by J. T. Edson
So the gambler felt surprised to see the girl slide her Winchester carbine from its boot on the box. They had made their noon halt and attended to the welfare of the horses. Looking around the rolling, bush-and tree-dotted range, the gambler could see no cause for her action.
“What’s up, Calam?” he asked, glancing to where his cane-gun leaned against his seat.
“Nothing,” she grinned. “The Banyan trail’s down over that next rim. So I likely won’t have another chance to shoot a deer for Sam Werner. Neb told me Sam likes a nice young buck brought in with his supplies.”
“Need any help?”
“You can come lend a hand to tote it in if I shoot one. Only I’d as soon not leave the wagon without somebody watching it this close to the trail.”
“Never was one for crawling around in the bushes, hunting,” Derringer grinned. “So I’ll stand guard here and come when I hear you shoot.”
The division of labor appeared to satisfy Calamity, for she nodded her agreement. Watching the girl head off through the bushes, Derringer grinned. By noon the next day they would be in Banyan and go their separate ways. Knowing Calamity had been quite an experience, although not nearly so hectic as Derringer had expected. According to Mark Counter’s stories, the girl possessed the damnedest way of landing herself in trouble.
Among other lessons learned from Dobe Killem’s drivers, Calamity had received instructions in living off the country. So she set about hunting for the store-keeper’s gift with the same air of competent knowledge that marked most of her activities on the journey. Moving through the bushes on cautious, soft-stepping feet, the carbine held ready to be snapped into her shoulder for a rapid shot, she searched for sign or sound of whitetail deer.
“Damn-fool critters,” she mused on finding no tracks, dung droppings or other traces of deer. “Anybody’d think they didn’t want me to shoot ’em.”
However, she moved on, swinging in a half circle toward the rim above the Banyan trail. Then she came to a halt. From ahead came the slight sound of animals moving, although she could not decide what kind they might be. Advancing stealthily, she passed through the bushes until coming into sight of the sound’s source; but she made no attempt to use the carbine. Instead, she studied three saddled horses which stood with their reins tied to the branches of a bush. Tied might be too strong a word, for the reins were merely looped around and not knotted; sufficient to prevent range-trained horses from straying, yet significant when taken with the location and lack of riders.
Anywhere on the open ranges west of the Mississippi River the sight of a riderless horse attracted attention and aroused some concern. Three of them left in such a manner gave a sinister warning. Sufficiently so for a prudent young woman well-versed in the ways of the land to read danger and head to safety. Calamity possessed enough knowledge of the range country to read the message, but could not be termed prudent.
Whoever had brought the horses to that place had left them in a manner that allowed a hurried departure. Scanning the ground, she saw tracks heading toward the rim. Not along it in the direction of her wagon, but going down to the trail. Instead of following the tracks, Calamity walked around the bushes and advanced cautiously to the rim’s edge. No matter who owned the horses, be it Nabbes’ gang or strangers, she figured seeing them before they became aware of her presence would be the best policy.
Moving over the rim, Calamity found herself compelled by lack of adequate cover to edge along the front of the bushes. Ahead stood a small rock ideal for her purposes and she did not halt until able to lie curled behind it. Looking down at the trail, she saw enough to tell her the precaution had been worth taking. While the men below did not appear to be members of the Nabbes’ gang, she doubted if their intentions were harmless or honest.
The trail followed the curve of a valley, disappearing around the other slope about fifty yards from where two men crouched in concealment. At first Calamity saw only the two. Then she located the third, kneeling behind a rock across the trail from his companions. All wore range clothes of a nondescript style, lined rifles toward the curve—and had bandanas drawn up over the lower part of their faces.
That told Calamity all she needed to know. Cowhands riding the drag on a trail drive, or working cattle in sun-dried areas, often drew up a bandana to keep dust from clogging their nostrils. Done for such a reason it attracted no interest, except maybe the thought that somebody had a right smart idea for making life more comfortable.
