The Big Hunt (7 page)

No man sneaked in a suspicious manner toward
the gate of a corral containing valuable unbranded horses at night if he had innocent intentions. With the penalty for horse-stealing being death, it did not pay to take chances at such a moment.

At least two people walked by the wagon and only one of them made his way toward the corral gate. However, Mark did not have time to look for the other. Already the man had reached the gate and fumbled with its fastenings. Once the gate opened, the sound of shooting would spook the remuda and allow it access to the open range. So Mark had to prevent the gate opening if he could; and chance the second man not being in a position to interfere.

“Hold it!” he snapped.

A snarling curse sounded from the man at the corral gate and he whirled to face Mark. Flame spurted from the man and lead slapped the air close to Mark's body. The blond giant did not hesitate. Up slanted his Colt, its hammer falling as his powerful forefinger depressed the trigger. Although partially blinded by the muzzle-blast, Mark heard the distinctive sound of lead striking human flesh. Even before he could move from his position, another shot crashed out; this time from the side of the corral. Only one thing saved Mark. Unable to see the blond giant against the background of the wagon, the second horse-thief aimed at the
Colt's flame, sending his bullet to where a right-handed man ought to be. Mark held his Colt in the left hand, which made enough difference to save him.

Calamity saw the second shape just an instant too late to warn Mark, or stop the shot being fired. Springing forward, she shook loose the whip's coils and let fly at the very limit of its range as time did not permit her to go closer. Specially made for her, the whip's lash was lighter than usual, but no shorter; and the slightly thinner lash proved no less effective than would its heavier male counterpart. Nor did it lack accuracy, as was proved by the screech which followed on the rifle-crack of the whip in action. Caught by the very tip of the lash, the man felt as if his face had burst into flames. He gave a scream, let his gun fall and turned to flee. Calamity let him go, not knowing that he had lost his gun. While a mite reckless at times, she was no fool and knew better than to go chasing an armed, desperate man when carrying only her whip; effective weapon though it might be. Instead, she swung around and gave her attention to the horses in the corral.

Spooked by the shots, the remuda milled around restlessly. Mark ignored the light which appeared at one of the barn's windows and dashed toward the corral gate. At any moment one of the fright
ened horses might hit and force open the gate, then the whole remuda would stampede. If that happened, Lord Henry's hunt would be delayed until fresh mounts could be gathered in.

Hurdling the still shape sprawled out on the ground, Mark landed by the gate and thrust it closed just as one of the milling horses struck it. He had heard the shot, crack of Calamity's whip and scream, so did not expect any further trouble from that side. Swiftly he slammed home the gate's bolts and then looked around.

“Are you all right, Calam?” he called.

“Sure. How about you?”

“I'll do.” Mark assured her, then grinned as he wondered what the livery barn's owner would make of his and Calamity's barefoot and untidy appearance.

“I
DON'T WANT TONIGHT TO INFLUENCE YOU IN
any way, Kerry, or have you under the impression that I think you're beholden to me,” Lord Henry said after Calamity left on Mark's arm. “But if you feel like changing your mind, my offer is still open. I would like you along as my guide.”

“I'd near on decided to go before they jumped me,” Kerry answered. “Seeing the way you can fight didn't weaken me any.”

“Then you'll accept?”

“Sure will.”

“Look, we can't stay on down here. I see the waiter giving us ‘Why-don't-you-go-to-bed?'
looks. Let's go up to my suite and have a natter about this and that, shall we?”

“You're the boss,” Killem agreed.

Watched by a relieved waiter, who had seen too many late-hours sessions develop to miss the signs, the three men rose and walked from the room. On the way upstairs, a thought struck Kerry.

“Your sister will be asleep,” he said.

“She's a heavy sleeper,” Lord Henry replied. “Especially after tonight. I bet she's stiff in the morning.”

“Calamity's got something that'll cure it if she is,” Killem remarked. “I hope she's enough of it for all of us.”

Wheatley stood in the sitting-room of the suite when the men entered. “The doctor has left, my Lord, and her ladyship is sleeping. I've put the drinks on the table ready for you.”

“
Three
glasses?” commented the surprised Kerry.

“I've seen too many hunting gentlemen not to know the signs, sir,” Wheatley explained. “Your face told me you would accept Lord Henry's offer.”

“Don't you want to play poker with me, friend?” warned Kerry.

“No, sir,” Wheatley replied seriously.

“I'd like you to look over my battery, old chap,” Lord Henry remarked. “And don't look so sur
prised, Wheatley's always doing it. Come on over and see if I'll need anything more in the gun line.”

Crossing the room, Lord Henry unfastened the reinforced leather box. Its top and front side both opened and exposed eight guns securely racked in two rows. At the peer's side, Kerry could hardly hold down a whistle of admiration. With two exceptions, the guns in the case showed the superb workmanship for which Britain in the mid-1870s was famous.

Reaching into the case, Lord Henry freed and took out the uppermost gun. He held it out for Kerry to study the short twin barrels, superbly carved woodwork and general excellence of its design and construction. The gun showed signs of considerable use, but not abuse.

