J. Edson - Ranch War

“I’d reckon so,” the girl replied. “What I can’t get over is pappy owning a spread this good. He wasn’t one to take to hard-sweating work, way Maw allus told us kids.”

Coming into sight of the ranch’s buildings did nothing to change their opinion of Calamity’s property. The main house was small, but sturdily built and recently repainted. Behind it stretched a carefully cultivated truck-garden that would more than supply the ranch’s needs for vegetables. All the other buildings and structures showed the same care in upkeep. There was a combined barn, hayloft and stable of fair size, a small blacksmith’s forge, a bunkhouse. Along by the creek that curled about the dwellings, pigs grunted in half a dozen pens. Four corrals ranged to the north of the house. Studying them, the Kid had his theory, that the ranch specialized in horses rather than cattle, confirmed. Two of the pole-built enclosures had chutes attached in which unbroken horses could be saddled and mounted, and a snubbing-post rose in the center of the third.

Suddenly a large bluetick hound burst from the open door of the house. Making the air ring with its baying, it sprang across the porch and headed toward the two riders.

“Sam!” shouted a male voice and the hound came to a stop, but remained menacingly watchful.

Followed by a woman, a tall, wide-shouldered young man came from the house. Ruggedly good-looking, he had no hat on his rumpled brown hair, but wore range clothes. The Army Colt at his right thigh rode in a well-designed, tied-down holster and he gave the impression of being able to utilize both to their full potential.

The woman was medium height, slim, pretty and had hair as red as Calamity’s. Wiping flour from her hands on to the apron covering her gingham frock, she looked at the newcomers. Then she spoke quietly to the man.

“Come ahead,” he called. “Sam won’t hurt you.”

Having halted at the sight of the dog, Calamity and the Kid started their horses moving. Darting quick glances around, the Kid noticed a bewhiskered, leathery old-timer leaning against the bunkhouse door and nursing a Spencer carbine on the crook of his left arm. A younger cowhand stood just inside the barn’s open double doors, his right hand thumb-hooked in his gunbelt close to the butt of an Army Colt. Up above him, at the entrance to the hayloft, a second young cowhand watched the approaching couple with the same alert air that all the other men showed.

Of course one could expect folks to show curiosity when visitors came calling, but there was more than ordinary, casual interest in the way the people on the ranch watched Calamity and the Kid. Having seen the signs, Calamity flashed a glance at her companion.

“I’d say they was expecting trouble,” she commented sotto-voce.

“Then don’t you go starting it,” warned the Kid in no louder tones.

“As if I would!” Calamity whispered.

Going past the hound, they halted their horses in front of the couple. The Kid took off his hat and addressed the man and woman.

“Howdy, folks. We found this sabino ’n’ bay straying back down the trail a ways and was wondering if they’d come from here.”

Looking at the two horses, the man paid most attention to the sabino and its distinctive Mexican-style saddle. There was a strong hint of suspicion as he swung his eyes from the horse. He seemed to be studying the land behind Calamity and the Kid before he answered, and when he spoke, his voice was cold, unfriendly.

“They don’t belong here.”

That appeared to end the matter as far as he was concerned. Which struck the Kid as peculiar, if not downright suspicious. A saddled, riderless horse had always been a cause of grave concern in the West. Left afoot, a man could be in serious danger. So folks mostly displayed interest on being told that a horse had been found straying. The man did not appear to care, although two such animals were involved.

“Coffee’s on the boil,” the woman put in, running her eyes over Calamity’s travel-stained, hard-ridden appearance. “You look like you could do with a cup and a hot meal.”

“Thanks,” Calamity replied. “I could use both, happen you’d let me help you make ’em.”

“Light and rest your saddles,” the man offered, just a touch reluctantly. “Water your hosses at the trough, then come on in.”

“He knowed that sabino, ” Calamity told the Kid as they went to follow the man’s instructions. “And he sure don’t act sociable.”

“Maybe he’s got his reasons,” the Kid replied. “So don’t you go letting on who you are and maybe we’ll find out what’s up.”

With their horses’ welfare attended to, Calamity and the Kid rejoined the couple before the house. The bluetick sat between the man and the woman, looking as unfriendly as a buffalo-wolf. Glancing around, the Kid saw that the cowhands had resumed their interrupted work.

“That’s a real fine horse, mister,” the man said, nodding to the Kid’s stallion. “He wouldn’t be for sale, would he?”

“Had him so long he’s plumb ruined for decent company,” the Kid answered.

“You look as if you’ve covered some miles,” the woman said, directing her words to the girl.

“Come up from Mulrooney,” Calamity replied. “I’m meeting my boss’ freight outfit when it comes through. I’m Calamity Jane and this’s the Ysabel Kid.”

The man and woman looked from one to the other of their visitors. If anything, Calamity was the better known to them, although something of the Kid’s fame appeared to have spread to Nebraska. Some of the suspicion left the man’s face, but it still held a wary look.

“I’m Cash Trinian,” he said, with a hint of challenge in his voice and his right hand dangling by the Colt’s butt. “This’s my wife, Corey-Mae.”

“I won’t make out I’ve not heard of you,” drawled the Kid, holding forward his right hand. “But the War’s long over and best forgot.”

For a moment Trinian hesitated. Then he nodded and took the offered hand in his. “Like you say, Kid, it’s long over and best forgot. Only there’s some on both sides haven’t forgotten.”

“Cash rode with Lane’s Red-Legs in the War, Calamity,” Corey-Mae explained.

Not that she needed to do so. Calamity remembered stories of Cash Trinian during the War between the States. In those days he had won a reputation as a fast-drawing, hard-riding member of Lane’s band of Union guerillas, an outfit every bit as vicious, bloodthirsty and murderous as Dixie’s Quantrill’s raiders. Yet there had been decent youngsters riding with each of the outfits, believing that they were serving their side’s cause. Cash Trinian had been one of them. After the War, the fast-gun name had stuck. Such a man might be wary when a strange Texan, of a breed noted for being gun-fighters, came calling unexpectedly.

“The Kid was with Mosby,” Calamity replied disinterestedly. “Anyways, men’re allus doing some fool thing like going to fighting where us women’d set down and talk it out peaceable.”

“Yeah, Cash,” grinned the Kid. “She is Calamity Jane. Even if she just said that mouthful.”

“Come in and rest your feet.” Corey-Mae smiled. “I agree with Calamity.”

“Now she won’t be fit to talk to for a week,” groaned the Kid.

Stepping aside, the Trinians let Calamity and the Kid enter the house’s parlor. The room had good-quality furnishings and was clean, but not to the point of discomfort. Clearly Corey-Mae took as much pride in her home as her husband appeared to in the upkeep of the ranch. Telling her husband to make their guests comfortable, Corey-Mae bustled off into the kitchen.

Trinian removed his gunbelt and hung it on the magnificent spread of wapiti horns fixed to the wall by the door. Following their host’s example with belts and hats, Calamity and the Kid exchanged glances.