However, the trio watching the trail were not working among hoof-churned dust. So the position of their bandanas told a different, less innocent story. Outlaws waiting for a victim often masked themselves in that manner. Doing so hid the features and lessened the chances of being recognized, while drawing down the bandana turned it in a split-second from a mask into an ordinary piece of neck-wear.
Men did not crouch in cover, armed with rifles, alongside a trail, with faces hidden behind masks, unless they had good—or real bad—reasons.
Even as Calamity located the third man, but before she could decide what action to take, the sound of approaching hooves reached her ears. Down below, the third man signaled to his companions and waved a hand in the direction of the hoofbeats. Immediately all three settled their rifle butts firmly against shoulders, telling Calamity that they prepared to deal in some way with the rider.
Turning her head, Calamity looked along the trail at the rider who came into view around the curve. Seated on a big black horse, he made an impressive sight. Even from her place the girl could guess his height to be over the six-foot mark and notice the spread to his shoulders. A costly black Stetson, its band decorated by silver discs, sat on shoulder-long dark hair. At that distance Calamity could make out little of the man’s face, other than its flowing moustache, due to the shadow thrown by the hat’s brim. Not only the hat hinted at wealth. He wore a white linen shirt of elegant cut, string tie, fancy vest. Gray trousers, with sharp creases, tucked into shining riding boots. Around his waist hung a gunbelt of polished leather. An ivory-handled Remington Beals Army revolver pointed butt forward in a contoured holster and hung just right for a fast draw. Between his knees, a magnificent Meanea Cheyenne roll-saddle’s fancy stamping and silver decoration further pointed to wealth. He rode lightly despite his size; but clearly did not suspect that he headed into danger.
Calamity knew that cutting in on the game could prove mighty dangerous. The trio were certain to take exception to her interfering in their business. Also, if the rider proved to be skilled enough with his gun to drive off the trio, Calamity was in a position between them and their means of escape. Even given time to think of the risks, she would not have allowed either contingency to worry her.
“Look out, mister!” she yelled, cradling the carbine against her shoulder, sighting and squeezing off a shot at the man on the far side of the trail.
Give him his due, fancy-dressed and long-haired though he might be, the big newcomer knew a warning when he heard it. Nor did he waste time in idle speculation. At the girl’s first word, he hauled back on the black’s reins. Feeling the sudden tug at its mouth, the spirited horse threw back and turned its head to one side. Doing so saved its master’s life. Three rifles cracked almost at the same moment. Both bullets from the men on Calamity’s side of the trail flew true; too true. Instead of tearing into the victim’s broad chest, they drove into the horse. Head-shot and with a broken neck, the animal went down kicking its last. Although the third man also fired, he missed. The instant before he applied the final pressure to the trigger, Calamity’s bullet sliced the air just above his head. Startled by the hissing crack of the girl’s lead, he flinched and sent his bullet harmlessly by its intended target.
Feeling his horse go down, the big man kicked his feet from the stirrups and quit its back. Again he showed a knowledge of how to act in such an emergency. While dropping to the ground, he turned his right hand palm outward to twist the Remington from its holster. He landed on the trail, sinking do
wn behind the collapsing horse to keep its body between himself and the rifles.
Showing a remarkable lack of caution, one of the pair below Calamity started to rise for a better view of their victim. To add to his folly, he was still working the lever, ejecting the empty case ready to feed another bullet into the breech. Coming up from behind the dead horse, the big man lined his revolver. An instant before the attacker could reload, the deep bark of the Remington rang out. Jerking as if struck by an unseen fist, the ambusher’s rifle tilted away from its target. Blood began to dribble out of the hole which miraculously appeared between the man’s eyes, staining his bandana mask. Spinning around, he dropped the rifle and then crashed forward to hang on the bush behind which he had hidden on his mission of murder.
After shooting, the big man sank rapidly behind the horse and did not even remain long enough to see if he had hit or missed. Nor did he go down a moment too soon. The second man slammed home his Winchester’s lever, sighted and fired hurriedly. Taken in haste or not, the bullet sent the expensive Stetson spinning from the victim’s head before he disappeared from sight.