“It's a fine piece,” Kerry admitted, “but I like longer barrels in a shotgun.”

“So do I,” agreed Lord Henry. “But if you have longer than a twenty-four-inch barrel, an eight-bore rifle weighs too heavy for use.”

“That's a rifle?” asked Kerry, staring at the twin muzzles, each larger than the mouth of a ten-gauge shotgun.

“Of course. William Evans made it for me. I first used it while elephant hunting in the Transvaal. It stopped a charging bull with over two hundred pounds of ivory in its tusks.”

“I reckon it'd stop near on anything,” Kerry conceded. “Can I——”

“Of course,” Lord Henry replied, breaking open the rifle and showing its empty barrels; an elementary precaution taken instinctively.

Despite its somewhat squat appearance and heavy weight, Kerry found that the rifle possessed such superb balance that it snapped naturally to his shoulder and handled with the ease of a top-quality shotgun. Glancing along the rib between the barrels, over the V of the backsight to the blade of the foresight, Kerry wondered what sort of sensation went with shooting a rifle that had a larger caliber than most shotguns he had seen.

“It's a touch heavy,” he said, returning the rifle.

“You only notice that until you touch off your first bullet,” Lord Henry answered. “With twelve drams of powder shoving eleven hundred grains of lead out, you need something to absorb the kick—not that even sixteen pounds of gun stops it all, but the weight helps.”

“Yeah,” grinned the hunter. “Say, this'd be hell to shoot lying down.”

“Only ever knew one chap who tried.”

“What happened to him?”

“The recoil broke his collarbone.”

“How'd you use it then, Henry?” Killem inquired.

“Standing up, shooting off-hand. Of course, you won't get accuracy at anything like two hundred, or even a hundred yards. But you don't pop off at an elephant or buffalo at that range anyway. When either a tusker or a Cape buffalo comes at you with blood in his eye, you really need something that will stop him in his tracks.”

“I've never yet been charged by a buffalo,” Kerry remarked.

“There's a difference between a Cape buffalo and one of your bison, Kerry—you don't mind if we dispense with formalities, do you?”

“I reckon not, Henry. How're they different?”

“I've photographs of——”

“The album is here, my lord,” intoned Wheatley, materializing with a large, leather-bound book in his hands.

While the two Americans examined photographs of what, to them, were strange animals, Lord Henry unpacked the rest of his battery. In addition to the big bore, he had three Express rifles, one .577 in caliber and the other two .405, a brace of magnificent Purdey twelve-gauge shotguns, a Remington Creedmoor single-shot rifle and a Winchester Model '66 repeater, both new-looking compared with the worn condition of the others. He handled the guns with loving care, as befitting the old and trusted friends all but the two
American guns had proved to be. While removing and checking the battery, he answered questions about the various pictures which aroused his companions' interest.

“That's a man-eating tiger from the Assam Valley of India. Killed fifty natives and two white chaps who went after it. Gave me the devil of a time before I finally bagged him.”

“How about this critter?” Kerry inquired. “I never saw a bull with horns like that afore.”

“You wouldn't have. That's a Cape buffalo and he gave me some of the worst moments of my life. Some blighter had wounded him and left him alive. Pain drove him mad, but didn't make him act stupidly. When he took to terrorizing the natives, he had to be stopped.”

“Just take a look at that elephant, Kerry,” breathed Killem, tapping one photograph. “I sure as hell never saw one that size in any travelling circus.”

“You wouldn't. They use Indian elephants, but no man has ever trained an African elephant. I needed that big double when he came at me.”

Kerry sat entranced as the pages of the album turned. Some of the animals he had read about, a few he had seen in travelling circuses, many were unknown to him. The more he saw, the more he knew that the lean, tanned Englishman and he
shared the same interest in life. Lord Henry Farnes-Grable took far more pleasure in matching his wits against a really fine specimen than in shooting inferior or average creatures. Taking him out ought to prove real interesting.

From what Lord Henry said, Kerry realized that the other knew much about all aspects of hunting. Without boasting, the peer told of his hunts and the listening men guessed that he left much of the actual hardships and danger unmentioned in his clipped, to-the-point stories.

“How about my battery, Kerry?” he asked.

“I don't know what you'll need the eight-bore for,” the hunter answered. “Grizzly, maybe, but you don't need that much gun to drop a buffalo—one of our kind, that is.”

“It wouldn't be a hunt without it along,” Lord Henry explained. “We might find a use for it.”

“How about the others?”

“These are Evans' Express rifles,” Lord Henry explained. “Beryl uses one of the .405s, and she's a pretty good shot. They make pretty good second guns. After all, a chap out after sport doesn't want to use a big bore all the time, especially on the small stuff.”

“How'd they shoot?”

“Well enough up to around three hundred yards. Although I must admit that the combination of a
heavy powder charge and light bullet leaves much to be desired in the killing line. Chum of mine took a shot at a tiger and the bullet burst apart when it hit the blighter's skull. Dazed it somewhat, which wasn't exactly the idea. Anyway, I bought the Remington for long-distance work.”

