The Road to Ratchet Creek (12 page)

“Leave Salty down there for a spell, Shadrack!” Ehart ordered.

While the hired man had few scruples, he might object to being a party to the murder of so important a man as a United States marshal. So Ehart acted just as Cole hoped he would. By rescinding the order, he reduced the odds against the marshal; although Cole knew he was still far from out of the woods.

“Take his gun, Shadrack,” ordered Ehart and his voice raised a shade as his nephew moved to obey. “Do it from behind, damn you, not between me and him!”

Moving around Cole so as to keep clear of the line of fire, Shadrack took hold of the Rogers & Spencer's butt. Used to the normal type of holster, he tried to lift the gun upward and draw it toward him. Immediately he ran into one of the holster's
prime advantages and a vital difference from other gun-rigs. Due to the holster's design, the revolver could only be raised out of the top with difficulty. All drawing back on the gun achieved was to press it more tightly against the grip of the retaining spring.

Shadrack expected no difficulty in removing the revolver, but met it. Before his uncle could bellow abuse at the delay, he moved closer with the intention of using both hands to disarm Cole. That was what the marshal hoped would happen. Clearly Ehart did not want his hired man around until Cole could no longer announce his official position, for the trader darted a glance toward the office's open door and the Colt wavered a shade out of line.

Taking what might be his best, if not only, chance, Cole drove his left elbow with considerable force into Shadrack's solar plexus. A strangled squawk broke from the young man at the impact. His hand left the butt of Cole's gun and he shot backward toward the still open front door. At the same moment Cole flung himself to one side, right hand driving toward the revolver's bell-shaped butt. Attracted by Shadrack's squawk of pain, Ehart swung his attention to the two men. Pure instinct caused the trader to squeeze the Colt's trigger while trying to realign it on Cole. The shot came an instant too soon. Cutting
through the left sleeve of Cole's jacket without touching his arm, the bullet buried itself into Shadrack's chest, to send him sprawling out of the door.

Cole twisted his gun free as he fell and fired on landing. A hole appeared in the center of Ehart's forehead. Flung backward, he struck the rifle rack and collapsed out of sight behind the counter. Realizing he need waste no more time on the trader, Cole rolled around to face the front door. A pair of boots rose from the edge of the sidewalk, jerking spasmodically. Cole doubted whether Shadrack possessed sufficient intelligence to try such a ruse to lull his suspicions. With the uncle and nephew both out of the game, that left only Ehart's hired man on the premises.

Coming to his feet, Cole darted into the office and found it empty. Yet the trader expected his man to come from there. From the use of terms “to get Salty up here,” and leaving him “down there,” Cole concluded the man must be in the cellar. Yet he could see no sign of an entrance to the underground room. The office had luxurious fittings, considering the trading post's location, even down to a couple of rugs on the floor. Even as Cole looked, one of the rugs stirred as if something moved underneath it. Swiftly and silently Cole glided until he stood at the rear of the part of the rug which rose upward.

“What's up, boss?” called a voice from underneath. “I thought I heard shooting.”

When no answer came, the trapdoor beneath the rug continued to lift. Cautiously, gun in hand, Salty began to emerge. Waiting until the man's head and shoulders came into sight Cole raised a foot and stamped down hard on the trapdoor. It slammed forward, catching Salty between the shoulders and pinning his upper torso to the floor. Stepping over, Cole landed on Salty's gun hand. A howl broke from the hired man's lips as he opened his fingers and released the weapon. Kicking it away, Cole moved into Salty's view.

“Come on out of it!” the marshal ordered. “Do it any way you want, I'd as soon kill you as not.”

Slowly Salty obeyed. One glance at Cole's grim face warned the man that he spoke the truth. For all that Salty no sooner rose than he lunged forward. Perhaps Cole's appearance misled him as it had Ehart, but, like his employer, he soon learned the error of his ways.

Very sensibly, Cole regarded criminals as enemies of society and not as poor misguided victims of circumstances who should be mollycoddled and pampered to show them the error of their ways. So he acted fast, hard and decisively. He might have shot the man, many a peace officer would have done so under the circumstances,
but he wished to ask questions. So he jerked the gun clear of Salty's reaching hands to lay its barrel with some force across the man's jaw.

