J. Edson - Ranch War

“Got her fighting my way, ’stead of her’n,” Calamity explained. “And I’d got me a shy lil schoolmarm from back East helping me.”

Before the girl could go into greater detail, a gangling, excited-looking townsman appeared at the stable door.

“Day!” he said. “It’s old Skelter. He’s got this scattergun and’s headed for the Fittern place.”

“Damn it!” the sheriff snorted and looked at his guests. “Sorry, Calam, Kid. This’s an old fuss. I’ll have to ride out there and quieten things down.”

“Need any help?” asked the Kid.

“Nope,” Leckenby replied. “I’ll take ole Buck there and handle it on my own.”

Figuring that the sheriff was the best judge of the matter, the Kid did not press his offer. Courtesy had required that he make it, but he did not wish to leave Calamity unescorted in the town.

While the sheriff saddled his big buckskin, Calamity and the Kid attended to their horses. Night had fallen by the time they went up to the house and told Mrs. Leckenby of her husband’s departure. The woman heard the news with no sign of alarm. It was, she explained, not an unusual occurrence for the sheriff to have to quieten down either Skelter or Fittern. A pair of irascible old-timers, they carried on a long-standing feud. Mostly it simmered harmlessly, being continued, Mrs. Leckenby suspected, as a means of avoiding boredom. On the rare occasions when tempers rose too high, the sheriff was needed to apply a restraining influence.

“It’ll take Day about two hours to get out there and back,” Mrs. Leckenby finished. “We’ll wait supper for him, unless you’re hungry.”

“Ate right well with Corey-Mae and Cash Trinian,” Calamity told her. “What say we go see Lawyer Endicott right now, Lon?”

“Not until you’ve had a cup of coffee,” the sheriff’s wife stated. “It’s all ready for you.”

After drinking their coffee, Calamity and the Kid rose to leave. They had placed their Winchesters on the wall-rack and left them there. Mrs. Leckenby told them how to locate Endicott’s home and asked that they should bring the lawyer back with them. Agreeing to do so, Calamity requested that the woman keep her documents. Florence Eastfield and her men had left town, but there was no point in taking needless chances. Mrs. Leckenby accepted the envelope and locked it in the drawer of her husband’s desk.

Although Calamity and the Kid found the main street deserted on their return, they did not feel surprised. It was Thursday and in the middle of the month, so the town would not be over lively. Going between two buildings, they followed Mrs. Leckenby’s directions. By the livery barn, they located Endicott’s house. It did not strike them as the dwelling to be expected as a successful lawyer’s residence. The whole place was in darkness, which did not hide its tumble-down aspect.

“He ain’t to home,” called a voice from by the barn.

“Where’s he at, then?” asked the Kid, turning to face the speaker.

“Down at the Clipper,” the man answered. “Where else? Damned drunk.”

“Let’s go get him,” Calamity suggested and made a wry face. “From the look of this place and the way that feller talks, I can see why the pride of that fancy Eastern law school wound up here.”

Returning to the main street, they headed toward the Clipper Saloon. Its hitching rail was devoid of horses and trade seemed to be very bad, if the lack of noise from inside was anything to go on. Two boys stood on the seat, looking over the painted lower section of the left side’s window. Hearing Calamity and the Kid approaching, they turned.

“What’s up?” the girl asked tolerantly.

“They’re getting old Lawyer Endicott liquored up in there,” one of the boys replied. “He’s a screaming whoop when he’s that ways, until he falls asleep that is.”

Being aware that baiting a drunkard, especially if he also happened to be well-educated, was a favorite indoor sport of small-town loafers, Calamity let out an explosive snort and headed for the batwing doors. A good-hearted girl, she hated petty cruelty of that kind. Even without having need of the lawyer’s professional services she would have reacted in the same manner. Slipping her whip from its loop, she went striding into the Clipper Saloon.

Knowing his Calamity, the Kid followed on her heels. He reckoned that she might require some backing if the men concerned with the lawyer-baiting objected to her intervention. Just a moment too late, as the doors swung closed behind them, the Kid realized that they had walked into a trap.

The barman stood behind the counter, looking scared. Off to the right of the room, Olaf was seated facing a tall, thin, unshaven man wearing a threadbare, but once expensive suit, a grubby, collarless white shirt and scuffed, cracked town boots. Two grimy hands gripped at a beer schooner into which the giant was pouring the contents of a whiskey bottle. The long-handled axe lay across the table.

Even as a realization of the danger bit at the Kid, he heard a footfall from behind him and felt the hard muzzle of a revolver gouge into his back. At the same moment, a muffled curse from Calamity caused the Kid to turn his head. The smallest of the three gunslingers they had last seen with Florence Eastfield stood behind the girl. He had his arms locked tight about her elbows and torso, and knew enough to keep his face clear of her head.

“Unbuckle the gunbelt, cow-nurse!” ordered Vandor’s voice from beyond the revolver. “And don’t you make fuss, gal, or he’s dead.”

Calamity knew when to surrender. So she stopped struggling; but still retained her hold of the whip. Equally aware of the futility of resisting at that moment, the Kid slowly obeyed the order. Unbuckling his gunbelt, he let it slide to his feet. Vandor placed his left palm against the center of the black shirt and pushed the Kid forward.

“What’s on your mind, hombre ?” the Kid inquired.

“You disrespected Miss Eastfield out there in the street, while you was stood behind a rifle and backed by Leckenby,” Vandor explained, following him and thrusting him farther from the door. “Olaf didn’t like it. Did you, Olaf?”

Turning his head slowly, the giant hurled the empty bottle across the room. He lurched to his feet, ignoring the lawyer who sat drinking from the schooner.

“Olaf didn’t like it!” the giant rumbled. “Olaf’ll break him in two.”

“You standing for this, barkeep?” asked the Kid, watching the giant. “I don’t reckon the sheriff’ll be too happy if you do.”

“Maybe Leckenby won’t be coming back,” Vandor sneered, retreating toward the door. “And if he don’t, Miss Eastfield’ll want to know who her friends are. Take him, Olaf!”

Letting out a bellow more animal than human, the giant lurched in the Kid’s direction. At the table, Endicott set down the glass and stared through bleary eyes at the big man.

“Wha-Wha——!” the lawyer mumbled. “Dish-grashe-ful be-hav-hav——” He took up the schooner again and drank deeply.

Separated from his weapons, the Kid was far from helpless. Although the Comanches preferred more direct, permanent methods of settling quarrels, they knew some effective bare-hand fighting tricks. In addition, the Kid had watched such masters as Dusty Fog and Mark Counter perform, learning valuable lessons from them. So he reckoned that he would not be the easy victim the men—and maybe Calamity—expected.

Gripping the back of a chair, the Kid leaped to meet the advancing giant. At the last moment, the Kid weaved aside and crashed his weapon into Olaf’s chest. Wood splintered and the chair disintegrated in the Kid’s hands. Apart from a single grunt, the giant gave no sign of feeling a blow that would have felled most men. As the Kid started to go by, Olaf swung his left arm. It caught the Texan a glancing blow on the shoulder. Glancing, maybe, but the force of it sent the Kid staggering across the room.