The Road to Ratchet Creek

by J. T. Edson

  “Now me, I’d’ve swore some damned fool freighter done stuck me out of meanness with a pitchfork,” the old timer replied hotly. “Course I’ve been shot. Lend me hand up, one of ye, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Like hell!” Calamity barked. “You’re bad enough driving well. The Good Lord only knows what you’d be like with a bullet in you.”

  “Damn it all, gal!” Joe spluttered indignantly. “I druv the ‘Big Run’ from Halleck to Bridger one time with three Sioux arrers in me brisket. Leave be——.”

  Seeing that strong measures were called for to obtain the old timer’s cooperation, Calamity bent forward and hissed words that reached only his ears. “If you don’t get shut and lie still I’ll tell everybody I meet that those five damned scalps’re nothing but the pullings from hosses’ tails.”

  “How’d you know about that?” Joe demanded, concern and contrition warring with the agony on his face.

  “Never you mind. But I do know.”

  “Dobe Killem warned me that you was a real mean cuss and got a plumb ornery streak, gal,” Joe complained. “I bet you would tell on me at that.”

  A slight grin twisted at Calamity’s lips, and she could imagine her boss saying it. Knowing that Dobe Killem suffered with “Cecil” as a Christian name came in useful on such occasions as when their wills clashed on some issue. So she figured a similar form of blackmail ought to stifle Joe’s protests and make him see reason.

  “Spread a tarp on the ground some of you,” she said to the watching men. “Then come and help ease him on to it. Johnny, go up the top and throw down my bedroll.”

  “This’s a whole heap of fuss for nothing!” Joe growled. “I’m not hurt bad.”

  And saying it he collapsed unconscious in Calamity’s arms.

  “You’re an awful old liar, Joe, but you’ve got more guts than they could hang on the biggest corral’s fence,” the girl said quietly, thinking of the courage needed to continue driving with such a wound. “When’d this happen?”

  “It must’ve been as we started into the dip,” Cultus replied. “He gave a jump like he’d been bee-stung just afore we went over.”

  “You mean he took us through there at that speed with a bullet in him?” Conway gulped.

  “He for sure d——,” Cultus began.

  “Next fall’ll do fine for me to get that tarp spread!” Calamity interrupted coldly. “Only it snows something fierce up this way then and I don’t reckon Joe can wait that long.”

  Goaded into movement by Calamity’s cold voice, the men prepared to obey her orders. John shinned up the side of the coach to reach its roof, unfastened the tarpaulin cover and exposed the passengers’ baggage. In his haste to collect Calamity’s bedroll, he tangled it with his carpet bag and tipped the latter over the side. Monique gave a startled squeak as the bag thudded down at her feet and hopped hurriedly aside, drawing the others’ attention to her. Not that they looked for long at her, but turned their eyes to the ground. In landing, the carpet-bag burst open and scattered its contents on the ground. A clean shirt, change of underclothing and roll of toilet articles bounced into view, closely followed by a bulky oblong leather case. None of the items, even the case, were sufficiently out of the ordinary to warrant the amount of interest shown by the onlookers.

  The two thick pads of money which accompanied the other items into sight formed the source of attraction.

  A low whistle broke from Conway. Thorbold stared with eyes bugged out like organ-stops. Letting out a soft gasp, Monique darted a glance at the others. Calamity and Cole exchanged astonished looks. Only Cultus remained unaffected. During his time riding shotgun for Wells Fargo he had seen so many curious items among passengers’ baggage that the sight of the money failed to arouse his interest.

  With Calamity’s bedroll clutched in his hand, John dropped from the top of the coach. Despite there being one thousand dollars of his father’s hard-earned savings lying in plain view, he showed little concern as he went to the girl.

  “That’s a whole heap of cash for a young feller to be toting,” Cole said.

  “It’s to pay for the machinery, sir,” John explained. “We’ve only just managed to save enough to buy it.”

  “Was I you, I’d find a better place to carry it than that,” Calamity told him as she took the bedroll.

  “Shucks, no owlhoot’d expect a kid my age to be carrying this much,” John objected, gathering his belongings. “The last place they’d think of looking’s in my bag.”