In that respect the Rogers & Spencer revolver excelled its Colt rivals. The bar above the chamber formed a solid link with the barrel. So it stood up to being used as a club; whereas doing so with the contemporary Colts risked a fracture of the locking pin holding frame and barrel sections together.

How effective the Rogers & Spencer proved to be showed in the way Salty crashed to the floor and lay still. Holstering his revolver, Cole took hold of the man by the collar and dragged him into the front of the trading post. At first Cole meant merely to couple Salty to the rifle rack chain, but a shotgun lay on a shelf under the counter and asked for a more secure method of holding the man. Taking a set of handcuffs from his pocket, Cole drew Salty's right arm up through the chain and slipped one link to his wrist. Then he raised the man's right leg and completed the fastening of the handcuffs to the left arm underneath it. Without a glance at Ehart's body, Cole left his prisoner and went down into the cellar.

All the proof he needed lay before Cole's eyes in the lamp-lit basement. Stacks of cheap rifles and a few Winchesters stood by one wall along with powder kegs and an open box of bullets. Rows of
whiskey jugs covered part of the floor and a couple of barrels, filled with rain water piped down from above, showed that the trader diluted his liquor to increase his profit margin.

With cold, deadly fury Cole unfastened and up-ended several jugs. The raw stench of neat whiskey made him cough and he went to the powder kegs. Opening a couple, he coated the rest and the floor around them with powder. Taking the lamp from its hook, he left the cellar.

Moaning and struggling weakly, Salty looked at the marshal. Apprehension crept across the man's face as he watched Cole open two cans of kerosene to pour their contents across the floor.

“Who're you?” Salty croaked.

“U.S. Marshal Cole.”

Something of Cole's reputation and his hatred of whiskey pedlars had proceeded him to Utah. Fear twisted the pain from Salty's face as he watched the marshal spread blankets into the inflammable fluid.

“What're you aiming to do?”

“See that this place's never used for selling whiskey to Injuns again.”

“Y—You're going to set me loose first?”

“Am I?” asked Cole.

“Y—You're a lawman!” Salty wailed. “You have to——”

“Who'll know what I did?” Cole inquired.

Terror tore into Salty. In the unlikely event that anybody should investigate the destruction of the trading post, they would find only charred remains and no sign that he had been burned alive.

“If I tell you where we got the liquor, will you set me free?” Salty moaned.

“I know where you got it,” Cole assured him.

“Will you turn me loose if I tell you where two of our boys went?”

“Maybe.”

“And if I give you something else. Something about the Sedgewell gang?”

“Now you're starting to interest me,” Cole admitted. “Let's hear it all.”

“The boys've gone to meet some of Falling Eagle's Arapahoes down Wind Creek way. The bucks allowed to rob a stage to get money for more firewater.”

“Let's have the rest of it.”

“I don't know much,” Salty groaned. “Eli told me to go down into the cellar when he saw the feller coming, so I never saw him. I heard plenty through a crack in the floor through!”

The latter came hurriedly as Cole started to rise with a gesture of impatience. “What'd you hear?”

“The feller said for Eli to tell Sedgewell his sister said come to Ratchet Creek by the end of the week.”

“Whose sister?” demanded Cole.

“Sedgewell's. She's sent messages here for him afore. Now will you turn me loose, marshal?”

“I'm damned if you deserve it,” Cole growled and took out the handcuff key.

As Cole opened the left cuff, he caught Salty's thrust-out foot in the chest. Although the man could not put his full weight behind the kick, it landed hard enough to throw the marshal off balance. Tearing his right arm from under the chain, Salty flung himself to and grabbed up the shotgun. Cole drew and fired instinctively, to miss. Yet the bullet came so close that Salty felt its wind on his face. Surprise caused him to step back. His legs struck Ehart's body and he sprawled on to his rump.

Sitting up, Cole saw Salty had been uninjured by the bullet. There could be only one course left to the marshal. Even as the hired hand tired to raise the shotgun, Cole took aim and fired. A .44 bullet ripped into Salty's head and he pitched over dead, the shotgun clattering from his hands.

