The Road to Ratchet Creek (13 page)

“I'm sor——,” he began.

“Shut it!” snarled the masked man. “Get up here, both of you.”

Walking forward, John and Monique ranged themselves on either side of Calamity. They had been halted in a position which offered the second robber a clear shot at them from the trees. Satisfied that the trio could no longer pose any threat, the masked man approached with his shotgun held negligently before him in both hands.

Holding down her inclination to jump the man and either hand-scalp him or get shot trying, Calamity studied his appearance for future refer
ence. Despite his size and bulk, he took short steps. His hands seemed smaller than one might expect for his heft and were covered by leather gloves. Every item of his clothing could have been bought off the shelves of almost any general store west of the Mississippi River. Nothing about his gunbelt or the Army Colt in its holster caught the eye. The revolver carried plain varnished walnut grips and the normal case-hardened metal finish given to the majority of its kind.

Then Calamity looked at the shotgun, noticing for the first time what a fine piece it was. Less than ten gauge in caliber, it showed a higher standard of workmanship than usual and ought to be easily recognized if seen again.

At the other side of Monique, John also stared at the shotgun. Only he looked with the eyes of a trained gunsmith and saw far more than Calamity.

“Hey!” he said and started to step toward the man. “That's——!”

With a low snarl, the man swung the shotgun. Its butt crashed into the side of John's jaw, spinning him around and tumbling him to the ground.

“You bastard!” Calamity shouted and lunged at the man.

At the same moment Monique let out a startled gasp and collapsed. She fell in front of Calamity, tripping her. Going down, Calamity tried to break
her fall. The man swung in her direction, raising the shotgun and driving it down. Pain tore into Calamity as the metal butt-plate struck her head. For a moment bright lights blazed before her eyes, then everything went black.

“C
ALAMITY.
A
RE YOU ALL RIGHT?”

The words seemed to be coming from a long way off, yet drumming into Calamity's skull as if driven by a hammer. Something cold and wet splashed on to her face and she opened her eyes. Immediately the world started to spin around, while heaving up and down worse than any pitching horse. Slowly it settled and she looked at the scared faces of John and Monique. Weakly Calamity put her hand up and clutched at her throbbing head.

“What——Who hit me?” she groaned, then realization flooded back. “Where's the son of a bitch at?”

“He's gone, they've all gone,” Monique replied. “Are you badly hurt?”

Calamity felt at her skull, wincing as she encountered a sizeable lump on it. Twisting her face in pain, she worked her head from side to side.

“I'll do,” she answered and tried to rise. “How about Cultus?”

“I—I think he's dead,” the singer answered.

“You mean you haven't looked?” Calamity spat out.

“I—I only just recovered from my swoon,” Monique replied. “And then I did what I could for you and Johnny——.”

Rising, Calamity staggered and John sprang to support her. Despite a swollen jaw, the boy looked in better shape than Calamity. For a moment a wave of dizziness gripped her and as it cleared she started around the coach. Her eyes took in the sight. All the baggage lay on the ground, its contents tipped out in a pile. Near at hand the “treasure chest” stood, padlock shot off and lid open. Calamity did not bother to look inside, knowing she would find it empty. Nor did she think about checking on the hiding place for her own money.

Then she went by the team toward where Cultus sprawled unmoving on the ground. Blood caked the top of his head and Calamity thought him to be dead. Even as the thought came, a groan left the guard and he stirred. Dropping to her
knees, Calamity bent over him and a wave of relief hit her. For all that the bullet had grazed his scalp and knocked him unconscious, Cultus could account himself a mighty lucky man. Only an inch lower and the speeding lead would have shattered into his brain.

“Let's have some water, Johnny!” Calamity ordered. “And you'd best get into the coach again, gal.”

“W—Why?” Monique gasped.

“I need some more bandages.”

“Oh! I see.”

Turning, Monique ran to the coach and dived inside. While waiting for the required items, Calamity gave thought to the money hidden beneath the seat. With any luck the owlhoots should have failed to find it. John came up carrying a canteen full of water and a moment later Monique presented Calamity with a white underskirt torn into strips. Swiftly in the fading light Calamity went to work, bathing the blood away and estimating the damage.

“I'm only going to bandage him,” she said. “It's near on dark and Ratchet Creek's not far off. We'll put him in the coach and go in.”

Anxiety gnawed at John for Cultus' welfare. Unable to stand the strain any longer, the boy walked around the coach and looked up. Then he climbed on to the front wheel and stared at the seat. Its cover had been forced up, Pizen Joe's cushion
sticking into sight. Reaching underneath the cushion, John's fingers made a sickening discovery.