  “Or the first,” Calamity said dryly. “What’s up now?”

  John raised his eyes from examining the money. “There’s blood-stains on the top bills of each bundle,” he replied. “Must’ve got there when I looked inside after the fight in Promontory. I sure hope that doesn’t stop the money being good.”

  “I can’t see why it should,” Calamity answered and glared at the other passengers. “Let’s have the tarp spread, shall we?”

  “Come on, brother,” Cole told the guard. “Get it out.”

  Producing a spare sheet of tarpaulin from the rear boot, Cultus opened it out and laid it upon the ground. Then the other men raised and carried Pizen Joe’s limp body and laid it down. Calamity eyed the men with disfavor as she slid the old timer’s bowie knife from its sheath.

  “Reckon I can work without getting hip-deep in war-whoops?”

  “They’ll not be back,” Cultus replied.

  “Did they write and tell you so, or send up smoke-signals?” Calamity growled. “They didn’t look that obliging to me.”

  “Go watch the gap, brother,” suggested Cole. “Likely those bucks’ve had a belly-full, but I’d sooner be sure than sorry.”

  “I reckon I would sooner know they’re about by seeing than by picking their arrers out of my ribs,” admitted Cultus. “Come on, Johnny boy. Two can keep a better watch than one.”

  “You could tote along my carbine, but the damned thing’s bust on me,” Calamity remarked as she cut away the old timer’s shirt.

  “Take my rifle, boy,” Cole ordered. “And you gents go out one on each side of a piece to watch in case those red varmints’ve found another crossing.”

  “Says which?” growled Conway.

  “Says me, hombre,” Cole replied quietly, yet his voice had taken on a new and harder note. “So go to it right away—and pronto.”

  New from the East, Conway knew only vaguely about Utah Territory’s U.S. marshal and did not connect Cole with that important post. Nor had the drummer been present during the trouble in Promontory, where he would have learned Cole’s identity. Although regarding the marshal as no more than a mighty unconventional preacher, Conway felt disinclined to argue with him. Recalling how the other acted all through the Indian attack, he concluded objections would be unwise.

  “We don’t have rifles,” Thorbold protested feebly.

  “All you have to do is watch,” Cole answered. “That and get back here fast at the first sign of trouble.”

  “One thing you yahoos best get into your fool heads,” Calamity put in. “That coach can’t go without a driver, which’s either Joe or me. He can’t do it and I don’t aim to until I’ve patched up his ornery, worthless old hide. So you pair’d best do just what the ma—deacon says. Go keep watch and leave me to my work.”

  Chapter 6

  OLD JOE’LL BUST A GUT

  CALAMITY’S WARNING ADDED THE DECIDING NOTE TO the argument. Muttering to themselves, the two drummers went sullenly to stand watch on the rims flanking the stagecoach. Putting all thoughts of them out of her mind, she prepared to start her work on the wounded old timer.

  “Do you want to help me, honey?” Calamity asked Monique.

  A startled expression crossed the girl’s face and she took a hurried pace to the rear. “Non! No!” she gasped.

  “Can’t say as how I blame you. Say, I bet you’ve got some of them fancy white do-dads on underneath. Get in the coach and toss a couple out.”

  “I don’t——,”
Monique began.

  “For bandages, sister,” Calamity elaborated. “I’d look like hell wearing ’em over my pants.”

  “Of course!” Monique replied, hands fluttering to her skirt’s waistband. “I didn’t think for the moment.”

  With that she turned and disappeared into the coach. Nodding in satisfaction, Calamity continued her interrupted removal of the driver’s shirt. Needing help, she looked up in search of the marshal and felt a mite surprised at his occupation.

  After the departure of the drummers, Cole had picked up the jug he had collected at the river so as to enforce his demands if necessary. Slowly he turned it in his hands, studying it with far more care and interest than such a commonplace object appeared to merit. In particular he gazed at the maker’s name and a number painted on the side in prominent black figures. Then he tilted the jug and looked at its bottom.