“You damned fool!” Cole growled, coming to his feet.

Ten minutes later flames licked into the air, forming a funeral pyre for the three bodies and making sure that none of the trading post's goods fell into the wrong hands. Cole spent the night close by, waiting for the return of Ehart's two men. At dawn they had not come and he concluded that
their loyalty did not extend to taking chances of being caught by whoever had set fire to their employer's property. Regretfully Cole put aside thoughts of trailing the pair. He knew that he must reach Ratchet Creek before the end of the week and prepare a welcome for the Sedgewell gang.

“J
OHNNY!” CALLED
C
ALAMITY
J
ANE AS THE YOUNGSTER
came from his room at the hotel where he spent the night. “Come with me.”

“What's up, Calam?” he asked, for the girl carried a screwdriver and hammer.

“I'm going to put our money someplace safe.”

“Huh?”

“That feller Cultus shot belonged to the Sedgewell gang. I don't know if they aim to hit the stage, but I'm taking no chances.”

“But my money's in the safe down at the office,” John pointed out.

“The agent's there and he'll likely let you have it,” Calamity replied.

The girl's guess proved correct. On arrival at the office, they found the agent already on the premises. Showing no curiosity, he opened the safe and handed over John's money. Then the boy and Calamity walked around to where the coach stood ready to be harnessed.

After making sure that they were unobserved, Calamity climbed on to the box. With the screwdriver, she forced up the nails holding the seat cover. Then she took a thick pad of money from her jacket pocket and slipped it under Pizen Joe's cushion.

“Now yours,” she told the boy.

“That's a smart idea,” he enthused handing over the money.

Carefully arranging the money between the cushion on boards of the seat, Calamity nailed the cover into place. Standing back, she examined her handiwork with a critical eye and decided that it would pass unnoticed.

“It'll do,” she said. “Go get your breakfast, Johnny. I'll stay on here and lend Cultus a hand with the team.”

The thought that Calamity might take his money after he left never entered John's head as he returned to the hotel. All he felt about the incident was pride in the girl's smart selection of a hiding place. So proud that when he joined Monique at a table in the diningroom he told her of Calamity's
scheme to thwart possible robbery.

“Why don't you ask her to put your money with ours?” he suggested.

Monique laughed. “I hardly have enough to bother.”

“Calam wouldn't mind if you did,” John assured her.

“I'm sure she wouldn't,” the little singer answered. “Most of my money was spent on this ring and bracelet, but I doubt if Calamity would like to have them under her when the coach starts bumping along.”

Studying the jewellery, John felt inclined to agree. He had a vague idea that the brilliant colorless stones were diamonds, which he had heard about but never seen. What the green stones clustered around the central diamond in the ring or spaced evenly through the bracelet might be, he could not guess. He thought of suggesting that Calamity thought out another hiding place, but before he could, the food arrived and Monique started to eat with pointed concentration. Young John might be, but he could take a hint. Thinking on the matter, he decided that Monique regarded herself as old and experienced enough to care for her own property without outside help.

Not until they stood outside the Wells Fargo office watching Calamity fetching the stagecoach to a halt did Monique mention the subject again.

“Can I give you some advice, Johnny?”

“Sure, Miss Monique.”

“Don't mention Calamity's hiding place to anyone else. She wouldn't like it if she knew that you had told me.”

“Shucks, you're all right,” John stated.

Once again John and Monique found themselves the only passengers. Placing Calamity's carbine in the wall rack, he sat facing it and the girl. Up on the box Calamity started the team moving and the Concord rolled along Shadloe's main street at a fair pace. Watching the last houses of the town fall behind, a thought struck Calamity and caused her to turn to the guard.

“Did you have any trouble with those two yahoos who tangled with us when we pulled in last night?” she asked.

“Nope,” Cultus replied. “That great seizer back there might not be smart, but he's got just enough sense to stop trouble starting. So he kept them well clear of me.”

“How about that jasper with the feller you shot?”

“If he's wanted, nobody's doing it bad enough to put out a dodger on him. So the marshal figures to let him go sometime this morning when we're well clear of town.”

