Running Irons (15 page)

“Who are you?” Ella asked, coming to her feet.

“The name’s Martha Jane Canary——”

“Mar—Calamity Jane?”

“I’ve been called worse,” Calamity admitted. “Let’s ride back to Bowie Rock and meet Danny Fog.”

“If he’s still alive,” answered Ella.

“I figure he will be. That boy’s real smart.”

“How’d you get away from Maisie and Phyl?”

“They got to fussing with each other after you left.”

“I should have figured that,” Ella sniffed. “Say, you and I can’t come to some arrangement, can we?”

“Sure. You just arrange for yourself to get on that hoss and we’ll head back to Bowie Rock.”

“You’ve nothing on me,” Ella remarked as she walked slowly toward Calamity.

“Maybe. Only I figure somebody’ll start to talk once we begin the round-up and haul them down to the pokey.”

Knowing some of her confederates, Ella did not doubt Calamity’s words. So she decided to try another line of reasoning, one which might appeal to a young woman like Calamity Jane.

“What have I done that’s so wrong?” asked Ella. “All I did was buy a few head of cattle from the cowhands——”

“Don’t say you didn’t know they’d been stolen,” Calamity interrupted.

“Had they? They weren’t branded——”

Once more Calamity cut in. “Most of them come from branded herds, and you knew it all along.”

“All right, so I knew it. I gave the cowhands a
few bucks. Hell, the ranchers would lose more to the weather or stock-killing critters in a year than I took.”

“Losing’s one thing. Having ’em stolen’s another.”

“So who got hurt?” asked Ella.

“How about Sammy and Pike from the Bench J?”

“You can’t blame me for that!” Ella gasped, for her conscience troubled her more than she cared to admit over the death of the two young cowhands. “I only happened to be along that night. They always used that same place to brand the stuff. Even if I hadn’t been along, Gooch’d’ve found them.”

“And how about Gooch?” said Calamity quietly.

“If you
are
Calamity Jane, you’ve been around long enough to know what Gooch was. He aimed to rape me before he killed me—Hey, how did you know that I killed Gooch?”

“That was easy. Jake Jacobs told Cap’n Murat you was running the cow stealing. Both me and Danny figured you must have killed Gooch. Gooch might have been as bad mean as a man could be, but he’d a damned sight more sense than walk up to a
man
with his gun in leather. So it figured that a woman killed him and you seemed most likely to be the one. When I saw you coming in wearing those men’s duds, I knew how you got Gooch in close and stopped him being suspicious.”

“And you blame me for killing Gooch?”

“Nope. For turning decent kids into thieves. Get going.”

“Nobody made them steal,” Ella pointed out as she walked by Calamity.

“Nope. Only your gals got them so they didn’t know which way to turn.”

Slowly Ella walked up the slope with Calamity following. Suddenly the saloonkeeper appeared to slip. Ella’s feet shot behind her, striking Calamity’s legs and tangling with them. Letting out a yell, Calamity went over backward and lost her gun as she fell. Even as Calamity rolled down the slope, Ella stopped herself sliding after the red-head and grabbed up the fallen Navy colt. Coming to her feet, Ella lined the gun down at Calamity.

“It looks like we don’t need any arrangement now, Marty,” Ella said.

“Reckon not?” replied Calamity. “There’s no percussion caps on the nipples.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ella answered and squeezed the trigger.

Instead of the crack of exploding powder, a dull click came to Ella’s ears as the Colt’s hammer fell on a bare cap-nipple. Fury gripped Ella as she thought of how she had been tricked into tossing aside her fully-loaded Derringer—which used rim-fire bullets and did not need separate percussion caps to ignite the powder charge.

Calamity had not made the move intentionally.
While she had stored the Colt with powder and a lead ball in each of the cylinder’s chambers, Calamity knew too much about guns to leave percussion caps on the nipples when the weapon was not in regular use. In her rush to get out and try to save Danny, she clean forgot to put the caps in place and did not remember this basic—and vitally necessary—precaution until just before she caught up with Ella. Then it had been too late, so Calamity made a damned good bluff.

Giving a squeal of rage, Ella charged down the slope. She swung up the Colt and launched a blow aimed at Calamity’s head. Bringing up her hands, Calamity caught Ella’s wrist as it brought the Colt down. Pivoting, Calamity heaved on the trapped arm and her pull, aided by Ella’s forward momentum, sent the saloonkeeper staggering by her. Ella lost her hold of the Colt and went sprawling face down on the ground. Rolling over, she spat out a curse and sat up, glaring at the advancing Calamity.

