by J. T. Edson
“Which ought to have made you suspicious for a start,” Cole replied. “When you get old enough to go into saloons, Johnny, you’ll see that every game the house runs has a limit. They’ll only let you make your bets between two sums of money: twenty-five cents to twenty-five dollars, a dollar to seventy-five, or something. That stops you doubling up and up until luck comes your way and wins for you. Any time you get into a game and they’ll let you go on and on doubling up, it’s crooked.”
“So that’s how it’s done,” John said. “He cuts the cards, then after we’ve made our bets splits his own pile to win or lose whichever suits the betting.”
“That’s how it’s done,” Cole agreed.
“Marshal!” called Janowska from the telegraph room. “It’s Promontory.”
“I’ll be right with you!” Cole replied. “Excuse me, folks.”
“You must reckon I’m a real fool, Calam,” John remarked as they watched the marshal follow the agent into the room.
“Nope, just young,” she told him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But don’t let it worry you. Being young’s a thing you’ll grow out of in time.”
“But——.”
“Forget it!” Calamity insisted, then a thought struck her. “Hey, you used my carbine!”
“That feller looked mean and I didn’t reckon you’d mind.”
“That’s not what I meant. You know the fool thing busted on me back at the dip.”
“I fixed it for you.”
Taking up the little Winchester, Calamity worked its lever and watched the breechblock performing its normal function as smoothly as ever.
“Well I’ll swan!” she said, picking up the ejected bullet and slipping it through the loading slot in the side of the frame.
“I hoped you’d be pleased,” John told her.
Something in the boy’s attitude drew Calamity’s eyes to his face. Suddenly she realized that John’s trouble with the drummers stemmed from the way she had treated him earlier. Having suffered the pangs of puppy-love herself, she could imagine how Johnny felt at her apparent indifference. In such a frame of mind he would be ripe to be plucked by the unscrupulous pair. And to top it all, he had put aside his personal feelings for long enough to repair the carbine, making a real fine job of it.
“Let’s take a walk outside,” she suggested.
“Sure, Calam,” John replied eagerly. “Maybe I ought to put the money into the safe until morning before we go.”
“It’d be best. That’s what I’ve done with mine.”
“You have?”
“Hell, yes,” lied Calamity. “What do you reckon they built it for?”
After John had crossed to the bar and spoken with Mrs. Janowska, going into the office with the woman, Calamity turned to look at Cole as he walked toward her.
“It’s come, Calam,” he said.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Feller called Eli Ehart. He runs a trading post maybe twenty miles to the southwest of here.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Pay him a call,” Cole replied and a throb of controlled hatred filled his voice. “Show him the error of his ways.”
“Need any help?”
“You?”
“Naw!” Calamity snorted. “Ole Yeller-hair Custer and the whole blasted 7th U.S. Cavalry.”
“I’d admire to have you along, singing the hymns for him and beating time with that whip,” Cole assured her. “Only they need a driver for the stage at least as far as Shadloe, comes morning.”
“Cultus can do it,” Calamity protested.
“And then who’ll ride shotgun?”
“Reckon they’ll need one?”
“Sister, happen they do, it’ll be long gone too late to start remembering that they don’t have one aboard.”
“And you’re going after Ehart alone,” Calamity wailed. “You’re a——.”
“Damned fool, Calam. It runs in the family, ask Cousin Mark. If I wasn’t a fool, I wouldn’t’ve become a lawman in the first place. Will you drive the stage?”
“If that’s how you want it.”
“That’s the way it has to be,” Cole stated. “Now I’m going to grab a meal and hit the hay. I’ve got a long ride tomorrow.”
“Men!” sighed Calmity as Cole left her. “There’s no living with ’em—but I’m damned if we can live without ’em either.”
Collecting her gear, she carried it to the room which she would be sharing with Monique and dumped it on the vacant bed. After telling Monique that she would tippy-toe in later, she left, joined John and suggested that they take a walk down to the corral.