  “This’s no time to start thinking about taking a quick snort, deacon,” Calamity remarked.

  “Huh?” grunted Cole. “What’d you say, Calam?”

  There was something changed in his attitude. The solemn expression had been replaced by a cold, grim mask that told Calamity of the true man behind his pose. However she was in no mood to worry about minor details.

  “Lend me a hand here, will you,” she said.

  “Sure, sister,” he agreed and the old way came back to him. “Let me just put this some place safe.”

  Calamity felt puzzled by Cole’s interest in the jug, although she could see the reason for it. Selling liquor to Indians had long been a crime of Federal as well as local interest. Naturally Cole wanted to know who put the fluid dynamite in the hands of the Arapahoes. For all that, Calamity failed to see what he hoped to learn from the type of jug used by almost every whiskey distiller in the West. She put the thought out of her mind as the sound of ripping reached her ears and several strips of white cloth were hung on the window of the coach.

  After examining the wound closely, Calamity decided against trying to remove the bullet. So she contented herself with making sure no more blood flowed and then bandaged Joe’s torso.

  “That’s about all I can do for him right now,” she told Cole. “Let’s get him someplace where a doctor can take a look at it.”

  “I’d say go on to Coon Hollow way station,” Cole suggested. “We can send a telegraph message to Promontory and have a doctor ride out.”

  “It’ll be quicker that way,” Calamity admitted. “’Sides which, those Arapahoes might be on the trail back that ways.”

  “I’ll ask for an escort to side the doctor,” Cole promised. “Let’s get the others in and see about loading Joe aboard.”

  “Sure,” Calamity replied. “I want to be moving.”

  “When you go, sister,” Cole told her. “Let your driving be like that of Jehu, son of Nimshi, for he went like a bat out of hell.”

  Calamity eyed the sober face, with its twinkling eyes and grinned. “Some of your pards have real fancy names.”

  On hearing Cole’s shout, the lookouts returned, Conway and Thorbold showing considerable relief at being recalled with their scalps intact. Under Calamity’s profane guidance, the men lifted Joe and carried him to the coach. They placed the old timer on the forward seat and Cultus produced some straps which could be used to hold Joe in position. Leaving the coach, Calamity saw Cole at the rear boot. On joining him, she found that he stood placing the whiskey jug in his capacious travelling bag.

  “You wanting it for evidence?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “It looks just like any other whiskey jug to me.”

  “Looks that way to most folks,” Cole said cryptically. “Let’s go.”

  Something in the marshal’s attitude warned Calamity that he did not intend to discuss the matter. So she returned to the door and looked into the coach. Monique was perched on the seat alongside Joe and the men sat facing her. Satisfied that nothing more could be done—John had taken the Winchesters inside and placed them on the racks—Calamity climbed to the driving box.

  “Riding up top here, Calam?” Cultus inquired innocently.

  “Yep.”

  “Want the loan of my shotgun?”

  “I’d sooner use a whip.”

  “Are you aiming to drive?” Cultus asked in well-stimulated surprise.

  “I sure as hell am!” Calamity answered. “Riding behind that wored-out ole goat’s bad enough and he’s a fair driver—as Wells Fargo drivers go—but I’m not risking my dainty lil neck with you handling the ribbons.”

  Having made her point, Calamity paused and looked around her. Under the seat rested a heavily-padlocked Wells Fargo “treasure chest” with the Company’s stiff-backed official Driver’s Delivery Receipt book on its lid. A quartet of U.S. Mail sacks, also padlocked, occupied the remaining space beneath the seat.

  “We’re carrying five thousand dollars for the Ratchet Creek bank,” Cultus explained, following the direction of her gaze.

  “Is that why the marshal’s along?”

  “Not that I know of. It was a last-minute arrangement sprung on us in Promontory. We didn’t even have time to fix for another messenger to ride inside.”

  Knowing that “messenger” used in such a manner meant a guard, Calamity nodded her understanding. She knew the strict precautions Wells Fargo took to protect its often valuable shipments and did not doubt that the consignment for the Ratchet Creek bank had been kept a secret. One thing was for sure. She could not sit on top of the motionless stagecoach and worry about the possibility of a hold-up. So she sank down on to the seat and immediately jerked up slightly. Her right hand shot under her rump to poke at the seat’s cover.