“It'd be best,” the girl admitted.

“I wonder how Marshal Cole's doing,” Cultus remarked.

“He should've got help afore he went after Ehart,” Calamity answered. “Damned fool, going on his lonesome that way.”

“I figure he knows what he's doing,” Cultus replied. “Now
he
is one real smart lawman.”

“Hah! You men allus stick together.”

“And you women don't. That's why we're the bosses and run things.”

“Maybe you'd like to get off and walk for a spell?” Calamity asked.

“A
man
wouldn't pull a mean game like that 'cause he lost an argument,” the guard told her.

On rolled the stagecoach and the more open range of the previous days' travel changed to hilly country with scattered woodland. The trail they followed wound along by the easiest route for the horses. Often it curved and turned around slopes which prevented any sight of what lay on the other side. Calamity studied the changed conditions with disfavor.

“This's good country for a hold-up,” she remarked.

“If there's one thing I like, it's a happy driver,” Cultus replied. “Yeah, Calam girl, it's damned swell country for a hold-up.”

“I never asked,” the girl said. “But just what is in the chest?”

“Money for the Ratchet Creek bank,” Cultus answered. “And I told you when you first started driving.”

“I was hoping that I heard wrong,” Calamity said, deciding against admitting that her worries at handling the coach had driven all memory of its “treasure chest” out of her head. “How much?”

“Five thousand simoleons. That's below Sedgewell's usual level. He goes for the big ones.”

“He could be needing money,” Calamity pointed out.

“You're making me feel happier all the time,” Cultus growled.

Swinging the coach around a corner, Calamity saw a large Rocky Mountain mule deer in the center of the trail. A young buck, sleek and carrying plenty of meat. The girl felt her mouth water at the thought of venison, but before she could make any suggestions the deer bounded off the trail and into the trees.

“Why in hell didn't you shoot?” she asked.

“For one thing Wells Fargo don't give me shells to shoot deer,” Cultus replied. “And for another, I'm not wanting to let folks know we're around. If they want to hold us up, let 'em work for it.”

“Just how much chance is there of anybody jumping us?”

“There's always a chance and the farther we get from Shadloe, the better it gets. Until we start coming close to Ratchet Creek, that is. Sedgewell never hit a coach nearer than six miles to a town. That
way, by the time the driver can get in and spread the word, he's long gone.”

“Now
you're
making me happy,” Calamity said.

“Sedgewell only pulls a raid when he's sure he'll get plenty,” Cultus reminded her. “This consignment of money was a last-minute business, nobody knew it was to be sent until just afore we left. I'd say there's been no time for word about it to leak out.”

A comforting thought for Calamity; although it might not have been had she known that Sedgewell's sister sent messages to the outlaw leader from Ratchet Creek.

“There's more than Sedgewell's bunch around though,” she said.

“Sure, but he's like an old grizzly bear. When he's in an area planning something he passes word around for the small fry to keep clear. That way there's no chance of somebody pulling a small job and getting the law riled up and on the prod.”

“They listen to him?”

“Young grizzlies listen to the old boss he-whooper. Them as don't get hurt real bad and fast.”

“So you reckon we don't have a thing to worry about?” Calamity asked.

“I wouldn't go that far,” Cultus replied. “But I'm a mite easier after seeing Sedgewell's man in
town. If he was going to Ehart's place for a message, it's not about us. And if there's a big one in the air, Sedgewell'll already have passed the word.”

For all that Cultus kept his shotgun across his knees and remained alert. Nothing happened to disturb the even course of the journey and at last he let out a sigh of relief.

“Only another four miles at most to Ratchet Creek, Calam.”

“Be night afore we get there,” she replied.

At that time they were driving along the bottom of a winding valley with wood-dotted slopes. Ahead lay a blind corner, but Calamity had passed around so many of them without incident that she hardly gave it a thought. Already she had gained such a control of the stagecoach that she could rely on her instincts to make the turn without the need for conscious thought.

