J. Edson - Ranch War

“I found the feller’s told the sheriff about that fuss,” he said. “He was scared white-haired.”

“Afore, or after, you found him?” Calamity asked dryly.

“Both. Seems like that Vandor hombre told him about seeing Old Man Skelter toting the scatter toward the Fittern place and he just brought the word out of civic duty.”

“Does the feller still have his ears?” Calamity inquired.

“Just about. I stopped them two gents I was with tearing ’em off,” the Kid replied. “Town’s about even in its feelings, ma’am. But most of ’em’re set to back up your husband, well or hurt.”

“I knew they would,” Mrs. Leckenby sighed, eyes bright. At such a time, a local peace officer learned how his town regarded him. It seemed that the majority of Hollick City’s population respected her husband sufficiently to stand by him. Then she saw the misery on the girl’s face and asked, “What is it, Calamity?”

“I feel that I brought all this on, coming here!” Calamity answered.

“Like the sheriff said on the street,” drawled the Kid. “It’d’ve come sooner or later. You arriving likely brought it to the boil.”

“Neither I nor Day blame you for coming, child,” Mrs. Leckenby went on. “We’ve been expecting trouble from that Eastfield woman for a long time.”

“They’d never’ve dast make that play again’ us with the sheriff around,” the Kid stated. “So they lured him out of town and bushwhacked him. Ma’am, I’m real sorry. I should’ve asked when I come in. How is the sheriff?”

“Doctor Goldberg’s still with him.”

“He’ll pull through,” the Kid predicted. “And, ma’am, way I see it, your husband’s a forty-four-caliber man.”

Knowing that such a tribute was high indeed when given by a Texan,* Mrs. Leckenby showed pleasure despite her worry.

“Way those two polecats lit out when they saw the sheriff coming into town, I’ll go along with all Lon’s said,” Calamity remarked. “They didn’t have the guts to face up to your husband and Lon here.”

The bedroom door opened and Doctor Goldberg stepped out. Coming to her feet, Mrs. Leckenby needed only to look at his face to know the answer, but she asked the question just the same.

“How is he?”

“Stubborn, ornery, with a body, that I should mention such a thing in front of a young lady, that would stop a cannon-ball,” Goldberg answered. “He’ll live, but he’s off his feet for a spell. I’ll ask Hal, or Swede to ride out to the Rafter C for Cash Trinian.”

“Best let me go, Doc,” the Kid suggested quietly. “Might be they’ve got somebody watching the trail. If they have, somebody could get hurt.”

“You go then,” Goldberg confirmed. “I’ve got enough sick folk on my hands right now and don’t want more.”

“Don’t let that worry you,” drawled the Kid mildly. “Happen there’s anybody watching the trail, you won’t be needed.”

“Want me along, Lon?” asked Calamity.

“I can handle it best on my lonesome,” the Kid replied. “You stay put, gal. Maybe Miss Eastfield’s decided the time’s come to stop looking and start owning. Which, she’ll likely be coming with help.”

“If she does,” Calamity gritted. “Could be I’ll get her in that corral yet.”

“Just do me one lil-bitsy favor, gal,” drawled the Kid, taking up his rifle. “Let her come and ask you, don’t you go looking for her.”

“What do you reckon I am?” Calamity yelled at the Kid’s departing back.

Waiting until he had reached and opened the door, the young Texan turned and replied, “That I can’t tell you, there’s a lady in the room.”

Letting out a yelp like a scalded cat, Calamity grabbed for the coffee-pot. Then she remembered where she was, and, anyway, the Kid had already gone through the door. So she gave an exasperated groan.

“Ooh! Them floating-Outfit yahoos’re all the same!”

“He gave good advice, young lady,” Goldberg pointed out.

“Sure,” Calamity grinned. “And, for once just to rile him, I’m going to take it. Have some coffee, Doc.”

“Going some place, Kid?” asked a gray-haired member of the quartet seated on the house’s front porch and nursing shotguns.

“Got scared, Swede,” the Kid replied. “I’m running out.”

“Scared of Flo Eastfield’s bunch?” asked the portly owner of the local bank.

“Nope, of Calamity,” grinned the Kid. “Banged fool she-male, she wants to marry me and just now proposed.”

“Marriage’s a wonderful thing, I allus say,” declared the Wells Fargo agent.

“Then why’re you still a bachelor?” Swede demanded.

“’Cause I never believe in doing nothing I ain’t done once afore,” the agent explained. “Where you headed, Kid?”

“To tell Cash Trinian what’s happened,” the Kid answered and walked across to enter the stable.

Leaning his Winchester against the wall of the stall, he saddled his white stallion. Taking up the rifle and leading out the horse, he decided against using the rest of the relay. If Florence Eastfield did have a man, or men, watching the trail to the Rafter C, he could handle the menace better with only one mount. The white stallion was the best choice for the work ahead.

Once in the saddle, he kept his rifle in his hand and made his way out of town along the stage-trail. The stallion had been hard-pushed since leaving the trail herd and he wanted to conserve its strength. So he stuck to the easier going offered by the trail, instead of cutting across country, relying upon his and the horse’s keen senses to detect hostile presences. Nor did he make the white go at faster than a good trot. Unless Florence Eastfield had more men on hand—and the way she had handled things led him to believe she had not—she would have to either send for or fetch reinforcements from the sawmill. That meant there would be no further assault on the town before daylight. So he had time to reach the ranch and return with Trinian without causing the stallion to exhaust itself.

The Kid approached the point where the track turned off the main trail without incident. Suddenly, about seventy yards from the old cottonwood tree, the stallion came to a halt and snorted. Knowing the sound to be that caused by the detection of a hidden human being, the Kid started to raise his rifle. Yet he felt certain that he had heard an animal’s low growl just as the horse gave its warning. There had been a bluetick hound capable of making the sound at the Trinian’s ranch-house.

“Rafter C!” called the Texan. “This’s the Ysabel Kid coming with a message from Millie ’n’ Day Leckenby.”

“Ride up here slow ’n’ easy, young feller,” answered a cracked, ancient voice from behind the tree.

“I’ll do just that,” promised the Kid and, at his signal, the stallion started moving once more.

Cradling his old Spencer carbine ready for use, Leathers of the Rafter C told the bluetick crouched at his side to stay put. Then the old-timer watched the white stallion drawing closer. There was one hell of a fine horse. It moved quietly, despite its size, like a wild mustang rather than a trained saddle-critter. The baby-faced young cowhand had looked to have Indian blood. Horse-Indian most likely. Only a better than fair rider could stay on the stallion’s back——

Only the Texan might not be staying on it.

“Hold it right there, feller!” Leathers ordered. “Them black duds make you sort of hard to see.”

A low whistle came from the range, sounding uncomfortably like it originated from a position that put Leathers in its maker’s view. As the stallion stopped, a quiet, drawling voice rose from the same place.

“Depends on where you’re looking.”