Troubled range Read online

  "Name's Counter, my pards call me Mark."

  Calamity cut down her whistle of surprise. Mark Counter. That figured, happen a half-smart lil range gal came to think about it.

  Although his father ran a big spread down in the Texas Big Bend country, and Mark himself had a fair-sized fortune left him by an eccentric maiden aunt in her will, he still rode as a hand for Ole Devil Hardin's O.D. Connected ranch. More than that, he belonged to the elite of the ranch crew, the floating outfit, and was the side-kick and right bower* of the spread's segundo, the Rio Hondo gun wizard Dusty Fog. When debating to herself who'Mark might be, Calamity had thought of Dusty Fog—only if Dusty Fog was bigger and stronger than Mark, it would make him a tolerable big and strong man.

  During the War Between The States, Mark rode as a second lieutenant in old Bushrod Sheldon's regiment where his ideas of uniform were much copied by the bloods of the Confederate Cavalry. Now Mark's taste in clothes dictated cowhand fashions in the range country, for he was an acknowledged master of the trade. His strength and ability in a rough-house brawl were spoken of with awe by all who saw him in action. Having just seen an example of that strength, Calamity reckoned for once the Texans were not exaggerating even a little mite as they talked of this particular son of the Lone Star State. Men said Mark could handle his guns well. The few who knew claimed him to be second only to the man they called the fastest gun in Texas, Dusty Fog himself, in both speed and accurate placing of his shots.

  ♦Right Bower, originally a Euchre term for the highest trump card.

  "Glad to know you," she said, not wishing him to guess that she felt impressed by being in the presence of a man Wild Bill Hickok studiously avoided meeting when the O.D. Connected brought a trail herd into Hays.

  Actually Wild Bill had left town on a buffalo hunt the day before the O.D. Connected herd arrived—he said. Calamity had taken his word for it, content to bask in Hickok's reflected glory. Only now she came to think about it, there had been no buffalo herds seen around Hays at that time. Even the professional hunters had commented on the lack of the shaggy critters on the range.

  No matter that she was hot-headed, Calamity could cook up a meal fit to set a man's mouth to watering. One of the few things the nuns at the St. Louis convent—where Calamity's mother left her children before disappearing into the unknown—had managed to teach the girl was how to cook.

  They ate their meal without much talk. Then, after cleaning up the dishes, Calamity walked to where her guest stood. She reckoned it was high time they had a show-down and learned who was boss around the camp-fire.

  "You sure cook good, Calamity," he said, grinning down at her. "Don't tell me Wild Bill taught youT'

  "I'm Wild Bill's gal," she replied and whipped the flat of her hand across his cheek with all her strength.

  It was a good slap, Calamity admitted to herself, maybe even a little harder than she ought—

  Mark's hands shot out, clamping on her shoulders and jerking her forward. He bent his head and his lips crushed down on hers. With a muffled gasp, Calamity tried to twist her head away. Her hard little fists beat at his shoulders, but Mark ignored them. Twisting his body, he took her knee on his thigh as it drove up. Then he released her, shoving her backwards. For a moment Calamity stood gasping for breath. Then she came forward with another slap and a repetition of the fiction that she was Wild Bill's girl.

  Again Mark caught her, hauled her to him and crushed a kiss on her lips. She struggled, though not as hard as before. On being released, she staggered a pace or so to the rear and stood gasping for breath.

  "I'm Wild Bill's gal!" she said, her breasts heaving, and she

  lashed out another slap, only it did not have the power of the first two.

  On the fourth, fifth and sixth kisses and slaps Calamity's struggles grew weaker. The slaps became more feeble and on the sixth time she found herself starting to kiss back.

  "I—I'm st—still W—Wild Bill's g—gal!" she gasped after the seventh kiss, staggering on wobbly legs and landed a slap which barely touched his cheek.

  Once more Mark scooped her into his arms. This time her lips sought his, hungrily answering the kiss. Her tongue crept through his lips. Her arms, no longer flailing, crept around him. Clinging to Mark, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back, Calamity threw all she had into her kiss.

