The Road to Ratchet Creek (5 page)

On reaching the bottom, Joe must release the brake at the correct time. To leave the wheels locked would bring the coach to a halt, cause the running team to slam into its solid weight, creating confusion and possibly injury among them. Yet if he removed the restraint too soon the coach might roll forward, strike and cripple the wheel pair. Years of practical experience lay behind to help guide Joe, but he worked under an added disadvantage that his companion on the box did not suspect.

Alert to the feel of the coach, Joe watched the horses advance across the level ground. He felt the coach begin to drag as the slope's angle lessened. Only the first warning hint reached him, but it gave a message he could read. Swiftly he released the brake and the coach seemed to lurch
forward faster than before. For a moment Joe wondered if his changed condition caused him to miscalculate. The coach crept slowly closer to the wheel horses and the trace straps sagged a shade more loosely than he liked. Then the wheelers drew ahead and the straps tightened without any sudden snapping that could have proved dangerous.

By this time the lead horses had drawn near to the edge of the stream. Cultus watched in concern, knowing that they might hold back from entering the water. Aware of the danger, Joe countered it. Back and out swung his whip's lash, to crack between the two leading horses' heads in a reminder of his presence. Cultus added his contribution by flicking a pebble at each horse's rump. Having made the same crossing many times without incident, the leaders did not hesitate. They felt the comforting and confident pull of the reins and plunged into the water. Obediently the swing pair followed and the wheelers added their hooves to help churn up the previously placid waters of the ford.

“Ready, Calam?” asked Cole as the coach plowed through the water.

“Ready,” she agreed, turning the door handle.

They came ashore with a rush and Cole thrust open the door at his side. “Let's go then,” he ordered.

Holding her carbine in both hands, Calamity sprang out of the coach. She lit down running, fighting to retain her balance on the firm gravel. At the same time she kept her eyes on the nearest large rock. Four long strides carried her to it and she dropped to her knees behind its comforting bulk. Behind her the coach started its upward climb, the horses straining against their traces and digging in the cleats of their shoes to gain a better hold on the hard surface of the trail.

“Why in hell did Wells Fargo leave these here?” Calamity mused as she settled behind the rock and considered it and others like it as potential places of concealment.

The answer was simple. When preparing the crossing-place, the Wells Fargo surveyor considered removing the rocks which offered far too convenient hiding points for anybody with evil designs on passing stagecoaches. A closer examination of the area showed that the rocks acted as a current-breaker and anchor for the ford's firm gravel bottom during times of high water. Being a shrewd young man, the surveyor raised the matter with the Company's drivers and they suggested that the rocks remained. They preferred having a reliable, safe bottom under their horses' hooves and were willing to accept the risk of an occasional hold-up to keep it.

All of which Calamity learned later. Putting
aside her thoughts about Wells Fargo's apparent folly, which had been tinged with relief that the Company left the rocks for her use, she prepared for the work ahead. A look across the trail told her that Cole was also in position, kneeling behind a rock almost level with her. Darting a glance to the rear, she watched the coach reach the top of the slope. So far the Indians had not come into sight, but the noise of their horses' hooves rumbled nearer and the sound of shots drifted down as they fired after the coach.

Calamity felt sweat trickle down her face and wiped it away with her left hand. There had been around twenty braves in the party, all apparently armed with some kind of rifle or carbine. Only Arapahoes maybe, but big odds against one man and a girl. Yet two things stood in Calamity and Cole's favor. Each of them held a fully-loaded repeater, sixteen bullets in Cole's rifle and twelve for her carbine, and had surprise on their side.

Then the Indians appeared and began the descent into the dip in the same reckless manner which had shown in their actions throughout the whole affair. Every brave wished to have the honor of counting the first coup, with its attendant right of first choice in the sharing of the loot. So they came down the slope in a tightly bunched formation which might have been selected deliberately to aid Cole's plan.

Even figuring on the element of surprise, the Indians presented a mighty awe-inspiring sight to Calamity as she watched them draw closer and waited for the marshal to start the attack.

