Troubled range (3 page)

"They put a tolerable sized bounty on her head though," Calamity replied. "It happened near on a month back, remember. Sheriff's posse run down the four fellers who pulled the raid, plumb shot them to doll-rags and killed 'em all. Which same came out to be plumb foolish 'cause they hadn't the money with 'em, not so much as a red cent, and they was all past telling where it'd gone."

"Yes," Mark agreed. "And now every durned fool in the west allows Belle Starr knows where the money's hid out and are looking for her to make her tell."

"Kind of like to meet her myself," remarked Calamity.

"Never took you for a bounty hunter, Calam," Mark answered, a hint of disapproval in his voice.

"And I ain't one. But they do say she's a real tough gal. I'd like to see just how tough she is."

"From Missouri, huh?"

"Huh?" Calamity replied, putting a world of puzzlement into the grunt.

"You've got to be shown."

"I've never met the gal who could lick me at riding, drinking, shooting or going at it tooth 'n' claw," Calamity stated, trying to sound modest. "And I don't reckon I ever will."

Calamity did meet a woman who was more than her match, but the meeting was not to come for three years.*

*Told in The Wildcats by J. T. Edson.

"Not interested in getting your hands on the reward the bank has offered for the recovery of the money?" asked Mark.

"Naw. Anyways, I go with you, I don't reckon Belle Starr was tied in with that raid. Hell, I know the sheriff in Newton, he couldn't catch water in his hat if he stood under a waterfall. He wouldn't have picked those boys up so easy had Belle Starr been running them."

"What brings you up this way?" Mark asked.

"Load of freight for a spread half a day past Elkhorn. Owner had it shipped into Hays from the east and I caught the contract to deliver it What's this Elkhorn City like? I've never been this way afore."

"Nor me. But they do say it's thriving, growing big and fast, what with gold-miners, ranchers and all."

"Are you fixing to be there for long?" she inquired.

"Day, couple of days at most, depends on how soon I get to see that feller for Ole Devil."

"I'll maybe see you on my way back then," she suggested. "We can have us a whing-ding and tree the town a mite."

The town known as Elkhorn City was, as Mark claimed, growing big and fast. It sported no less than four thriving saloons, including the Crystal Palace, a place which would not have disgraced the best part of Trail Street, Hays City, or the better part of any rail-head trail-end town. One good, and a couple of indifferent hotels catered for the needs of transient visitors. Various shops which usually found combination in a general store in smaller, less prosperous towns, graced Beidler Street—called after John X. Beidler, leader of the vigilantes who wiped out the Plummer gang which once terrorised the Bannack area. Wells Fargo maintained a large office, stage-route and telegraph service, testifying to the importance of the city. Further amenities showed high standard. A stout building housed the county offices, sheriff's department, town marshal's premises and a substantial jail. In addition the town had the usual run of livery barns, undertaker's shop^and stable, bath-house and all the rest of the things which made life worth living on the range.

Bringing his horse to a halt before the open double doors

of a large building inscribed "pop larkin's livery barn. Use it, I'm too old to start working", Mark looked at Calamity, winked and raised his hat. She waved a hand, keeping her team going forward.

"Don't you forget now!" she called. "You got a date when I come back."

Swinging from the saddle, Mark watched Calamity's wagon roll on along the street, then turned and led the bloodbay towards the open doors. He did not know if he would be in town when Calamity returned, but felt tempted to stay over. Something told him a night on the town with Calamity Jane would be worth having and be a highly entertaining experience, more so since he missed most of the fun at Newton by coming north to handle the chore for Dusty Fog.

Inside the barn it was cool, light and clean looking. There were a couple of empty stalls at the end of the line across the room and Mark walked towards them, his horse following on his heels.

A man had just finished tending to his horse in a stall down the other end of the line. Turning slowly, he looked Mark over, starting at his gunbelt, dropping his eyes to the high-heeled, fancy stitched boots, then roaming them up to the top of Mark's head. Mark noticed the way the man looked, like a rancher studying a prime bull and wondering if it would bring any profit to him should he buy it.