  The night was dark. The stars shone brightly in trie heavens. Only the range noises broke the silence; the stamping of Mark's big stallion as it heard the distant scream of a cougar; the thrashing as one of Calamity's team horses rolled in the grass; the squeaking of insects.

  Under the wagon a large black mound separated into two smaller black mounds. A masculine voice spoke from the larger of the mounds.

  "What do you think of Wild Bill Hickok now?' it asked.

  A feminine voice, dreamy, satisfied and contented came from the smaller.

  "Wild Bill Hickok," it said. "Who is Wild Bill Hickok?'

  The sun crept up and peeped over the horizon. A cold grey light of dawn began to creep out into the blackness of the night sky.

  Beneath Calamity's wagon, Mark Counter opened his eyes and lifted his head from the pillow he always carried in his bedroll. Beside him, the girl stirred sleepily, her bare arm around his equally bare shoulders. Putting up his hand, Mark felt at the oval lump on the right side of his neck. Well, the bandana would hide it and he reckoned he was big enough to handle any adverse comments on his honourable wounds.

  Two arms closed around his neck and a hot little mouth crushed against his, worked across his cheek and to his ear.

  "Mark!" Calamity breathed into his ear.

  "It's time we was up and on our way," he replied.

  "Please—pretty please."

  Like the man said, a feller's sins always bounced right back on to his fool head happen he stayed around long enough after committing them; and Mark had taken a firm stand on the subject of politeness bringing its own reward when he first met Calamity.

  Half an hour later Mark sat drawing on his boots and at his side, smiling contentedly, Calamity buttoned her shirt after tucking it into her pants.

  "Yes sir," she sighed, rising to make the fire. "World's sure a happier place happen we all ask each other polite."

  There had been a time, back the first time it happened, when Calamity would have expected the man to ma- rj her and spend the rest of his days in a haze of devotion to her.

  Only he had not. The feller had been a handsome young freighter and Calamity a naive sixteen-year-old girl fresh out in the harsh, cruel world. When she woke the morning after it happened, she found him gone and felt that her heart would break. It did not. Fact being Calamity had discovered her heart could stand plenty of jolting around without showing any signs of fracture. From the first time, she built up the belief that no man was so much better than the rest that he was worth busting a gut over when he pulled up his stakes and left. There would be another feller come along, so she went her own way, enjoying life to the full in good times and bad. Only she no longer grew starry-eyed when a man showed appreciation of her feminine charms.

  Sure, last night had been swell, but that did not make her a potential Mrs. Mark Counter. Likely they would part in Elkhorn City and never meet again. Although she had never heard the word, would not have understood it if she did, or know how to phrase it, Calamity figured their destinies lay in different directions. While last night had been an enjoyable experience, and one she would not soon forget, nothing serious could come of it.

  So Calamity cooked breakfast, while Mark used some of the contents of her water-butt for his wash and shave. They ate their food with a good appetite and prepared to move on. After saddling his bloodbay, Mark helped Calamity to hitch

  up her team to the wagon. When all was done Mark mounted his horse and Calamity swung up on to the box of her wagon, taking up the blacksnake whip.

  "Giddap!" Calamity yelled, swinging her whip and making it pop like a gunshot in the morning
air.

  The two horses put their shoulders to the harness and moved forward, starting the wagon rolling. Side by side Calamity and Mark headed across the range, following the faint wheel ruts which marked the way to their respective business affairs in Elkhorn City.

  "How come Cap'n Fog's not along with you, Mark?" she asked.

  "Had some business to attend to in town and couldn't leave. Then he got this telegraph wire from a feller up in Elkhorn wanting to pay off some money he owed Ole Devil. Sent me along to collect it."

  "I'd sure admire to have met Cap'n Fog. How come he took his herd to Newton, not Hays, this year?"

  "Saved two days driving, brought in the first drive of the year. Happen the railroad keeps pointing the way it is, we'll likely be delivering to somewheres around Fort Dodge next summer. You figure Wild Bill scared us off?"

  "Like I said last night. Who's Wild Bill?' she grinned. "Sure would like to see Cap'n Fog though. Is all I hear about him true?"

  "Such as?"