“Calam!” he gasped. “They found it!”

Disappointment and rage filled the boy's voice. Turning from her work, Calamity looked at him. Then she glared about her. Soon it would be too dark for any chance of reading tracks. Added to that, it would take time to reach Ratchet Creek. There was no hope of a posse getting on the outlaws' trail before morning.

“I'm sorry, Johnny,” she said bitterly, “Only I figured they'd never think to look under there.”

A groan from Cultus prevented Calamity from thinking further about the outlaws looking under the seat cover. Giving him her full attention, Calamity completed the bandaging and looked at her companions.

“What do you want us to do, Calamity?” Monique asked.

“We've got to carry him to the coach and get him inside. See they took your jewellery too.”

“Oui!”
spat the little singer and ripped off a string of what the other guessed to be profanity in French. “And my money from singing. Come, let us start.”

Between the three of them, Calamity, Monique and John managed to lift the unconscious guard and get him to the coach. They slid him in and let him lie on the floor between the seats. While John gathered up her belongings and the shotgun,
Calamity dragged Pizen Joe's cushion from off the box.

“Put this under his head and try to keep him steady,” she ordered. “I'm going to make some time.”

After buckling on her gunbelt, Calamity took the whip and swung on to the box. Monique and John collected their property, packing it hurriedly and crammed Calamity's gear into the warbag. With everything aboard the coach, Calamity drove it around the rock. Back on the trail once more, she started the team moving at a fast pace in the direction of Ratchet Creek.

It was a lathered, exhausted six horses that Calamity brought along the town's main street. Ratchet Creek, sited on a convergence of wagon and stagecoach routes, at least tripled Shadloe in size. Alively town, its saloons did good business if the noise coming from them meant anything. For all that, a small crowd had gathered at the Wells Fargo Office. At the forefront of the waiting people stood two men who caught Calamity's eye immediately. The agent, a shortish man with the appearance of a mild clerk, and the tall, lean, grizzled man wearing range clothes with a sheriff's badge pinned to his vest, sprang forward as the coach came to a halt.

“Where's Cultus?” asked the agent.

Despite his appearance, Agent Ray Burkee was a tough man and capable. So Calamity, having
heard of him from the guard, did not object to the brusque tone.

“Got shot in a hold-up about four mile back,” she replied.

“All right, folks, stand back!” ordered the sheriff, raising his voice over the excited chatter that followed Calamity's words.

Watching how the people obeyed, Calamity figured the sheriff to be a far better peace officer than the marshal in Shadloe. Nor did Burkee show any hesitation as he sprang to the coach's nearest door.

“Hey, Monique,” he greeted as the singer appeared. “Are you all right?”

“I am unhurt,” she replied.

“Go wait in the office,” Burkee suggested. “And you, young feller. Some of you come and lend a hand with Cultus.”

“You'll be Calamity Jane, huh?” the sheriff said as men obeyed the agent. “Janowska at Coon Hollow telegraphed to say you'd be driving. I'm Ham Jergens. Say, did they hurt you?”

“Whomped me over the head with a rifle,” Calamity replied. “Any other place and they might've done some damage.”

“You all right?”

“I'll get by, sheriff. I'll see to the team.”

“Leave Ray's boys do it. I want to ask you some questions.”

Under other conditions Calamity would have strongly objected to leaving the care of her horses
to somebody else. She realized that the sheriff acted for the best and raised no protest to accompanying him into the office. There she quickly gave details of the hold-up and described the masked man as best she could.

“Tall, heavy built, walked with shortish steps and toting a fancy scatter,” repeated the sheriff. “He's back, huh?”

“You know him?” Calamity growled.

“I sure wish I did. He's plumb ruining my reputation, gal, way he keeps robbing folks hereabouts. Say, Monique, you ought to've recognized him.”

“How's that?” Calamity inquired.

“He robbed a friend of mine while we were on a buggy ride,” Monique explained. “If it was the same man. I'm not sure it was. He seemed taller and heavier.”

“Put you in mind of anybody?” the sheriff asked.

“
Non
. Of course I see so many people,” the singer answered. “There were four of them, all tall men and masked.”

“Four?”

“Oui
, sheriff.”

“I only saw the one,” Calamity admitted when Jergens turned to her. “And a second's rifle after he shot Cultus.”

“The others came after he knocked you and Johnny down,” Monique told her.

“Don't reckon you saw anything much, boy?” Jergens said, turning to John.

“Only what Calam told you, sir.”

Something in the boy's tone brought Calamity's eyes to him. She read indecision on his face and wondered at its cause. However John said no more and the sheriff did not press the point.