It would be good to see Harry and Sarah Tappet again, she mused. Not only did Dobe Killem send along the means to keep his old friend in business, but the rest of the outfit chipped in——

While Calamity thought, the team felt her controlling pressure on the reins and made the turn. A startled curse broke from the girl's lips as she saw the large rock which stood in the center of the trail. Instantly she hauled back on the reins and raised her leg to boot home the brake as hard as
she could. The Concord coach had a good braking system and applying it brought the vehicle to an almost immediate halt on level ground.

Taken by surprise, Cultus pitched in his seat and almost lost his hold of the shotgun. Inside the coach, John shot forward to collide with the opposite wall. Winded, but not otherwise hurt, he sat for a moment dazed by the impact.

“Hands high!” bellowed a voice from the right of the trail.

Fully occupied with controlling the team and retaining her seat, Calamity still threw a glance in the direction of the voice. Coming from the bushes level with the rock, a man lined a twin-barrelled shotgun at the driver's box. He wore a hat slightly too large for him, so that it came down to obscure his hair, and a bandana hid most of his features. Clad in nondescript range clothes, he appeared to be around six foot tall and heavily built, a low hanging Colt at his side.

With her fingers interlaced in the reins and body strained back holding the team, Calamity could do nothing. Cultus caught his balance and made as if to raise the shotgun. From among the trees to the left came the flat crack of a rifle. As his hat spun from his head, Cultus gave a cry of pain. He reared to his feet, then fell forward, struck the rump of the near wheel horse and bounced to the trail. On landing, he lay without a movement.

“Don't nobody else get clever!” warned the masked man in a mumbling, indistinct voice as if he spoke through a mouthful of food.

Curses burst from Calamity's lips as she fought to control the horses, especially the left side animal of the rear pair. Spooked by Cultus falling on to it, the near wheeler reared and plunged in a manner likely to set the rest of the team going. Risking a bullet, Calamity ignored the masked man and used every ounce of her skill to restrain the team.

Shaking his head, John glared out of the window and saw enough to tell him all he needed to know. With a low growl, he started to rise and reached toward Calamity's carbine. Giving a screech of fear, Monique threw her arms around him.

“Save me, Johnny!” she wailed, ignoring the fact that she effectively prevented him from obtaining the means to do so. “I'm so frightened!”

By that time Calamity had calmed the team and glared defiance at the man as she lashed the reins to the brake handle. She still held her whip and measured the distance separating her from the robber.

“Toss your gun and whip away!” he ordered.

“Like he——!” Calamity began, tensing herself to strike.

“In three my pard'll start pumping lead into the coach,” the man warned. “One——.”

While Calamity did not work for Wells Fargo,
she knew the Company ruled in such cases that the welfare of the passengers came first. Although a remarkable robust vehicle in many respects, the Concord's bodywork had to be made of the lightest possible materials. The plywood panels lacked the strength to halt a bullet, even if the second member of the gang could not see the passengers through the windows and aim accordingly. So Calamity knew that she must obey the man. If she alone had been involved, she might have gambled—probably would have done in her anger at the shooting of Cultus. However she liked John and the little singer too much for her to chance them being hurt.

“All right!” she said, tossing her whip over her shoulder and coming to her feet. “I'll do it.”

Slowly, using her left hand and keeping the right well clear of the Colt's butt, she unbuckled the gunbelt. Holding down the temptation to make a move, she darted a glance toward the left in the hope of locating the man who had shot Cultus. At first she saw nothing, then a metallic glint drew her eyes to where two trees grew close together. A rifle barrel showed between the trunks, aimed at her, but she could see nothing of whoever held it.

Realizing the penalty for disobedience, for the rifle's movement warned her that human hands still held it, Calamity swung her gunbelt and
tossed it on to the grass at the side of the trail. In that way she hoped to minimize any damage the Colt might receive in its landing.

“Now jump down and walk up here,” the man ordered.

“How about the guard?” Calamity asked.

“Leave him,” the man answered. “You in the coach, come out with hands raised and empty. One wrong move and this gal here gets a gut full of buckshot.”

Much as John wanted to object, or fight, he knew that the chance to do so had passed. Earlier he might have risked using Calamity's carbine, but no longer. Throwing a glare of annoyance at Monique, he thrust open the coach's door and jumped down.