  "How he stands taller'n you, is stronger, faster with his guns."

  "Would you believe me if I told you Dusty Fog stands only about five foot at most?"

  "Nope—Hey, you're not jobbing me. You're serious, aren't you?"

  Mark nodded his head. When he said Dusty Fog stood only five foot six, he told the simple truth—but to Mark's way of thinking, and to many others with whom he came in contact, Dusty Fog could not be measured in mere feet and inches, he stood the tallest of them all.

  "I alius heard—!" Calamity began.

  "Sure," Mark interrupted. "I've heard it too."

  For a time they travelled on discussing Dusty Fog, the

  Ysabel Kid and the other well-known members of the O.D. Connected. Then Calamity swung the conversation to an item of news which had been the main topic in Newton during Mark's visit.

  "Did you hear anything new about the bank hold-up that Belle Starr's gang pulled in Newton?" she asked.

  "Belle Starr's gang!" Mark snorted. "Just 'cause some old biddy who had been swigging corn-toddy reckoned she saw a woman holding the gang's horses, everybody's howling about Belle Starr."

  "You reckon it wasn't her then?"

  "No more her than Big and Lil Harpe and they've been dead for over a hundred years."

  "They put a tolerable sized bounty on her head though," Calamity replied. "It happened near on a month back, remember. Sheriff's posse run down the four fellers who pulled the raid, plumb shot them to doll-rags and killed 'em all. Which same came out to be plumb foolish 'cause they hadn't the money with 'em, not so much as a red cent, and they was all past telling where it'd gone."

  "Yes," Mark agreed. "And now every durned fool in the west allows Belle Starr knows where the money's hid out and are looking for her to make her tell."

  "Kind of like to meet her myself," remarked Calamity.

  "Never took you for a bounty hunter, Calam," Mark answered, a hint of disapproval in his voice.

  "And I ain't one. But they do say she's a real tough gal. I'd like to see just how tough she is."

  "From Missouri, huh?"

  "Huh?" Calamity replied, putting a world of puzzlement into the grunt.

  "You've got to be shown."

  "I've never met the gal who could lick me at riding, drinking, shooting or going at it tooth 'n' claw," Calamity stated, trying to sound modest. "And I don't reckon I ever will."

  Calamity did meet a woman who was more than her match, but the meeting was not to come for three years.*

  *Told in The Wildcats by J. T. Edson.

  "Not interested in getting your hands on the reward the bank has offered for the recovery of the money?" asked Mark.

  "Naw. Anyways, I go with you, I don't reckon Belle Starr was tied in with that raid. Hell, I know the sheriff in Newton, he couldn't catch water in his hat if he stood under a waterfall. He wouldn't have picked those boys up so easy had Belle Starr been running them."

  "What brings you up this way?" Mark asked.

  "Load of freight for a spread half a day past Elkhorn. Owner had it shipped into Hays from the east and I caught the contract to deliver it What's this Elkhorn City like? I've never been this way afore."

  "Nor me. But they do say it's thriving, growing big and fast, what with gold-miners, ranchers and all."

  "Are you fixing to be there for long?" she inquired.

  "Day, couple of days at most, depends on how soon I get to see that feller for Ole Devil."

  "I'll maybe see you on my way back then," she suggested. "We can have us a whing-ding and tree the town a mite."

  The town known as Elkhorn City was, as Mark claimed, growing big and fast. It sported no less than four thriving saloons, including the Crystal Palace, a place which would not have disgraced the best part of Trail Street, Hays City, or the better part of any rail-head trail-end town. One good, and a couple of indifferent hotels catered for the needs of transient visitors. Various shops which usually found combination in a general store in smaller, less prosperous towns, graced Beidler Street—called after John X. Beidler, leader of the vigilantes who wiped out the Plummer gang which once terrorised the Bannack area. Wells Fargo maintained a large office, stage-route and telegraph service, testifying to the importance of the city. Further amenities showed high standard. A stout building housed the county offices, sheriff's department, town marshal's premises and a substantial jail. In addition the town had the usual run of livery barns, undertaker's shop^and stable, bath-house and all the rest of the things which made life worth living on the range.