For his part, Mark gave the man a quick, all-embracing glance and did not like what he saw. The man stood around six foot, had a lean, rangy build and a gaunt face stuck on a neck with a prominent Adam's apple. The face's expression seemed to be one of arrogant contempt, and hinted that he must be able to handle any objections to his attitude should they be made. His clothes told a story to eyes which knew the west. Sure he wore a Stetson hat, bandana, calf-skin vest shirt, and levis with their cuffs turned back, like a cowhand. He wore a gunbelt with a brace of walnut handled Army Colts in fast-draw holsters, but so did many cowhands. On his feet were Sioux moccasins. That was what made him different. No cowhand ever wore moccasins, they would be of no use to him in his work.

For a long moment the man studied Mark, then, in the manner of a rancher who had decided a prime bull would not bring him any profit, he turned away. Slinging the saddle over his shoulder with his right hand, the man took up the double barrelled, ten gauge shotgun which leant against the wall of the stall. Gripping it with his left hand closed on the small of the butt, forefinger lying alongside the trigger-guard, the man walked out and kicked the stall gate closed behind him.

Without appearing to, Mark watched the man walk out of the barn. Caution paid when a proddy hard-case like that feller prowled around holding a scatter-gun in his hand. The man did not look back, but walked out into the street and started across its wheel-rutted width.

"Ain't sorry to see him leave."

The words came from a door at the side of the building. Turning, Mark saw a leathery old-timer stumping towards him.

"You know him?" the old-timer went on.

"Nope. Should I?"

"Not less'n you got a wanted poster on ye some place. And you ain't, or likely one of you'd be dead by now. That there was Jubal Framant, mister."

"Is, huh?"

Once more Mark turned to look after the hard-case. He stood on the far side of the street, talking with a big, burly man who wore a marshal's shield on his vest and carried a heavy old Colt Dragoon hung low at his right side. Mark did not look down on a man who carried one of the old four pound, one ounce thumb-busting Colt giants. The Ysabel Kid toted one and could handle it with some precision when needed.

"Yes, sir. That's Framant," the old-timer went on, following Mark's gaze. "Wonder what brings him to Elkhorn?"

"There's only one thing takes him any place," Mark replied.

Framant's name was not unfamiliar to Mark. The man was a bounty hunter, said to be as mean as a stick-teased rattlesnake. Roaming the range country like a buzzard

circling in the sky, Framant hunted down men for a price^on their heads. Rumour had it that Framant had killed fourteen men and claimed the bounty their scalps bore.

A man like Framant usually came to a town for the purpose of finding some wanted outlaw. When he found his man he would kill, for Framant never took in a living prisoner.

"Who's the feller with him?" Mark asked.

"Joel Stocker, town marshal. Real nice feller," replied the old man and turned his attention to the bloodbay stallion. "R over C. I never saw that brand afore."

"Nope?"

"Know every danged brand within five hundred miles."

"Maybe the R over C's five hundred and one miles away."

A cackle left the old-timer's lips. "Must've moved South Texas north a helluva ways if that's how close the R over C is."

"It's Ranee Counter's spread."

"Tall feller, that Ranee Counter, so they say. Likely sire tolerable tall sons."

"I'm the little one of the family."

"Mark Counter, huh? Pleased to know you. Pop Larkin's the name. I keep this place, leastways, it don't keep me."

"You look right poorly done by," Mark drawled, following his horse into the stall. "Wonder what Framant wants here?"

"I asked you first, and it ain't what he wants, it's who."

Mark turned to his horse and started to remove the saddle. A shadow fell across the doorway and feet crossed the barn to halt behind Mark at the gate of the stall.

"Howdy, mister," a gentle voice drawled.

For a big man Joel Stocker moved light on his feet, Mark thought, turning to look at the marshal as he leaned a shoulder against the stall's gate-post and chewed in meditative manner on a plug of tobacco. There was a deceptive lethargy about the marshal which might have fooled some folks, but not Mark Counter.

"Howdy," Mark replied, continuing the off-saddling.

"New around here?"

"Only just now rolled in."

"With Calamity Jane?"

"Sure."

"She's Wild Bill Hickok's gal, way I heard it."

"Has Wild Bill heard it?" Mark drawled.

