J. Edson - Ranch War

Glancing idly along the side-street, the Kid saw something that drove all such thoughts from his head. Since becoming a member of the floating outfit, he had twice found himself wearing the badge of a deputy town marshal. The second time had been in Mulrooney and he still retained an honorary official status.* Even without those episodes, he would not have ignored the sight that met his eyes.

Just as the Kid came on the scene, Job had emptied Calamity’s pocket. The burly man’s comments did not cover the forty yards separating him from the Kid, but the loafer’s screeched-out suggestion made it. That and the sight of the drawn revolver caused the Kid to halt and face the men. He neither knew nor cared who their victim might be, but was certain that the lean man must be stopped before he committed a cold-blooded murder.

“Drop the gun!” barked the Kid, advancing along the sidewalk.

Having no desire to become involved in a shooting fracas at that moment, especially against a man armed with a rifle and beyond safe revolver-range, Job hurriedly stuffed Calamity’s letter into his jacket’s inside pocket.

“Get the hell out of it, Otón!” he snarled urgently. “Leave Smith to it!”

Advice which the Mexican was only too willing to obey. They had been sent to Mulrooney for a purpose and had only partially carried it out. However, he did not intend to get killed trying to do the rest. Especially when the rage-blinded loafer might complete their work for them.

Oblivious of the fact that his companions were beating a hasty retreat into the alley, Smith realized that another factor had entered the game. The Kid’s words caused the loafer to look in his direction. Transferring some of the hatred he felt for Calamity to the interloper, Smith brought his weapon to shoulder level and at arm’s length. Taking a quick aim, he cut loose with a shot in the Kid’s direction.

It proved to be a costly mistake, despite the loafer displaying a fair amount of skill in the fast alignment of a revolver’s sights. However, a distance of forty yards was far from the ideal range over which to use a handgun. Going up against a man of the Kid’s ability, when the latter was armed with his Winchester, was suicidal under those conditions.

Not that the loafer did badly. In fact, he might have made a hit if he had been dealing with a slower man than the Kid. Seeing that Smith did not intend to obey his order, the Kid took evasive action. Long before he had taken a badge as a peace officer, he had learned that billing into such a situation required an instant readiness to handle reprisals. So, even as he shouted the order—a thing he would not have done before he met Dusty Fog—and saw Smith turn the revolver in his direction, he was already bringing the rifle into a firing position.

Swiftly the Kid sank into a kneeling posture. Nor did he move an instant too soon. Along the sidewalk, Smith’s revolver cracked and its bullet passed through the space just vacated by the Kid’s head. More than that, the man cocked his weapon as its recoil kicked the muzzle into the air. There was a smooth precision about the move which warned the Kid that the loafer possessed a dangerous proficiency in the use of a revolver.

Certainly sufficient for the Kid to be disinclined to take chances. Moving as if of its own volition, the rifle cradled its butt against the right shoulder of the black shirt. Instinctively the Kid’s left elbow came to rest on his raised left knee. The moment his right knee settled on the planks of the sidewalk, the Kid was setting his sights. His right forefinger caressed the trigger and he felt the rifle recoil against his collar-bone. Smoke swirled momentarily before him and, as it whisked away, he saw the loafer rear back. Caught in the head by the Kid’s bullet, the man tossed aside his revolver. He spun around, struck the hitching rail and fell over it to land limply on his back in the street.

Blurring the loading lever through its cycle, the Kid ejected the empty case and replaced it with a cartridge from the magazine tube. With that precaution taken, ignoring the shouts which rose from Leicester Street and across the stock-pens, he sprang forward. Running toward the alley, with the intention of catching the other two men, he received his first clear view of their victim.

Having met Calamity outside Elkhorn, Montana, the Kid recognized her immediately. There might be other young women who wore male clothing in the West, although few of them would appear so dressed on the streets of a big town like Mulrooney, but the coiled bull-whip on her belt identified Calamity almost before he had seen her face.

“Anyways,” the Kid thought as he skidded to a halt. “It’d have to be that danged fool Calamity. No other gal’d get herself into a fix like this.”

Resting his rifle against the wall, he knelt by the girl. Despite his thought, concern showed on his Indian-dark face; even if it would have taken a real close friend to detect the emotion. Gently he raised the girl and supported her back against his raised left knee. From what he could see, Calamity had been lucky when Job had struck her. Instead of going head-first into the wall, she had still been sufficiently erect for her shoulder to take the impact. So she had avoided suffering a serious injury and was already groaning her way back to consciousness.

Footsteps thudded from two directions as people ran toward where the Kid supported Calamity. Turning his head to look at the loafer’s body, he saw several men approaching fast along a space between two sets of stock-pens. He forgot his intention of pursuing the other two men and turned his attention back to the girl. Much to his relief, he saw her eyes flicker open. No mutual recognition showed in them. Letting out a muffled gurgle that the Kid guessed was meant to be some mighty explosive profanity, she tried to grab at the indistinct shape in front of her.

“Easy there, Calam gal!” the Kid suggested gently, catching hold of her wrists with his hands and not sorry that the blow had left her in a weakened condition or that the jacket still entangled her biceps. “Take it easy, you loco she-male you. They’ve lit out and this here’s me.”

Slowly the dazed expression cleared from the girl’s eyes. Looking at her rescuer, she stopped struggling. Still letting her lean against his knee, the Kid returned the jacket to its correct position.

“L-Lon——!” Calamity croaked. “What—Where——” She placed a hand on her jaw. “Ooh!”

“How’s it feel, gal?” asked the Kid.

“Like my son-of-a-bitching jaw’s busted,” Calamity muttered thickly as she tenderly fingered the impact point of Job’s fist. Then she glared around in fury and tried to rise. “Where’re they at?”

“Two of ’em took off, running like a Nueces steer,” the Kid replied. “The other’s on the street there, but don’t pay him no never-mind. He’s not going any place right now.”

In the lead of the crowd attracted by the shooting, a pair of Texas cowhands came to a halt. They had known the Kid when he wore a badge in Mulrooney and the taller man asked what had happened.

“Three pelados set on Calamity here,” the Kid answered. “Why’d they do it to you, Calam gal?”

“Damned if I know,” the girl began. Then she grabbed at the left side of the jacket and discovered that its breast pocket was empty. “Hey! Did I drop a letter while I was fussing with them?”

“Don’t see it arou——” the Kid started to say. “One of them was putting an envelope in his pocket when they lit out!”

“They must’ve wide-looped mine then!” Calamity yelled indignantly, ignoring the pain it caused to her jaw.

“Take after ’em, boys!” the Kid requested, looking at the cowhands. “One’s a big jasper and the other’s dressed like a Mexican. Watch ’em, they look like they can use their guns.”