“Give it up,” Calamity ordered. “Or do you want to wrassle it out?”

Seeing that she could not escape unless she got by Calamity, Ella prepared to take action. Quickly Ella hooked her left foot behind Calamity’s right ankle, rammed her right boot against the redhead’s knee, pulled with the left, hoved with the
right, and brought Calamity down on her back. Then Ella reared up and flung herself on to Calamity.

From the moment Ella landed, Calamity knew, as she figured on their first meeting, that the saloonkeeper could take care of herself in any girl’s kind of tangle.

Calamity’s kepi went flying as two hands dug deep into her hair and damned near tore out a pile of red curls by their roots. Pure instinct guided Calamity’s response. Even as she screeched in pain, her own hands hooked strong fingers into Ella’s black hair and Calamity braced herself, heaving up then rolling Ella from her. Swiftly Calamity twisted on to the top of Ella, trying to bang the black head against the ground. Not that Calamity stayed on top for long. Over and over the two girls rolled and thrashed. Neither showed any kind of skill, or gave a thought to anything more scientific than clawing hair, swinging wild slaps and punches or biting at first.

Nor did the situation improve for almost three minutes. Then, how it happened neither girl could say, they found themselves on their feet. Ella stood behind Calamity, arms locked around the redhead and pinning Calamity’s own arms to her sides. Just what advantage Ella aimed to take from the situation is hard to say. She retained her
hold and crushed on the red-head, but could do little more. Gasping in fury more than pain, Calamity lashed backward, her heels landing on Ella’s shins hard enough to make the other girl yelp and loosen her hold a little. Then, Calamity clasped her hands together, forcing outward against Ella’s grip with her elbows and sucking in a deep breath. Suddenly Calamity exhaled and felt the encircling arms relax their grip. Before Ella could tighten again, Calamity twisted slightly and rammed back with her elbow, driving it into the other girl’s stomach.

Giving a croaking gasp, Ella lost her hold and stumbled back. Jumping in to attack again, Calamity discovered that the other girl was far from beaten. Ella’s left hand shot out, driving the fist full into Calamity’s face, then the right whipped across to connect with the other girl’s jaw. Staggering, Calamity caught her balance just in time to meet Ella’s rush.

For over ten minutes the girls put up a hell of a fight. They used fists, elbows, feet, knees, punching, slapping, kicking, pushing and shoving. Twice they rolled over Calamity’s Colt without giving it a glance or thought. However, Calamity slowly gained the upper hand. Her normal working life offered greater advantages in the matter of staying fit and strong than did Ella’s career in the saloon.

Gasping in exhaustion, her shirt torn open and minus one sleeve, Calamity landed a punch which sent the sobbing, exhausted Ella sprawling to the ground. Calamity stumbled forward. Through the mists which roared around her, Calamity heard horses approaching. She came to a halt and started to look at the newcomers. That look nearly cost her the fight. Ella had come to her feet, swaying and barely able to stand. Yet she still swung a wild punch that ought to have flattened Calamity; only it missed the red-head by a good two inches. Once more Calamity’s instincts came to her aid. Ignoring the two men who rode toward her, she turned and lashed out with all she had. In missing, Ella staggered forward and walked full into the punch Calamity threw. It clocked like two rocks cracking together as they fell down a cliff, Ella shot sideways, landing face down and lying still. Weakly Calamity followed the saloonkeeper up and dropped to her knees by the still shape.

“Ease off, Calam!” Danny yelled, leaping from his horse and running to where Calamity rolled the unconscious Ella over. “She’s done!”

“Know something?” Calamity gasped. “I’m not much better myself.”

Five minutes later Calamity recovered enough to tell Danny what had happened. Ella sat moaning
on the ground to one side and Calamity looked at Danny with a wry grin as he said:

“I’d swear you let her jump you and get your gun just so you could fight.”

“Shucks,” grinned Calamity. “Can’t a gal have any fun at all?”