  “Well dog-my-cats if the ole goat hasn’t got a feather cushion under here!”

  “The hell you say!” ejaculated Cultus and reached to check her statement.

  “Get your cotton-picking hand off!” ordered Calamity, flicking it away. “Us drivers like our comforts.”

  With that she sat down and studied the situation. First thing to strike her was the difference in height between the stagecoach’s driving seat and the box of her wagon. She seemed to be way up in the air and wondered how it would affect her judgment.

  Although her whip once more rode in its usual place at her side, she drew Joe’s from its holder at the side of the boot. It proved to be an entirely different pattern to that developed by freight-wagon drivers and felt awkward in her hand, despite being the same overall length as her own. Gripping the six-foot long handle, she tried a couple of experimental flicks and found she could not control the lash with any degree of accuracy.

  “I reckon I’d best use my own,” she remarked.

  Hoping she looked a whole heap more confident than she felt, Calamity then unfastened the reins and gripped them between her fingers. She blessed the good fortune which had caused Dobe Killem to adopt the same system as Wells Fargo, instead of following the trend of having the driver ride the near wheel horse and guide the lead pair by means of a single rein. Normally Calamity was not a girl troubled by self-doubts, but she paused for a moment and sucked in a long breath before she slid free her whip and shook loose its lash.

  “Giddap!” she snapped and cracked the whip in the air.

  Instantly the horses moved forward, thrusting into their harness. Calamity felt life run through the reins and deftly checked any undue enthusiasm the team were inclined to show at moving off after a rest. Although the coach did not make quite the smooth start that Joe could manage, Calamity felt she might have done far worse.

  There were differences, obviously, between handling a heavy freight wagon and driving the light stagecoach, but Calamity rapidly gained the feel of her new vehicle. At her side, Cultus watched with at first concern, then admiration. However he remained silent for a time, figuring that she needed to concentrate. It never occurred to him that he might advise the girl about the horses’ individual characteristics. Anybody claiming to be a driver would take offense at such a liberty, being ful
l capable of forming his, or her, own conclusions.

  Tense and alert, Calamity concentrated on her work. The height she sat above the ground tended at first to confuse her, but she quickly became used to it. Although she soon grew accustomed to the difference in weights, and found the Concord coach handled like the thoroughbred it was, she did not relax and grow careless.

  At last Cultus felt he should give a warning. “Best hold down on the speed a mite, Calam. We’ve a lot of miles to cover.”

  “I’m going too fast, huh?”

  “Just a lil mite.”

  “It’s hard to tell, she rides so smooth.”

  “Shucks, you’re no worse’n old Joe,” Cultus informed her with a grin. “I mind one time we reached Ratchet Creek the day afore we left Promontory.”

  Fortunately during the early part of the drive, the stagecoach trail ran straight and over level ground. By the time they reached the first curve, Calamity knew enough about the Concord’s handling qualities to take it around without difficulty. Then they started to climb a hill. Although Calamity noticed that the coach made the ascent with greater ease than her wagon would have, she knew going down might be more tricky.

  So it proved. Used to the need to exert considerable force to operate her wagon’s brakes, Calamity gave the handle a hard shove with her foot. Immediately she saw her mistake and drew back her leg just a shade too quickly. Disaster might have resulted, but for the fact that an experienced team pulled the coach. Feeling the sudden jolt caused by the application of the brakes, then the slackening of the traces caused by their removal, the horses increased their speed in order to avoid being run down. Cursing savagely, Calamity made a more tentative try at controlling the speed.

  “What the hell’s she doing?” Conway snarled as the coach jolted and rocked.

  “Her best, brother,” Cole answered. “Which nobody can do better.”

  “You’re doing good, Calam,” Cultus said as they reached the bottom of the slope.

  “I’m doing lousy,” she replied. “But don’t tell me so.”

  “Not while you’re toting the whip,” he grinned, and let her concentrate on the driving once more.