“It's a straight-shooting gun and carries well,” Kerry admitted. “What happened to your pard?”

“Luckily he had an eight-bore along. When the tiger bounced up and charged, he shot it from a range of eight feet. I must say that he stopped it that time.”

“I reckon he would at that,” grinned Killem, eyeing the wide mouth of the Evans big bore.

“I bought the Winchester for saddle work and in case of fuss with the Indians,” Lord Henry went on. “Although I hope I don't have to use it for that.”

“We shouldn't have any trouble with them in the Wind River country. It's Cheyenne land and they've been peaceful, sticking to the treaty since Sand Runner got put under about eighteen months back,” Kerry replied. “You was on the wagon train that got him, wasn't you, Dobe?”

“Sure was,” agreed the freighter. “One way and another, it was quite a trip, too.”

“The Indians won't trouble us, with luck,” Kerry went on, deciding to hear the full story later.
“Not that we'll take any chances with them. How about spare horses?”

“I've fixed for some to be brought here. They're down at Wainer's livery barn and we can pick from them in the morning.”

“We'll need a skinner to take care of the hides,” Kerry said. “Old Sassfitz Kane, the hound-dog man, can skin, but he'll be needed to handle the dogs.”

“That's soon arranged. Frank Mayer offered to loan me his skinner, cook, horse-wrangler and camp help if I could find a reliable hunter—and I've done that, Kerry. I'll have Wheatley shoot off a telegraph message in the morning.”

“Then we've got about all we need,” commented Kerry, wondering if Frank Mayer would regard him as a suitable man to handle his trained team of assistants. “I suppose you've got enough ammunition?”

“Two hundred rounds each for the rifles, three hundred and fifty shotgun shells, reloading tools,” answered Lord Henry. “I suppose we can get powder and lead in town?”

“Sure. Corben stocks the best imported English powder and has lead——”

The crack of revolver shots chopped off Kerry's words, coming through the window Wheatley opened to allow fresh air in and tobacco smoke
out. Thrusting back his chair, Kerry rose, crossed the room and looked out into the night. Like most sharpshooters, he learned to gauge accurately where a sound originated, and he felt he could make a shrewd guess at the source of the shooting. While revolver shots were not a novel sound around Otley Creek, hearing them late at night demanded investigation.

“Down by the livery barn, I'd say,” he told Killem as he joined him.

“Yeah,” agreed the freighter. “Reckon we'd best go down and take a look.”

“I'd take it kind if I could borrow a gun, Henry,” Kerry said, knowing that the combination of shooting and the livery barn might make armament necessary.

“Take the Winchester,” Lord Henry answered, going to the gun case and extracting boxes of bullets. “You'd best have a shotgun, Dobe.”

Which did not imply a lack of trust in the freighter's knowledge of weapons. Kerry knew the workings of a Winchester repeater, but Killem had never used a twin-barrelled rifle. Learning how to handle such a weapon in the heat of a gun fight would not be practical or sensible.

Each of the trio carried a loaded weapon when they left the hotel room and hurried through the streets in the direction of the livery barn. One
thought ran through each mind, the safety of the horses. Without them, the trip could not be taken.

On arrival at the rear of the livery barn, the three men saw that their fears were groundless. Already a small group of citizens stood in the background, lanterns illuminating where Mark Counter, Calamity Jane and the owner of the livery barn stood at the edge of the corral, a body sprawled close by. Calamity and Mark had found time to dress fully before the arrival of the first of the townspeople and Wainer had been too concerned about his horses to notice their appearance when he came on to the scene.

“Howdy, Kerry,” Wainer greeted. “It's Siwash Jones. Mark there stopped him.”

“Looks like he finally got ambitious and died of it,” Killem grunted, knowing the dead man to be a poor-spirited drunkard who hung around Otley Creek making out as best he could.

“Looks that way,” agreed Wainer. “He didn't make shucks at it like everything else he turned his hand to. That Texan was walking Calamity home when they saw Siwash and another jasper down here. The other one got away.”

“We can't win them all,” drawled Killem, overlooking the fact that Calamity and Mark had left the hotel long before the time of the shooting. “Did you lose any of the stock?”

“Nope. Which's real lucky for me. I'm holding them for the owner, and if they'd gone he'd expect me to make good the loss.”

“Strikes me as funny, though,” Kerry put in. “Siwash trying something like this. Sure he'd steal, given half a chance, but nothing as valuable as a whole bunch of horses.”

“He stinks of rot-gut whisky, worse than usual,” Wainer replied. “Most likely that's what did it.”

At that moment Marshal Berkmyer made his appearance, scowling around and ready to make a big show of keeping the peace. He turned hate-filled eyes in Kerry Barran's direction, noticed and gave a polite—if not friendly—nod to Lord Henry, and then demanded to be told what all the fuss was about.

“Now me,” drawled Mark Counter, “I'd say that was obvious.”

“So Siwash tried to steal the horses, huh,” sniffed Berkmyer, ignoring the blond giant's lack of respect. “Who shot him?”