A
T NINE O’CLOCK ON
T
HURSDAY MORNING
, D
ANNY
Fog stood before the desk in the Caspar County Sheriff’s office and looked at Simmonds. The young Ranger had not shaved and looked tired after a night without sleep. Once Calamity patched up her own and Ella’s injuries, Danny took them back to Bowie Rock. There he found Stocker to be in a most cooperative mood and from the rancher learned all he needed to know to make sure he could smash the cow stealing in Caspar County forever. Once Danny knew everything, he left Stirton’s party to bring in the prisoners and rode ahead. In Caspar City he visited the sheriff’s office
to offer the local law enforcement officers the chance of winding up the affair.

“And that’s how it was, Sheriff,” Danny said, finishing his explanation of why he came to Caspar County and what he had achieved. “Ella Watson suckered the cowhands into stealing for her. Then she took the money paid to them back out of their pockets in the saloon. Stocker got all eager to help and talked up a storm.”

“Where’d he hide the stolen stuff?” asked Deputy Clyde Bucksteed, an attentive listener to the Ranger’s story. “I was out with the ranchers when they went over the Bradded S range and we never saw hide nor hair of any stolen cattle.”

“You just didn’t know where to look,” Danny explained. “There’s a hidden valley, got good water and decent grazing in it. You can only get in through a tunnel at the back of a cave the ranchers probably never bothered to search. They’d figure the cattle couldn’t be inside, I reckon, so they missed finding the hideout.”

“How’d they get rid of the stolen stuff?” inquired the sheriff, showing interest for the first time.

“The agent at the Kaddo Reservation bought it from them. Got it at cheaper than the market price.”

“You should have told me you was a Ranger,” Simmonds complained. “Sounds like you didn’t trust me.”

“Figured I’d work better alone,” Danny replied. “There’s only one thing left to do now.”

“What’s that?” grunted Simmonds.

“Go to the Cattle Queen and pick up Soskice and Ed Wren.”

A look of worry came to the sheriff’s face. “I don’t figure this’s any of my fuss, Ranger. You come here without asking, played things as they suited you. Don’t rightly see that I should tangle with a feller like Ed Wren just to please you.”

“Won’t come, huh?” asked Danny.

“Can’t see my way to doing it,” Simmonds replied.

“Then I’ll take them alone.”

Turning, Danny walked toward the office’s front door. Clyde Bucksteed watched the Ranger and an admiring look came to his face. Slowly Clyde lifted his left hand to touch the badge he wore. In that moment Clyde Bucksteed changed from an office-filler, holding down his position because of his relationship with the sheriff, and became a man.

“I’m with you, Ranger,” he said and followed Danny from the room.

Just as they stepped from the office, a man came racing his horse toward them. Seeing how excited the newcomer appeared to be, the two young lawmen halted and waited to see what caused the man’s haste.

“I just found that pedlar, Jacobs. He’s lying out
there ’bout a mile from town. Somebody shot him in the back. From the look of his wagon, feller who done it was after his money.”

“How about it, Ranger?” Clyde asked.

“Let’s go see Wren first. We might save ourselves some work,” Danny answered. “Jacobs sold me out to Ella Watson, but he’d sold her to Cap’n Murat first and I reckon she sent Wren after him.”

“Best go see him then,” said the deputy.

“Sure had,” Danny agreed. “Let’s go.”

Before they had taken three steps along the street, both saw the batwing doors of the saloon open. Wren, Soskice and one of the bouncers walked out, all wearing guns. While Soskice remained standing on the sidewalk, Wren and the bouncer stepped out, moving across the street.

“What’re you wanting, Forgrave?” Soskice called.

“You and Wren. We caught Stocker last night and he told us everything.”

“So now you plan to arrest me,” the lawyer went on.

“That’s about the size of it,” Danny said, not breaking his stride.

“How about it, Mr. Wren?” asked the lawyer, a sneer playing on his lips.

“He’ll have to pass me first,” Wren replied.

“My brother managed it easy enough that time in Granite City,” Danny said quietly, watching
Wren’s face and leaving the handling of the bouncer to Clyde.

For an instant the confident sneer left Wren’s face and he stared at the tall, blond young Ranger.

“Your brother?” croaked Wren and Danny detected a worried note in the hired killer’s voice.

“My brother, Wren. My name’s Danny Fog.”

In that moment the scene came back before Wren’s eyes. He was standing with the two men who hired him, looking at the Rocking H wagon and three cowhands who flanked it. The small, blond man on the big paint stallion did most of the talking for the other side, winding up by saying, “Start the wagon, cookie.”