Once outside the building, John found himself with a problem. He felt like a hunter who sought out a grizzly bear, faced it and suddenly realized that he did not know how to shoot. Back home he never bothered much about girls, other than avoiding them as much as possible at church socials and the like. There were always much better things to do in his scanty leisure time: hunting, fishing and other male pastimes shared with his brothers. To make the feeling worse, he believed that he was walking with a mature, sophisticated—not that he knew the word—woman of the world; one who had known many famous men and who most likely knew plenty about making love.
“How’d you like travelling, Johnny?” said Calmity, breaking into his train of thought.
“Fine!” he replied, the word popping out like a cork from a bottle.
“It’s not much fun doing it alone, though,” she went on. “And not near as much fun as being at home.”
“Well not the same kind of fun anyways,” John admitted.
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“Sure. My pappy’s got three wives.”
John spoke defensively. Even at his early age he knew that the Mormons’ belief in polygamy formed one of the chief causes of Gentile antagonism to his people.
“It’s your folks’ way,” Calamity replied tolerantly. “How do you kids get on with each other?”
“We don’t see much of the older ones, but the rest of us get on. We work and play together just like kids in any family.”
Once started on the subject, John gave vent to the homesickness which gnawed at him. He told his companion about his father, the big, stern, yet kindly old man who had taught him all he knew.
“He didn’t always like my work though,” John admitted. “I was ten when I whomped up my first gun. Made it out of the barrel of an old gun, some wire and odd bits I found around the shop. Used a piece of old plank for a butt. Man, that was some gun. How it never blew up in my face, I’ll never know. Know how we got it to fire, me not knowing how to make a trigger and hammer mechanism?”
“No,” smiled Calamity.
“Brother Matt and me took a can with some bits of burning coke along, lit a twig from it and touched off the powder through a vent hole in the breech. First time we got a chance to use it, we nailed some dusting prairie chickens. That night Ma told pappy how we come by them and he asked to look at the gun. When I showed it to him, he looked kinda proud and sad. All he said was, ‘It’s lucky you put that shield round the vent or the flash’d come out and hit you in the face.’ Trouble was I knew I could’ve done better. Next morning I took that gun to bits and threw ’em away.”
“And never tried again?” asked Calamity.
“Shucks, yes. I made another gun, a good one, for Brother Matt later on. He still uses it.”
“You like working with guns, don’t you?”
“I sure do. There’re so many things can be done to make them better. I’d sure like to try.”
“Such as?” Calamity inquired, impressed by his enthusiasm.
“I don’t know. Look at the Winchester, there must be a way it can be made to take the big bullets. There’s something else I’ve been thinking about.”
“What’s that?”
“You know when you fire off a gun, the way the gas’ll make leaves or grass blow if the muzzle’s near them?”
“I’ve seen it,” Calamity admitted.
“I keep thinking there ought to be some way that gas could be used,” John said soberly. “It’s a fool notion I’ve got.”
“A lot of folks had fool notions that paid off,” Calamity reminded him. She took his hand, feeling him jump a little. “You’re a nice boy, John Moses Browning. A real nice boy.”
“I think you’re swell too, Calam,” he replied huskily.
“Why?” asked Calamity.
“Well, you—I—you——.”
“Because I wear men’s clothes, cuss like a thirty year cavalry sergeant, handle a whip and drive a wagon?” she suggested as John spluttered to a halt.
“Yes’m,” he agreed, wondering how she guessed.
“Those’re damned poor reasons for liking a gal,” Calamity said.
“Maybe, but——.”
“Now listen to me, Johnny,” Calamity interrupted firmly. “First off, I’m not a nice gal to know. Don’t argue. I do things other gals don’t, but that cuts two ways. A lot of gals do things that I can’t.”
“Aw, that’s not——,” John began.