Calamity sent two more shots downward without results, other than to prevent the third of the ambushers taking a more active part in the affair. Despite its manufacturer’s claims, the weak twenty-eight grain load of the Winchester .44 bullet lacked accuracy at all but close range, especially when used in the short-barreled carbine. Almost a hundred and fifty yards separated the girl from the farthest man and she knew only luck would give a hit when snap-shooting at that distance.
Turning without exposing himself to the man behind the horse, the second of the trio scanned the slope for their unexpected attacker. On locating Calamity—without being aware of her sex or who she might be—the man realized that she cut them off from the horses. Aware that the ambush had gone wrong, he knew they must get away. The presence of the unknown shooter up the slope ruled out any chance of them completing their work at that time.
With that in mind, the man took aim and touched off a shot. Behind Calamity, spooked by the shooting, the three horses tore free their reins and bolted. Before the girl could even turn to look, she found troubles of her own. Lead smashed into the ground just ahead of her, erupting dirt into her face. Letting out a cry of shock and pain, she tossed the carbine involuntarily from her. Woman-like, her main concern at that moment was discovering the extent of damage her features had suffered. Tears blinded her, but her instincts told that she had sustained no serious injury.
“Beat it!” yelled the man, seeing Calamity discard her carbine. Then he rose and started to dart up the slope.
Seeing the other’s departure, the third man wasted no time. While not sure how badly the attacker on the rim might be hurt, he could see she no longer held the carbine. That left only their victim to contend with. Over fifty yards separated them, long range for a revolver against a fast-moving target. With that idea in mind, the last attacker left concealment and sprinted toward the trail. Already his remaining companion was fleeing upward to where the horses waited and he did not want to be left behind.
The big man saw his third attacker rise and guessed the other’s intentions. To stand up and take aim would offer the masked jasper too good a target, one he would not overlook even in flight. So the attempt must not be made that way. Yet the would-be victim had no desire to allow the killing of his horse to go unpunished. Swiftly he wriggled up until, half kneeling behind the body of his mount, he could get the most out of his Remington. Having a strap above the cylinder allowed the revolver to offer a groove rear-sight for aimed shooting, as opposed to a V-shaped nick in the tip of the hammer on the open-framed Army Colt. So the Remington possessed a greater potential for deliberate shooting, a fact the man proceeded to use to his advantage.
Resting both wrists on the saddle and supporting his right hand with the left, he peered along the barrel and squeezed the trigger. Twice the Remington barked without result, the man deftly cocking its hammer on the recoil. Although he heard the lead whistle by, the third man neither stopped nor attempted to use his rifle. On the next crack of exploding powder, he felt a shocking impact and knew he was hit. Snarling through the roaring pain that filled him, he swung to face the big man. Even as the wounded ambusher tried to lift his rifle, the Remington spat again. Caught in the chest by the .44 bullet, he stumbled back a pace or two, dropped his weapon and sprawled on to the trail.
Awareness of the desperate danger she faced drove through Calamity’s concern for her features. Quickly she rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear them. Although still half blind with stinging tears caused by the dirt, she saw the second of the attackers coming her way. Flame lanced from his rifle’s barrel as he saw her staring at him; but he shot on the run and from the hip, conditions not conducive to careful aiming.
The sight and sound spurred Calamity into thoughts of defense and she immediately saw the difficulty of making any. When she had discarded the carbine, it had rammed its muzzle into the earth in falling. Not deeply, but still enough to cause her grave concern. If the barrel should be clogged with dirt and she sent a bullet along it, the back blast could burst the barrel; or she might wind up picking the breech’s piston pin out of her back teeth. Nor would she be given time to check if the Winchester were safe to fire.