“H
ERE THEY COME, SISTER,”
C
OLE CALLED.
“L
ET THE
first of 'em reach the foot of the slope afore we read them today's lesson.”

“What's its text to be?” asked Calamity.

“Stop others doing unto you afore they get a right good chance to start doing it.”

With that Cole reared into sight. The Winchester rifle swung swiftly to his shoulder and cracked viciously. An instant later Calamity's carbine spat with a lighter note, like the tenor supporting the baritone in a quartet. A vague feeling that she had forgotten something important filled the girl, but she could not spare the time to think about it as she sighted and squeezed off her first shot.

The leading buck slid sideways from his racing
pony and bounced across the gravel, a hole between his eyes. Caught in the head by a flat-nosed .44 bullet, the second brave's mount crashed forward and somersaulted over. Its rider was the man who had first warned Calamity of their inebriated state by taking a drink up on the rim where she first saw them. Drunk he might be, but a lifetime of riding horses gave him an instinct that no amount of liquor could dispel. Feeling his horse collapsing under him, he tossed himself clear of it. In landing he dropped the Springfield carbine he carried, but kept his grip on the neck of the whiskey jug. Carried forward by his momentum, the buck plunged into the stream, tripped and fell face down into the water.

Concentrating on the main body of the attackers, Calamity and Cole ignored the brave. He thrust himself upward, spitting out water and glared across the stream. The brief immersion served to sober him a little. It did nothing to lessen his desire to kill the hated white-eyes. Ignoring his carbine, he felt around in the stream until his fingers closed on the jug's handle. Lifting the heavy stone container, he began a cautious advance across the stream.

In trained hands a lever-action Winchester could throw out two bullets a second. Both Calamity and Cole possessed the necessary skill to take full advantage of their weapons' rate of fire. Five more shots sped across the stream, strik
ing down two more braves, wounding a third and tumbling yet another horse to the ground. The unexpected assault threw the remaining braves into a state of confusion that their whiskey-loaded condition did nothing to improve. Horses reared as their riders tried to halt them, sliding on the slope and crowding upon the animals before them.

As she fired her fourth shot, Calamity caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Looking closer, she saw the brave coming out of the stream. While his two-feathered hair decoration drooped and the water had washed his war paint into a smeared, running mess, he did not strike Calamity as a particularly amusing sight. Nor did the fact that all he held in his hands was a stone whiskey jug make him any the less dangerous. Unless she missed her guess, that jug would be just as deadly as a formally made war club in his hands. With that thought in mind, she flicked down the lever, felt it stick for a moment, come loose and continue its normal movement—with a slight difference.

Put simply, the carbine's breechblock was locked into the firing position by a toggle link. Lowering the lever unlocked the toggle which in turn forced back the block, ejected the empty cartridge case and left the way clear for the carrier block to rise with the next round from the magazine ready to be thrust by the returning breechblock into the chamber. In addition the back of the
breechblock pushed the hammer to a firing position during its rearward movement—the innovation which put the Winchester rifle ahead of its only major competitor in the repeating stakes, for the Spencer firearms had to be thumb-cocked. Swinging up the lever reversed the procedure, the breechblock returning to its original position and leaving all ready to fire.

At least that was what should have happened, and always did on the other occasions when Calamity used her carbine. Part of the accepted sequence took place, the lever flipping back to its position under the frame; but the breechblock remained to the rear. Calamity did not need to look twice before she knew that carbine would be of no use as a firearm until repaired.

Letting out a ringing war-whoop, the Arapaho launched himself from the water in Calamity's direction. At the same moment her right hand left the carbine, flying downward—and hit the empty lip of her holster.

Suddenly, with sickening impact, Calamity recalled the reason for the nagging feeling as she took cover. She had handed her Navy Colt to young John Browning and had not troubled to ask for it back before diving from the stagecoach. To make matters worse, she did not even collect her whip and that also went off with the vehicle.

