddenly release her.

  “Pete—oh—let go! Someone—”

  The smell of fresh coffee shocked him. The chill that gripped Barlow cracked his embrace. A stick, a bit of brush snapped, and then Sally was so near them that Laura, scrambling to her feet, barely missed lurching against the newcomer.

  “I thought you’d like some coffee,” Sally said, with only a little tremor in her voice. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t know you had company already.”

  Barlow’s horse snorted, whinnied. Barlow turned to face the dark shape looming up not far from Sally. It was Kirby Swift. He said, “What’s all this lollygagging? You girls better go back to bed, this fellow’s here to keep watch!”

  Barlow took a step toward the segundo. “You sneaking son!”

  Sally interposed. “Don’t blame Kirby. It’s his job to keep an eye on things.” She set the coffee down. “Don’t forget to bring the pot back, Pete,” she said, and took the segundo’s arm. “I think I should get back to my wagon.”

  Confusion made Barlow stand fast as Sally and the segundo blended into shadow, and he heard him say to her, “With you stirring around, I got to wondering. Half aroused me, you know how it is when you hear something and you’re not quite awake, I wasn’t snooping.”

  “Oh, I know you weren’t, Kirby.”

  Being at once fighting mad, embarrassed, and wholly in the wrong, as far as appearances were concerned, kept Barlow from any action at all. After a long moment, he again became aware of Laura. Timidly, she laid a hand on his arm. “Pete, I’m sorry! Don’t hold this against me. He didn’t hear me stirring around.”

  Unreasoning hatred of this shapely redheaded girl who penitently awaited his outburst grappled with helplessness, and the certainty that he could never explain how impulse and attraction had pulled him off balance against his will. He felt desolate and abandoned as ever he had during those hours of wandering in the delirium of wounds and exhaustion. He remembered that dreadful futile groping, and turned to Laura now as something real and solid.

  “Sit down for a spell,” he said. “We’re both in the wrong.”

  He reached for the coffee pot and emptied it to the ground.

  For some minutes, Laura sat in silence. “I ought to be leaving,” She twisted her hand free. “Don’t keep me here, not after the trouble I’ve made you.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “When you are sure you mean that, you’ll come looking for me.”

  She kissed him lightly, and got up to make for camp. After a single step, Barlow stopped short, instead of detaining her.

  While he could have, he did not wish to, and this puzzled him. Laura came close to being the prize package of the entire party. Her parents were solid folks. Barlow liked them both, they had not followed the common reasoning that only the shiftless and the worthless ever enlisted in peace times in the army. And when, after the relief man came to take his place, Barlow headed for his blankets, he still could not figure out why Laura’s promise had been poor consolation.

  Early in the morning, Barlow found time for a word with Epstein, who had just finished lashing the tarpaulin over his pushcart.

  “Morning, Saul! Aim to swallow dust another day?”

  “The more I see this outfit, the more I know it gives yet some more to be fixed. And for business, a man can eat dust.”

  “You’re expecting something to go wrong.”

  “You don’t see buzzards making circles, do you?”

  “Look-ee here, Saul! Did you ever answer a question in your life, even once, instead of asking another question?”

  Epstein grinned. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but that’s a habit you’ve got, and just now, you did it.”

  Barlow cursed in good humored exasperation. “Well, it’s nice having you tag along, whatever your notion is.”

  “Now let me tell you something. That redhead is going to make trouble for you.”

  * * * *

  All day, Sally avoided Barlow without being conspicuous about it; and in a similar easy way, she and Swift exchanged words during halts, or as he rode alongside her wagon when she took a spell from walking.

  People were eyeing Barlow, He could feel their glances. He knew that the story of the previous night’s encounter had spread. Horace Parker, riding up for a few words, stuck strictly to business, yet acted as though he had come to offer advice and had thought better of it.

  Toward mid-afternoon, Swift returned from his usual scouting trip, and said that the next watering place was little more than a puddle. That evening, the rush for advantage was all the worse because of the warning. Barlow, doing his best to control his animals, got his thanks by having Laura’s father, Walt Frazer, cut slantwise across his way. Old man Ainsley, for whom Barlow was driving, let out an indignant screech and snatched the bull whip.

  Ainsley cracked the whip. The thirsty leaders responded. Where the most skillful whacking would not move them from their slow pace during the day’s march, the sodbuster’s lash now got them running. Barlow tore the whip from the owner’s hands. He easily outran the peevish oldster. But he did not, and could hardly have made the leaders swerve in time to avoid the Frazer team.

  There was a tangle of harness, a clash of horns, a grinding and smashing as wagon hubs locked and the vehicles came to a halt.

  Frazer loomed up in the dust. “You young whelp! First my daughter and now my team!” He slashed at Barlow, giving him a whip cut which for all its clumsiness bit and tore, “You’ve had this coming, you no-account son! You—”

  But now Barlow was inside the reach of the whip. He dropped his own. The blow and the reviling were the final touch to set him off. He danced in and knocked the farmer staggering backward. He gave him no chance for defense or recovery. He shook off the awkward blows and bored home with smashing jabs that shocked and cut. In a flash, he had Frazer out on his feet, bleeding, stumbling drunkenly, hands drooping.

  Barlow hewed him again. He went with him, keeping him upright with blows until the man crumpled and lay a sodden bloody heap in the dust; and then Barlow stood over him, gasping, “Get up and fight, you dirty mouthed skunk! I’ve had enough of you!”

  Parker and Swift came up with a dozen other scowling emigrants; sweaty, tired, angry at the whole world, and muttering about Laura. Parker said, “You’ve half killed him! Loomis—Christy—get those bulls untangled. Barlow, get away, we’ll tend to this.”

  And, then Laura came up, wide eyed, to Barlow. “Don’t worry, Pete,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “Dad’s awfully hot tempered, though you’d never suspect it.”

  CHAPTER V

  Kangaroo Court

  They held a trial that night according t
o the by-laws of the Red Fork Company: and when Barlow saw the faces of those whose vote would convict and sentence him, he knew that a plea of self defense would do no good at all. Too many young men hated him because of Laura; and every family man, particularly if he had an unattached daughter, was against him. There was not a word said about the meeting of Laura and Barlow, the previous night, but the very way in which the men assembled about the fire avoided all reference to Laura or any other woman made it clear that the story of kisses stolen by moonlight had spread to every family.

  Sally had confided in someone…

  Laura had talked…

  Swift had made the most of it…

  And as Barlow heard Parker, who presided as a matter of course, read the paragraph on “brawlings and affrays,” he was betting that Kirby Swift had got things going; just as Swift, coming up from behind, had covered him with a gun and had disarmed him.

  Laura’s father was, after all, a decent and right minded man; and when Barlow saw the terribly battered face, he was ashamed, and so much so that he could not resent his having appeared without a bandage. The light made his closed eyes and slashed features look far worse than they actually were. Parker was grave and troubled. Swift did his best to look that way, but could not make a go of it. This was his meat.

  “I was trying to keep my team from fouling up with his,” Barlow said, when they gave him his chance. “Trying to obey orders, not rushing for the water.”

  “That’s right,” affirmed the owner of the team.

  “And he cut me with his bull whip,” Barlow concluded.