“They’s in the way, Cap’n,” replied the cook reaching for the reins.

“Happen they’ll move,” Dusty Fog replied.

Well, the two fellers who hired Wren
had
moved, but the gunman could not without losing face. Instead he grabbed for his gun, meaning to down the small man. Only Dusty Fog did not look small any more. Suddenly he seemed to be the tallest of them all; and never had Wren seen such speed at drawing a gun. The Rio Hondo gun wizard’s left hand flickered across his body and fetched out the Army Colt from his right holster even before Wren could clear his Remington. Wren remembered the sudden shock hitting him, the stunning knowledge that his speed failed to bring
him through. Flame licked from Dusty Fog’s gun and Wren’s world dissolved first into red agony, then sank into black nothingness. When Wren recovered, he found he had lost a job and gained a bullet scar across the side of his head.

Now Dusty Fog’s brother came toward Wren. Cold fear gripped the man, driving out the smug superiority which formed a gunfighting hard-case’s best defense. Faced by Wren’s look of expectancy and complete assurance that the gunman expected to be the one on his feet at the end of the affair, most men felt scared, unsure of themselves, hesitant and marked down as victims. Only this time Wren could not adopt the attitude as he studied the resemblance between the Fog brothers.

Uncertainty filled Wren. Maybe Danny Fog was not as fast as his brother. If so Wren ought to have a chance. If Danny Fog should be fast—Wren did not wish to think of the possibility. Yet Danny had not looked fast that first day. Of course, Fog would not have shown his true speed, knowing it might excite interest he wished to avoid in the performance of his Ranger chore. The thoughts ran through Wren’s head as Danny and the deputy came closer, by the end of the saloon and halted not thirty feet away.

“Throw down your gun, Wren!” Danny ordered.

“Like hell!”

Letting the words out in a screech rather than a defiant snarl, Wren went for his gun. He beat Danny to the shot, but in his present nervous state the bullet missed the Ranger by inches. On the heels of Wren’s shot, Danny got his right hand Colt out and working. Twice Danny fired, cocking the Colt on its recoil and slamming the two .44 bullets into Wren’s chest. Danny shot the only way he dared under the circumstances, to kill. Knowing Wren to be faster, Danny did not dare give the man a chance to correct his aim. Caught by the bullets, Wren reeled backward. His gun fell from his hand as he crumpled to the ground.

Clyde Bucksteed had practiced fast drawing and shooting and now the training saved his life. Drawing, the deputy slammed a bullet into the bouncer an instant before the other threw down on him. Spinning around, the bouncer hit the hitching rail and hung on it yelling he was done.

Before leaving the saloon, Wren had sent the other bouncer through the side door to cover him. Coming down the alley between the saloon and the Wells Fargo office, the man stepped on to the street behind Danny and the deputy and brought up his gun. A rifle cracked further down the street and the bouncer—he had been the second of the hired guns reported by Jacobs to Murat—keeled over, a bullet in his head. Whirling to meet what might be a fresh menace, Danny and Clyde saw Simmonds
standing outside his office, a smoking rifle in his hands.

“Watch Soskice!” yelled the sheriff, ambling forward.

Although he wore a gun, Soskice did not stand and fight. Instead he turned and flung himself back through the batwing doors, meaning to make his escape by the rear of the building. No sooner had the lawyer entered than a thud sounded and he shot out again, reeling backward across the sidewalk and crashing to the ground at Danny’s feet.

Blowing on his knuckles, Izzy walked out of the building and looked down at the fallen lawyer. Having seen the way things went in the street, Izzy decided a change of sides might be to his advantage. So he prevented the lawyer’s escape in an effort to prove his sterling regard for law and order.

His head spinning from the unexpected blow, Soskice looked up at the three lawmen as they gathered around him. Licking his lips nervously, he forced himself to his feet. Suddenly he no longer felt smug and superior to those humble, dull-witted fools who became peace officers because they lacked intelligence to do anything better with their lives.

“I—I want to help you!” Soskice whined. “I’ll tell you enough to convict Ella Watson. It was her who sent Wren to kill that old pedlar.”

Danny gave a look of disgust as he turned to the
sheriff. At least Ella Watson had refused to say anything either to avoid the blame or shift it on to somebody else.

“Take him to the jail, will you, Sheriff?” Danny said. “Hey what made you change your mind and cut in like that?”