  Bringing his horse to a halt before the open double doors

  of a large building inscribed "pop larkin's livery barn. Use it, I'm too old to start working", Mark looked at Calamity, winked and raised his hat. She waved a hand, keeping her team going forward.

  "Don't you forget now!" she called. "You got a date when I come back."

  Swinging from the saddle, Mark watched Calamity's wagon roll on along the street, then turned and led the bloodbay towards the open doors. He did not know if he would be in town when Calamity returned, but felt tempted to stay over. Something told him a night on the town with Calamity Jane would be worth having and be a highly entertaining experience, more so since he missed most of the fun at Newton by coming north to handle the chore for Dusty Fog.

  Inside the barn it was cool, light and clean looking. There were a couple of empty stalls at the end of the line across the room and Mark walked towards them, his horse following on his heels.

  A man had just finished tending to his horse in a stall down the other end of the line. Turning slowly, he looked Mark over, starting at his gunbelt, dropping his eyes to the high-heeled, fancy stitched boots, then roaming them up to the top of Mark's head. Mark noticed the way the man looked, like a rancher studying a prime bull and wondering if it would bring any profit to him should he buy it.

  For his part, Mark gave the man a quick, all-embracing glance and did not like what he saw. The man stood around six foot, had a lean, rangy build and a gaunt face stuck on a neck with a prominent Adam's apple. The face's expression seemed to be one of arrogant contempt, and hinted that he must be able to handle any objections to his attitude should they be made. His clothes told a story to eyes which knew the west. Sure he wore a Stetson hat, bandana, calf-skin vest shirt, and levis with their cuffs turned back, like a cowhand. He wore a gunbelt with a brace of walnut handled Army Colts in fast-draw holsters, but so did many cowhands. On his feet were Sioux moccasins. That was what made him different. No cowhand ever wore moccasins, they would be of no use to him in his work.

  For a long moment the man studied Mark, then, in the manner of a rancher who had decided a prime bull would not bring him any profit, he turned away. Slinging the saddle over his shoulder with his right hand, the man took up the double barrelled, ten gauge shotgun which leant against the wall of the stall. Gripping it with his left hand closed on the small of the butt, forefinger lying alongside the trigger-guard, the man walked out and kicked the sta
ll gate closed behind him.

  Without appearing to, Mark watched the man walk out of the barn. Caution paid when a proddy hard-case like that feller prowled around holding a scatter-gun in his hand. The man did not look back, but walked out into the street and started across its wheel-rutted width.

  "Ain't sorry to see him leave."

  The words came from a door at the side of the building. Turning, Mark saw a leathery old-timer stumping towards him.

  "You know him?" the old-timer went on.

  "Nope. Should I?"

  "Not less'n you got a wanted poster on ye some place. And you ain't, or likely one of you'd be dead by now. That there was Jubal Framant, mister."

  "Is, huh?"

  Once more Mark turned to look after the hard-case. He stood on the far side of the street, talking with a big, burly man who wore a marshal's shield on his vest and carried a heavy old Colt Dragoon hung low at his right side. Mark did not look down on a man who carried one of the old four pound, one ounce thumb-busting Colt giants. The Ysabel Kid toted one and could handle it with some precision when needed.

  "Yes, sir. That's Framant," the old-timer went on, following Mark's gaze. "Wonder what brings him to Elkhorn?"

  "There's only one thing takes him any place," Mark replied.

  Framant's name was not unfamiliar to Mark. The man was a bounty hunter, said to be as mean as a stick-teased rattlesnake. Roaming the range country like a buzzard

  circling in the sky, Framant hunted down men for a price^on their heads. Rumour had it that Framant had killed fourteen men and claimed the bounty their scalps bore.

  A man like Framant usually came to a town for the purpose of finding some wanted outlaw. When he found his man he would kill, for Framant never took in a living prisoner.

  "Who's the feller with him?" Mark asked.

  "Joel Stocker, town marshal. Real nice feller," replied the old man and turned his attention to the bloodbay stallion. "R over C. I never saw that brand afore."

  "Nope?"