Seeing that Calamity had not been seriously injured by his bullet and could now focus her eyes on him, the man realized his danger. Not more than fifteen yards separated them and at that range she could make a hit with the carbine. So he skidded to a halt and whipped the rifle to his shoulder with the intention of drawing a bead on the girl and getting his shot in first. For a moment indecision froze Calamity as she tried to make up her mind whether to chance using the carbine or make a grab for her Colt.
Then a shot cracked from farther along the rim, its bullet churning into the ground below the masked man. Both he and Calamity turned their heads to see who had cut into the game.
On hearing the first crack of Calamity’s carbine, Derringer remembered her instructions. Taking up his cane-gun more as a precaution than for any other reason, he prepared to go and help her bring in the trophy. Then the sound of more shooting reached his ears. Not just the carbine, but rifles and a revolver. So he wasted no time in heading toward the noise.
Coming to the top of the rim, he saw enough to recognize Calamity’s predicament. Yet he was too far away to do anything effective. While skilled enough with his Army Colt in normal gun-fighting conditions, he lacked the ability to use a hand-gun over the hundred and fifty yards or more that separated him from the girl’s attacker. While the cane-gun could not be termed a long-range weapon either, he figured it offered him a better chance than the revolver.
Moving out into plain view, Derringer raised the cane-gun as if it was a rifle. However, despite its twenty inches of barrel, the lack of a butt or adequate sights prevented it from being as accurate as a shoulder arm. The tip of the cocking-spring catch made a rear sight of sorts, but there was no front sight. So all he could do was take a rough aim, press the trigger stud and hope for the best. Doing so diverted the man’s attention and put Derringer into danger.
As the masked man saw Derringer begin to reload, he knew the other held a single-shot weapon of some kind. So the next shot might be more accurate unless he prevented it. Up that close he could see Calamity was a woman and reckoned that she posed less of a threat than the newcomer.
So he started to swing the rifle in Derringer’s direction.
Unlike the masked man, Calamity knew what kind of gun the gambler held. Aware of the risk Derringer was taking, she knew what she must do. His intervention had given her the brief respite she needed to make up her mind. Ignoring the carbine, she sent her right hand twisting back around the butt of the Colt and slid it from its holster.
“Drop it, feller!” she yelled.
Turning his head at the words, the man became aware that Calamity formed a far more serious threat than he first imagined. Sufficient for him to know he must
chance another try by Derringer while he dealt with her. So he turned, swinging the Winchester smoothly at its new target with his forefinger curled ready around the trigger. He moved so fast that Calamity did not have time to shoot and flame licked from the rifle’s barrel.
Calamity rolled over and away from the rock, missing death by scant inches as the man’s bullet whistled over her body. Striking the rock behind her, it sent a scattering of chips flying and she felt some of them patter against her shirt. Then she landed on her stomach once more and knew she did not dare waste another second. Already the rifle’s lever was blurring downward, flicking the empty cartridge case into the air. When it closed, there would be another bullet in the breech and the man was unlikely to miss a second time at so short a range.
Cocked on the draw, Calamity’s Colt seemed to line on the man of its own volition. Yet she paused the brief split-second necessary to make sure of her aim before squeezing the trigger. Powder burned inside the revolver’s uppermost chamber and a conical .36 bullet curled its way through the rifling grooves of the barrel. Calamity shot the only way she dare under the circumstances. While the rifle’s ejected case still rose into the air, before the lever could snap closed, Calamity’s bullet flew true to its mark. A blue-rimmed hole sprouted between the man’s eyes and turned red as blood began to flow. Going limp, his hands released the rifle. For a moment he remained erect, then he toppled backward to the ground.
Six
Smoke dribbled from the barrel of Calamity’s Colt as she rose to her feet. She cocked back the hammer, tense and ready to shoot again should it be necessary. One glance at the sprawled-out figure told her that the need for further action would not arise. Always a practical young woman, reared in the hard school of frontier life, she knew there had been no way to avoid what she did. In his eagerness to reach where he thought the horses stood waiting, the man would not have hesitated to kill her. So she felt only a slight twinge of regret at ending his life.