Nearer rushed the brave, swinging the whiskey jug in a way which showed his intentions plainly.
Probably the jug would be even more dangerous in his hands than his discarded carbine at close range. One way or another he had to be stopped, but Calamity did not fancy trying it with her bare hands.

Thrusting herself from behind the rock, Calamity landed facing the Arapaho. She figured that remaining in cover would not permit the ease of movement the situation required. Landing on the balls of her feet, she crouched slightly and measured the distance with her eyes. Around whirled the whiskey jug, aimed at her head with enough force to crush it like an eggshell. With the skill gained in barroom brawls she jumped clear of the jug's arc and allowed it to hiss by her harmlessly. Before the brave could catch his balance or halt his forward rush, he blundered by the girl. Spinning on her heel, she swung up the Winchester and smashed its metal-shod butt plate between his shoulders. A howl of pain burst from the brave as the force of the blow sent him reeling on. However he neither dropped the jug nor went down, much to Calamity's disappointment. Snarling Arapaho obscenities and spitting like a gut-shot bobcat, he brought himself to a halt and started to turn.

“Solly!” Calamity yelled as she struck the brave. “My gun's bust!”

Already the other braves had untangled themselves and showed signs of launching a determined attack. For all that Cole did not hesitate.
One glance told him of the need for immediate action to relieve Calamity's embarrassment and he wasted no time in acting.

“Here!” he snapped and tossed the rifle.

Dropping her carbine, Calamity caught the rifle with her left hand curling around the foregrip and her right closing on the butt to slip its forefinger through the triggerguard. While taking hold, she swivelled herself around to meet the attacking brave. There was neither the time nor need for her to raise the rifle shoulder high and take careful aim. Held at hip-level, the rifle cracked in her hands. Its bullet travelled less than four feet to strike the brave's chest, Calamity thought she heard the crack of his breast bone as the bullet arrived. Jerking backward, he spun around, let the jug drop from his fingers and measured his length on the gravel.

After tossing his rifle to Calamity, Cole's left hand swooped down to the Rogers & Spencer's butt. Drawing from such a holster as he wore took a different technique from that employed on the more conventional rig. Instead of lifting the gun so its barrel cleared the lip of the holster, he pivoted it forward from the grip of the retaining spring and downward until the muzzle left the slot in the bottom plug. Then he swung it up smoothly to point in the required direction. As he drew, Cole went into the gun-fighter's crouch. From waist high, with the revolver held centrally
in the rectangle of his body, using instinctive alignment instead of taking sight, Cole turned his first bullet loose slightly less than a second after beginning his draw. Lead ripped into the body of the nearest brave and he splashed down into the stream.

Levering another bullet into the rifle's chamber, Calamity turned and cradled the butt against her shoulder. Although it was some four inches longer and two pounds heavier than the carbine, she found no difficulty in handling the rifle. Carbine and rifle had been designed to take the same type of bullet and, if anything, the extra weight of the latter tended to ease the recoil kick. Besides which, Calamity had no desire to make super-accurate shots, like an Eastern sportsman popping holes in a paper target at long range. She merely took rough sight along the barrel at the nearest Indian and did not care where she hit him, figuring that two hundred grains of carefully shaped lead ought to take at least some of the fight out of him when it drove home.

Guns spoke from the slope behind Calamity and Cole. The deep, authoritative boom of a ten-gauge shotgun almost drowned the lighter note of a Navy Colt which in turn helped to swamp an even more pip-squeak crack. Yet another brave made an involuntary dismount as nine .34 caliber buckshot balls slashed among the attackers. How
ever he struggled to his feet and swung aboard a companion's pony.

Already demoralized by the unexpected reversal to their plans, discouraged by the losses inflicted on them by Calamity and Cole, the remaining Arapahoes called off their attack. Swinging their horses, gathering up the wounded in passing, they plunged back across the water through which they had charged so boldly. Calamity and Cole held their fire, watching the retreat. Although the shotgun and Navy Colt also fell silent, the lighter revolver sounded twice more but there was no noticeable effect on the fleeing braves.

