J. Edson - Ranch War

“There’s another player in the game, with an eye on the Rafter C,” Calamity commented. “Gal who owns a sawmill across the Loup.”

“Trinian never let on about her,” the Kid said quietly. “Why’d somebody’s owns a sawmill want ranching country?”

“Maybe we’ll get a chance to ask her when we hit Hollick City,” Calamity replied. “Cash recognized the sabino. I’ll be right interested to see if that Eastfield gal shows she does.”

Chapter 11 I’M GOING TO STOP YOU DEAD

A COUPLE OF TYPICAL SMALL-TOWN LOAFERS SEATED outside the Clipper Saloon took their eyes from the four horses at its hitching rail and looked at the two riders coming along Hollick City’s main, almost only, street. To make sure that Hogue’s and Ruiz’s mounts did not go unnoticed, Calamity and the Kid led them on the outside of their relays. Staring at the sabino for a moment, one of the loafers rose and passed hurriedly through the batwing doors.

Giving no hint of their awareness that the sabino had attracted attention, Calamity and the Kid rode by the saloon. They turned toward the hitching rail of the stone building with barred windows and a sign announcing “SHERIFF’S OFFICE, Hollick City.”

“There’s somebody who knowed the sabino, ” drawled the Kid. “Gone to spread the word it’s back, most likely.”

“Them four hosses outside the saloon didn’t have ropes on their saddles,” Calamity replied. “Which means they don’t belong to cow——They’re coming, Lon. Four of ’em.”

Dismounting, the Kid slid his Winchester from its boot before tossing the horses’ reins over the hitching rail. While Calamity swung down and secured her relay, he turned his eyes quickly toward the approaching men. All in all, they looked like bad medicine to run up against.

Three of them wore range clothes, but they were not cowhands. All were tall. The one slightly in the lead was best-dressed of them, swarthily handsome, with black hair. To his right, was a slightly bigger, thicker-set hard-case with ginger side-whiskers. At the left rear, the third man was smaller than the others—which did not make him a midget—brown-haired and unshaven. One thing all had in common. They each wore their guns—a pearl-handled Smith & Wesson 1869 Army revolver in the leader’s case—in tied-down holsters.

Which left the fourth of the party. Studying him as he slouched along in the rear, the Kid was willing to admit that he had a size and heft almost equal to Mark Counter. There the resemblance ended, for the man had neither Mark’s handsome features nor superb build. A shaved head, creased by a long scar, did nothing to enhance a brutal, bristle-stubbled face. He hardly seemed to have any neck, but spread out to bulky shoulders that strained at his tartan shirt. There was little slimming down at his middle. He wore Levi’s pants tucked into heavy, flat-heeled boots with sharp-spiked caulks in the soles. First thing to strike the Kid, though, was that he did not wear a gun. Instead, he toted a long-handled, double-headed axe that looked as sharp as many a knife.

“Hey you!” called the handsome man as Calamity swung on to the sidewalk.

“Us?” asked the Kid mildly, joining the girl.

At the sight of the rifle, held at the wrist of the butt with three fingers in the lever and the forefinger through the trigger, the man came to a halt. That was a position of readiness, allowing the weapon to be brought into action fast.

“Yeah,” the man agreed. “Where’d you get the sabino ?”

“Found it straying, along with the bay there, back along the trail,” the Kid replied, facing the quartet.

“How’d they come to be straying, cow-nurse?” demanded the ginger-haired man.

“Best ask ’em,” answered the Kid. “They’ve not told us a thing.”

“Don’t get smart with us, beef-head!” warned the handsome man and indicated the fourth member of his party with his left thumb. “Olaf don’t like folks who do.”

“Olaf don’t like it one lil bit!” rumbled the giant, hefting his axe and pushing by his companions to advance along the sidewalk.

Watching the almost babyish innocent expression on the Kid’s face, Calamity inched her right hand in the direction of the whip. When he looked that way, the Kid was at instant readiness for trouble. Unless those four yahoos backed off, there was likely to be an explosion and she wanted to be set to take her part.

Studying the giant, the Kid figured that he would take a whole heap of stopping happen he meant mischief. However, the Indian-dark Texan reckoned that he held the means of doing the stopping—except that the other three hombres were likely to cut in the moment the big cuss made his play. Ignoring the rifle, the giant continued to advance.

There was something awesome about the bald man’s behavior, hinting at a complete disregard for danger, almost animal strength and power, and a lack of fear. Behind him, the three gunslingers tensed. Maybe the giant did not recognize the Kid’s potential, but they did. Yet they made no attempt to warn their companion.

“Just one more step!” thought the Kid, measuring the distance between them with his eye. “One more ’n’ I’m going to stop you dead.”

Every instinct warned the Kid that he would have to do just that. Nothing else would halt that brute-man before him. And then all hell would pop. Most likely Calamity would take one of the gun-hands out of the game. Possibly the Kid could account for another; but the third stood a better than even chance of making Ole Devil’s floating outfit short of a member.

Even as the giant raised his foot for the step which would have caused a bullet to spike between his eyes, the office’s door opened and a man stepped out. Of medium height, he had a breadth to his shoulders and powerful frame that made him look taller. He wore range clothes of good quality, clean, neat but not new. Tanned by long exposure to the elements, his heavily mustached face showed strength mixed with intelligence. An ivory-handled Remington Army revolver rode in a cross-draw holster on the left side of his belt and a sheriff’s star glinted on his vest.

“Something bothering Olaf, Vandor?” the sheriff inquired, looking at the four men.

At the sight of the peace officer, the giant halted and the other three allowed their hands to relax at their sides. The handsome man moved forward and pointed at the line of horses.

“Them two brought in what looks like Otón Ruiz’s sabino, Sheriff. We was wondering, natural enough, where they’d got it. Only he got lippy when we asked.”

“I’m a mite choosey how I get asked,” the Kid put in.

“Then I’ll ask you,” the sheriff said quietly, right hand resting on the center of his gunbelt.

“We found the hosses straying, back along the stage-trail,” lied the Kid. “Brought them in to tell you about them and let you handle things, Sheriff.”

Everything about Day Leckenby impressed the Kid with his honesty and capability. There had been neither suspicion nor bluster in his words, but they had held a warning that he intended to have his question answered. The Kid preferred that the sheriff be alone before hearing the truth.

“Do you have business in town?” Leckenby asked, in the neutral voice of a peace officer addressing a potential source of trouble.

“Not me,” the Kid replied, without looking at the quartet. “Miss Canary here, though, she’s got——”

“Canary!” the smallest of the gunslingers burst out, before a glare from Vandor stopped him.

“Martha Jane Canary, mister,” Calamity told him. “I’ve come up to take a look at the Rafter C.”

Watching the quartet, the Kid saw the glances which bounced back and forward between three of them. The bald giant stood as if turned to stone, showing no interest in what went on. When one of his companions seemed about to speak, Vandor gave a savage shake of his head and the man kept silent.