“Oh yes it is,” she corrected. “Right now you think I’m something real special. Only at the bottom you know that you couldn’t take a gal like me back to home with you.”
“My folks would like you,” John protested.
“Maybe, but not as one of the family. Your maw’d reckon I was a bad female with designs on her lil boy—And afore you puff up, you’ll still be her lil boy when you’re growed up and raising a family of your own. That’s how mothers are with their sons.”
Although John tried to protest, he knew at the bottom of his heart that Calamity spoke the truth. Try as he might, he could not picture the girl, dressed and acting in such a manner, fitting into the staid life of Ogden or being accepted by the town’s female population.
“You could be right, Calam,” he admitted.
“How old are you, Johnny?”
“Sixteen—nearly.”
“And I’m rising twenty,” Calamity exaggerated.
This was a point which John had been feeling all the time, nagging deep down behind his thoughts of the girl as the future Mrs. John Moses Browning.
“Oh!” was all he said.
“One of these days, Johnny,” Calamity went on, “you’ll meet a real nice girl your own age, and who your maw’ll like. Then you’ll start wondering ‘What the hell did I ever see in that ornery ole Calamity Jane?’”
“I’ll never think that, Calam,” John promised. “You’ll always be something real special to m——.”
The sound of a soft cough came to their ears. Spinning around, Calamity twisted her right hand palm-out to slide the Colt from its holster and her left hand thrust John into the side of the corral where he would be less visible.
“It’s only me, sister,” said Cole’s voice. “Saw somebody moving down here and figured to look in on ’em.”
“It’s only Johnny and me, come down for a breath of fresh air,” the girl replied, twirling her gun back into its holster. “We’re going back now.” A faint grin twisted her face. “When you get to my age, you can’t stand all these late nights.”
“Aw, you’re not all that old, Calamity,” John assured her. “Is she, marshal?”
“Being a truthful man, I’d have to say ‘No’ to that,” Cole answered. “But she’d a real smart gal and don’t you ever forget it, Johnny boy.”
“I sure won’t!” John assured him, then yawned in a too casual manner. “Reckon I’ll be getting back and hunting up my bed.”
“And me,” Cole said.
“That’s all right for the passengers,” Calamity growled. “But us drivers’ve work to do. I’ll go take a look at my team for the morning.”
“Why don’t you go along, marshal?” John inquired. “There might be somebody sneaking around.”
“There just might at that,” grinned Cole. “And it’s my duly sworn duty to protect the lives and property of the law-abiding folks of the Territory.”
Watching John saunter back toward the main building, with a jaunty swagger and general air of one who finds growing up to be better than he imagined, Calamity let out a gentle sigh.
“He’s a real swell kid, Solly.”
“And smart too. I heard what you said to him, Calam. You handled him good.”
“Thanks. I figured it’d be best if I set him straight afore he pulled another fool game like with the drummers to impress me.”
“You’ve done it, as smooth and easy as it could’ve been done.”
“Just how long’ve you been on hand?” demanded Calamity.
“Long enough to hear what you told him. I’d’ve gone back if you’d been planning to show him—the golden horseshoe nail.”
“What in hell sort of gal do you think I am?” Calamity yelped indignantly. “Why Johnny’s only a kid.”
“And you’re rising twenty,” grinned Cole. “That’s a hell of a rise—and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard a woman lie about her age that way.”
“Yah! If you’re so smart, how is it that you never proved to me that the bits do stick out different on some of us?” Calamity said.
“You mean we haven’t proved it?”
“Not to me,” Calamity replied.
“All right then,” Cole told her. “As soon as you’ve seen to your hosses, we’ll go find out.”
Chapter 10
HE’S ONE OF THE SEDGEWELL GANG
“MORNING, JOHNNY,” GREETED CALAMITY, COMING from the room in which she had spent at least some of the night.
“Hi, Calam,” he replied.