“Waal,” he said. “There's nothing I can do tonight. Comes morning I'll take a posse out and cut for signs. You folks'd best go get some sleep. Are you stopping in town?”

“I'll be at Harry Tappet's place and Johnny's coming with me,” Calamity replied. “If you want me on the posse——.”

“I'll send for you,” Jergens promised.

“I'm sorry about this, Ray,” the girl went on to the agent.

“Is wasn't your fault, Calam and thanks for bringing the coach here,” he replied. “Now I'd best go tell the banker we've lost his money.”

“He should worry,” Jergens grunted. “Wells Fargo'll cover the loss.”

Outside the office Calamity found big, white haired old Harry Tappet and his plump, jovial-faced wife waiting. After telling them that she had managed to save Killem's bank draft by hiding it in the lining of her right boot, she asked if John could be accommodated for the night. Not only was the request granted, but Sarah Tappet insisted
they returned immediately, so that she could examine their injuries.

Calamity slept well that night and woke late the following morning to find that the posse had already left town. For all that she beat John to it and Sarah stated firmly that he would be left to have his rest out.

“I've got to go see the banker,” she said when Sarah suggested taking things easy.

“Harry already handed the draft in.”

“I want to see him about young Johnny,” Calamity replied. “He's taking it hard, losing the money. His paw set a lot of store in getting that machinery and he reckons he's failed him. What sort of feller's the banker?”

Over breakfast Calamity had explained the reason for John's visit and Sarah's comments about the machinery's owner left no doubts as to his attitude in the matter.

“Dixon Hewes?” Sarah replied. “Smart and real good-looking. Mind you, I reckon his wife's the brains behind the whole shooting match.”

“Wives mostly are,” Calamity commented.

“Am I denying it?” smiled the woman. “The Heweses drive a hard bargain. Hard but fair.”

“That's all I want,” Calamity assured her.

On arrival at the bank, Calamity found it possessed something only rarely seen. Behind the teller's counter stood a tall, slim young woman dressed in a plain black frock. Calamity figured
the girl to be good looking, despite the fact that she wore steel-rimmed glasses, took her mousy brown hair straight back and avoided even the slight touch of facial make-up permitted to a “good” woman. Given a mite of fixing up, in fact, she would be real pretty.

“
You
wish to see Mr. Hewes?” the girl asked, peering through her glasses at Calamity, who was dressed in her usual manner.

“And soon,” Calamity agreed. “Do you tell him, or shall I?”

“What name shall I give?”

“Canary.
Miss
Canary, not that it'll mean a whoop-and-a-holler to him. Say I'm here for Dobe Killem's freight outfit.”

Letting out an indignant sniff, the young woman stalked from behind the counter and knocked at a door marked “Private.” She entered and came out soon after with surprise and a disapproving frown playing on her face.

“Mr. Hewes will see you now,” she said.

On entering the private room, Calamity faced the second most handsome man she had ever seen. With a slender build and not more than five foot ten height, Dixon Hewes could not compare with Mark Counter in the matter of physique; but he ran the blond giant from Texas a close second in handsome features. Looking closer, Calamity decided that Hewes lacked the strength of character Mark showed. His eyes looked a touch baggy,
as if he took his pleasures seriously and regular, she concluded. Rising, he held out a small-looking hand to her.

“Good morning, Miss Canary,” he said in a pleasant tenor voice. “I trust that you feel no ill-effects from your adventure?”

“Naw. I was lucky, he hit me on the head,” she answered and took the chair he offered her. “I came to see you about young Johnny Browning. He—Hey, you've not bought any of this stuff, have you?”

Hewes followed the direction of Calamity's pointing finger to where two elegantly lettered stiff sheets of paper showed from under the other documents on his desk. While she could not claim to dabble in financial matters, Calamity had seen mining stock enough times to recognize it.

“You know the Golden Eagle Mine?” Hewes inquired, looking a shade flustered.

“Only that it don't exist. Some yahoo's been selling this stuff all over the Territory. Did you buy some?”

“Me?—No, of course not!” the banker hurriedly replied, then his face took on a conciliatory smile. “One of my depositors brought these in and asked for my opinion of them. I asked him to leave them with me until I could get a report.”

“They're no good, and that's for sure,” Calamity told him. “Anybody who paid out good money for them's been slickered.”

“How do you know about it?”

“Solly Cole, the U.S. marshal, told me.”

Something flickered across Hewes' face, a brief emotion that Calamity could not place.

“Cole,” he repeated. “Is he here?”

Figuring the marshal would not want his business discussing, even with the local banker, Calamity shook her head. “He left the stage at Coon Hollow.”