After watching to make sure that none of the braves turned back in a final attempt at revenge, Cole swung about. He looked up the slope to where John Browning, Cultus and Conway approached with guns in their hands.

“I thought I told you to get the coach to safety,” the marshal said.

“Was going to,” Cultus replied. “Then I recalled that we never stopped to scout the draw afore coming over. So ole Joe hauled up and telled us to come back and do it.”

“Right pleased to see you,” Calamity stated and went to pick up her carbine. “You come just at the right time.”

“You're saying the truth, sister,” Cole agreed,
holstering his revolver and going to pick up the whiskey jug.

“If there's anything in it, save me one,” Calamity said. “I can sure—.”

Her words cut off as a scared female scream rang out from beyond the rim where the stagecoach had halted. Swiftly the party bounded up the trail, Cole carrying the jug and Calamity encumbered by the two Winchesters. None of them knew what to expect to see when they reached the top.

At first sign there did not seem any reason for the scream. The coach had halted about a hundred yards beyond the rim and Thorbold stood by the heads of the lead horses. Then Calamity and the men saw Monique kneeling alongside Pizen Joe as he lay sprawled on his back.

“He just got off the box and dropped,” Thorbold told them as they ran up. “Let me get to him!” Calamity snapped, then realized that she still carried her own carbine and Cole's rifle. “And will somebody lay hold of all this hardware? I feel like the gun counter at Milligan's store.”

“Let me have them, Calam,” offered Johnny and thrust her Colt back into its holster to leave both hands free.

“Thanks,” she said, surrendering the Winchesters and going to kneel at the old-timer's side. To her relief, she saw his eyes flicker open. “What the hell're you doing down here, you fool ole goat.”

“I'm taking me aftynoon nap, what else?” Joe yelped and struggled to sit up. “Just let me——.”

Pain twisted his face and sweat burst on his face, causing him to flop back into a lying position again.

“That's better,” Calamity told him. “Now stay there or I'll have the boys sit on your chest.”

Gently she slipped a hand under his neck and started to ease him from the ground. A gasp broke from him as Calamity moved her hand downward to support his back. Something hot, wet, sticky and familiar to the touch came into contact with her palm. She looked down at a blood-oozing hole beneath his right shoulder blade.

“God damn it, Joe!” she said. “You've been shot.”

“Now me, I'd've swore some damned fool freighter done stuck me out of meanness with a pitchfork,” the old timer replied hotly. “Course I've been shot. Lend me hand up, one of ye, and we'll be on our way.”

“Like hell!” Calamity barked. “You're bad enough driving well. The Good Lord only knows what you'd be like with a bullet in you.”

“Damn it all, gal!” Joe spluttered indignantly. “I druv the ‘Big Run' from Halleck to Bridger one time with three Sioux arrers in me brisket. Leave be——.”

Seeing that strong measures were called for to
obtain the old timer's cooperation, Calamity bent forward and hissed words that reached only his ears. “If you don't get shut and lie still I'll tell everybody I meet that those five damned scalps're nothing but the pullings from hosses' tails.”

“How'd you know about that?” Joe demanded, concern and contrition warring with the agony on his face.

“Never you mind. But I
do
know.”

“Dobe Killem warned me that you was a real mean cuss and got a plumb ornery streak, gal,” Joe complained. “I bet you would tell on me at that.”

A slight grin twisted at Calamity's lips, and she could imagine her boss saying it. Knowing that Dobe Killem suffered with “Cecil” as a Christian name came in useful on such occasions as when their wills clashed on some issue. So she figured a similar form of blackmail ought to stifle Joe's protests and make him see reason.

“Spread a tarp on the ground some of you,” she said to the watching men. “Then come and help ease him on to it. Johnny, go up the top and throw down my bedroll.”

“This's a whole heap of fuss for nothing!” Joe growled. “I'm not hurt bad.”

And saying it he collapsed unconscious in Calamity's arms.

“You're an awful old liar, Joe, but you've got more guts than they could hang on the biggest
corral's fence,” the girl said quietly, thinking of the courage needed to continue driving with such a wound. “When'd this happen?”