"Don't reckon it'd scare you none happen he had," Stocker replied in his sleepy voice. "It'd worry me some, though. I'm a duly appointed officer of the law and duty-bound to keep the peace. Which same I don't want no bulls locking horns in my town."

"Reckon Calam and me's just passing acquaintances. We met on the trail in and I'll likely see her tomorrow—if I'm still here then."

"Might not be, huh?"

"Not if I see Tom Gamble."

The look of watchful suspicion left Stocker's face. Straightening up, he held out a big hand and raised his eyes a couple of inches to meet Mark's, something he rarely needed to do with any man.

"Sorry, friend," Stocker said. "Reckon Framant being in town's got me spooked up a mite. Are you Cap'n Fog?"

"Mark Counter."

"Cheez! If Cap'n Fog's got more heft than you, he's a tolerable tall gent."

Mark let the remark pass. He felt no resentment at the words and it had been many years since he last felt surprised that anybody should mistake him for Dusty Fog, or persist in thinking of Dusty as a tall man. Maybe what caused the confusion was Mark looking like the kind of man one expected somebody of Dusty Fog's reputation to be. Mark did not know if this was true, and was not worried.

"Do you always look your visitors over like this?" he asked.

"Find it saves fuss to know who-all's in town," Stocker replied. "And I'm a man who likes to save fuss. There's some less welcome here than others."

"Like that bounty hunting Jabal Framant, heh, Joel?" asked the old-timer. "Are ye running him out of town?"

"Nope. I ain't saying I'm not doing it 'cause he scares me, even if he do. But he's got his rights under the Constitution—

and knows 'em. I can't run a man out of town just 'cause I don't like his line of work."

While the men talked, Mark tended to his horse. He removed the saddle and bridle, then hung a hay-net on the hook over the manger. Larkin ambled off to return carrying a bucket of clean water and another full of grain. Showing sound horse-savvy, he did not enter the stall, but handed the buckets over the gate.

"Got me a burro in the back if you'd like to leave your saddle," he said.

"Thanks, I'll do that. Thought you didn't have one when I saw Framant tote his rig out of here."

"There's them who I'd let use me burro, and them I wouldn't," grunted the old man. "Tote her this way."

Following the old man, Mark entered the storeroom at the rear of the stable and hung his saddle on the inverted V-shaped wooden rack known as a burro. If possible a cowhand would rather leave his saddle on a burro than lie it on its side; especially when among people which brought the danger of some heavy-footed yahoo stomping on the laid-aside rig.

Mark took his bedroll from behind the cantle and the rifle from the saddleboot. Not that he mistrusted the owner of the barn, but his change of clothing, spare ammunition and toilet articles lay in his warbag within the bedroll; and a man did not leave a loaded rifle in a saddleboot where kids might get at it.

After paying for the stabling and keep of his stallion, Mark joined Marshal Stocker at the door of the barn.

"Which's the best hotel in town?" he asked.

"Ryan's Bella Union down there, right next to the Crystal Palace. Say, Tom bust a leg riding a bad one. Sent word down that somebody from the O.D. Connected'd be along and for them to ride out and see him."

"How far out is it?"

"Two, three hours' steady ride. Could make it by nightfall."

Mark grinned. "I'll leave it until morning. What's the Crystal Palace like? Speaking as a duly appointed officer of the law, that is."

"Fair place, well-run, got some purty gals in there, and you'll walk out with any money you don't spend, or lose trying to lick the blackjack game."

"My mammy told me never to buck the dealer's percentage at any game, especially blackjack."

"It's not the game you buck in there, it's the dealer."

"What makes him so special?" Mark inquired.

"Being a her," grinned Stocker. "And a mighty purty lil her, too. Was I not a married man, which I ain't, I'd sure admire to stake a few myself on beating her game."

"As good as that, huh?" drawled Mark, ignoring the lefthanded statement made by the marshal.

"Better. Not the kind you'd expect to find working a table even in a decent saloon like the Palace."

"They never are. See you, Marshal."

"I'll be around," Stocker answered and slouched away, looking like he was about to fall asleep on his feet.

Mark booked a room at the Bella Union hotel and a boy in a fancy bell-hop's uniform shot forward to grab his bedroll. The boy escorted Mark up to his room, frank hero-worship plain on his face as he lugged the heavy bedroll.