“Got to figuring what Maw’d say if anything happened to Clyde and reckoned I didn’t want it, her doting on the boy way she does. ’Sides, I might not be the best lawman in the world, but I reckoned the folks paid me for more than I’d been giving ’em. Let’s go, Mr. Soskice, unless you know some law’s says I can’t take you down to the pokey.”

Clearly Soskice could not think up a single law to avoid his arrest, for he went along with the sheriff in silence. Danny watched Clyde start some of the onlookers on cleaning up the street, then turned to the bartender.

“Is Mousey all right?” Danny asked.

“Got her a black eye and a few scratches and bruises, but nothing worse,” Izzy replied. “She licked Dora good though, Phyl and Maisie stove each other up bad but the doctor tended to them. I wasn’t in on anything, Ranger.”

“I just bet you weren’t,” Danny said dryly. “Why’d Soskice and Wren stay on instead of running?”

“Miss Ella’s got all the money in her safe and
they hoped she’d get back to give them travelling money. Is there anything I can do?”

“Sure, go back in there and hold the place until we come and see you.”

Leaving Izzy to take care of the saloon, Danny walked along to the sheriff’s office. There he and Simmonds interviewed the scared Soskice. At first the lawyer tried to lay all the blame on Ella Watson, but found he failed in his attempt to shift the blame.

“Us folks down in Texas might not be so full of high-minded ideas as fellers like you,” Danny drawled. “So I’d surely hate to see what folks around here do to you when they hear that you’ve sold out your partner and tried to rail-road a
woman
to save your hide.”

“They’ll start reaching for a rope and looking for a tree,” the sheriff went on.

Nor did Soskice doubt Simmonds’s words. “Y—you’ll protect me!” he whined, yet his tones lacked conviction. “It’s your duty to protect me!”

“After the way you’ve belittled and mean-mouthed me all these months?” the sheriff replied. “You’ve dripped contempt over us lawmen all the time you’ve been here. So we’ll be as useless as you reckon we are. If folks come a-lynching, me ’n’ Clyde’ll be long gone out of town.”

“You—you won’t let it happen, Ranger!” Soskice squeaked, turning to Danny.

“My work’s done here,” Danny answered. “I’ll be riding real soon.”

Raw fear glowed in Soskice’s eyes. “W—would you protect me if I told you what brought me here? It’s important to the peace of Texas.”

“Try telling us,” Danny said.

With the words pouring out in a flood, Soskice told all and laid bare a vicious scheme to wreck the flimsy peace of the Lone Star State. He belonged to Henry George’s Socialist Party and was one of a group of college-educated intellectuals who wished to see Reconstruction continued until the Southerners they hated were smashed and the ex-slaves ruled the South. So some of their number came to Texas with the intention of stirring up so much trouble that the Federal Government brought back the old Reconstruction regime. In his fear for his life, Soskice named his friends and mentioned how the Sutton-Taylor feud and the Shelby County war had come about through the machinations of the intellectual bigots.

“Another range war going would have done it,” Soskice finished, after telling how he helped Ella organize the cow stealing. “Not that I wanted things to go as far as that.”

“Got to talking to Vic Crither the other day,” drawled the sheriff. “He said as how it was you as first put the idea of hiring Gooch in his head.”

“That’s a lie!” yelped Soskice. “You can’t prove it!”

“We’ll try,
hombre,
we’ll surely try,” warned Danny. “Reckon you figured a killer like Gooch’d stir up fuss between the ranchers, especially if he downed the wrong men. It could have worked.”

“It would have, if you hadn’t happened along, Ranger,” the sheriff put in. “I’m sure pleased I wrote for help.”

And it proved later that Simmonds told the truth. He had written to Murat, but the letter went astray and did not arrive until days after Danny left for Caspar County. Nor was Simmonds as dishonest as Danny imagined. The sheriff’s prosperity came from having sold his business, not from accepting bribes.

A telegraph message fetched in a judge and the heads of the Caspar County cow thieves were brought up for trial. Despite the killing of Gooch and Jacobs, Ella Watson received only five years in the penitentiary. Stocker did not intend to be alone in his punishment and so incriminated Soskice that they each drew ten years and might have counted themselves lucky to receive fifteen years each. Rangers swooped on the other members of Soskice’s political gang and drove them out of Texas before they could make any more trouble.