For a young man suffering from the effects of his first love affair fizzling out, Johnny appeared to do remarkably well in the eating line. Three eggs and a pile of bacon heaped the plate before him, while a crumb-dotted empty dish showed that the events of the previous night had failed to rob him of his appetite.
Grinning a little, Calamity sat at John’s table. Janowska’s daughter looked out of the kitchen, ducked back inside and came out soon after carrying Calamity’s breakfast on a tray.
“She looks a nice lil gal,” Calamity commented as the girl walked away after smiling at John.
“Sure,” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but blushing.
The appearance of Marshal Cole saved John from further embarrassment. Joining Calamity and the boy, he took a seat. After remarking on the weather, Calamity asked if Cole intended to go through with making a call on Ehart’s trading post.
“Yep,” the marshal agreed. “Then I’ll cut across country to Ratchet Creek. May even meet you on the trail.”
“Aren’t you coming the rest of the way with us, marshal?” asked John, sounding disappointed.
“Nope. Got to go and see a feller.”
“That Ehart’s a bad one, my pappy allus says,” John warned. “He come to see us one time, wanted pappy to repair a load of old muzzle-loading guns. Most of ’em were dead mules, as pappy calls anything that’s not worth mending, and he told old Ehart so. Only Ehart said it didn’t matter as long as they worked a mite.”
“Did your pappy do it?” asked Cole.
“Nope. He reckoned that they might wind up in the wrong hands and that it wouldn’t be right to sic unsafe guns on to even Injuns.”
“Smart thinking.”
“We heard tell plenty about Ehart after that, marshal,” John went on. “Folk say he trades guns and drink to the Injuns and works in with owlhoots.”
“You don’t want to believe all you hear,” Cole remarked. “Or believe it, but don’t go around talking to other folks about it until you’re sure.”
“And not even then unless you’re sure you can lick the other feller,” Calamity put in.
Monique’s arrival caused the subject to be dropped. Yawning and complaining that it was still the middle of the night, although the sun just showed above the eastern horizon, she flopped into a chair at Calamity’s side. The talk turned to
general subjects while they ate a sizeable and well-cooked breakfast. Much as John wanted to learn of the marshal’s business with Ehart, the chance did not arise.
After finishing her breakfast, Calamity paid a visit to Pizen Joe. Although asleep, the fever appeared to have left him and his breathing came more naturally. Calamity knew that sleep would help his recovery and so she left the room without waking the old timer. Leaving the main building, she headed for the corral and found Cultus already supervising the harnessing of the team.
“These aren’t the hosses we used yesterday,” she remarked.
“Nope,” the guard replied. “We change teams here and again at Shadloe.”
That meant, as Calamity knew, she must become acquainted with the ways of six new horses. However they had the look of a trained team and the task should not be too difficult, especially as she now had the feel of the coach. With the team harnessed to her satisfaction, Calamity swung on to the box. She soon found her judgment of the horses correct, for they responded in a coordinated group, not as individuals, when she drove them to the front of the main building. Already her two passengers and their baggage waited on the porch. Jumping down, Calamity walked to where John stood with the agent.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t put your money into the ‘treasure chest,’ John,” Janowska was saying. “But it’s a through box and I don’t have a key.”
“That’s all right, sir,” John answered. “It’ll be safe enough on the trip and I’m putting it into the safe tonight in Shadloe.”
“All aboard,” Calamity said. “Take my carbine in with you, Johnny.”
“Reckon I’ll need it?” the boy grinned.
“I sure hope not,” she answered. “How about letting us have the box and mail so we can get rolling, Curly?”
“Damned if you’re not starting to sound like ole Joe now,” Janowska replied.
“All stage drivers get that way,” Cultus commented and stepped on to the porch after walking up from the corral. “Who’s going to sign the receipt book, you or me, Calam?”
“It’d save us both some questions and paperwork from the Company if you do it, Cultus,” Janowska put in hurriedly.
“You could be right at that,” drawled the guard.