‘There’re plenty who’ll want to believe, and who’ll pretend to even though they know it’s a lie,’ Dusty told him. ‘It’ll be mighty fine fodder to use against General Mansfield and us.’

  ‘Would Mayor Galt be one of ’em who wants to believe it?’

  ‘He’s just a sticky-fingered small town politician, boy. I’m thinking of the soft-shells and their kind. Something like this’d give them a mighty big edge in stirring up hard feelings against the General.’

  ‘Time was when I thought all a lawman did was walk around town and toss drunks in the hoosegow,’ Waco said. ‘What’re you fixing to do …?’

  ‘Take a walk to the telegraph office and send for answers to some questions.’

  ‘And then?’ Waco inquired.

  ‘Then I’m going to get on with my work,’ Dusty replied and eyed the youngster coldly. ‘Don’t you have some to do?’

  ‘Sure,’ Waco replied, unabashed. ‘Only I hoped I’d talked you into forgetting about it.’

  Although still muttering her indignation, Calamity had barely left the office before she started to regret her outburst at Dusty. Equally, being Calamity, she would willingly have undergone torture rather than return and admit it. Then something happened to bring her contrition boiling over.

  Neither Calamity nor the Wilsons spoke for some time as they walked in the direction of the lawyer’s office. Then the old farmer let out a disappointed sigh.

  ‘I never figured a Texan’d help the likes of us,’ he said.

  Instantly Calamity’s sense of fair play and loyalty took control of her emotions, although the twinges of her conscience helped direct her actions. She realized how baseless Wilson’s charge was and the manner in which it might be interpreted if repeated before a larger audience. Catching the man’s arm, she turned him towards her. An indignant face thrust close to Wilson’s startled features and a sturdy forefinger prodded him hard in the chest.

  ‘Don’t you even go thinking such a fool notion, Tom Wilson!’ she hissed. ‘We both should’ve knowed a town marshal couldn’t touch them jaspers out in the Valley. And I’ll bet right now Cap’n Dusty’s figuring all which ways how he can help you.’

  ‘He sure didn’t act like he wanted to do—’ Wilson began then he stared by the girl. ‘Well I’ll be—!’

  ‘What’s up?’ Calamity asked, turning to see what had attracted his attention.

  Following the direction of Wilson’s gaze, Calamity saw two men strolling along the opposite sidewalk. Both were tall, well-built, dressed in range clothes, yet she knew they could not be called cowhands. The Colts in the tied-down holsters hung significantly to West-wise eyes and their general attitude marked them as professional fighting men.

  Instead of answering the girl’s question, Wilson set off across the street. Mrs. Wilson supplied Calamity with the necessary information.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ the woman gasped.

  ‘What is it, Becky?’ Calamity demanded.

  ‘They were with the bunch that took our place,’ Mrs. Wilson replied. ‘Tom must be going to ask them about that disappearing ink.’

  ‘The crazy old coot!’ Calamity gasped and started across the street, to be halted by a group of cowhands galloping along in search of somewhere to spend their trail’s end pay.

  ‘Look who’s coming over here, Dirk,’ the bigger of the men remarked, a grin twisting the lips under a heavy moustache. ‘It’s that fool nester the boss took early yesterday, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the other answered, his lean face showing cold calculation mingled with real cruelty.

  ‘What in hell’s he doing? He was supposed to head for Mulrooney.’

  ‘Could be he looked at the paper, Jigger,’ Dirk commented.

  ‘What’ll we do?’

  ‘Let him start something if he wants. Then we’ll make sure he don’t go wailing to the marshal about being rooked.’

  If either of the men noticed Calamity start to follow Wilson, they attached no importance to her. By the time the wild-riding cowhands had swept past, Wilson had reached the sidewalk and confronted the pair.

  ‘All right!’ he said in a threatening manner. ‘What’s the game?’

  ‘Means us, I reckon, Jigger,’ Dirk said. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Never seed him afore,’ Jigger replied in a carrying voice. ‘What’s eating at you, pop?’

  ‘You know damned well what’s eating me!’ Wilson spat back, conscious that a few other users of the sidewalk and a group of loafers seated on a bench outside a barber’s shop were watching and listening.

  ‘Reckon he’s crazy, Dirk?’ Jigger asked. ‘He acts a mite tetched in the head. Had an uncle got took that way one time. He like to kill a feller he’d never met afore.’

  All the anger and frustration boiling inside Wilson erupted at the scornful, mocking words. Not content with stealing his home, the two men seemed set on making him look a fool in front of the onlookers. So he advanced closer than prudence dictated, forgetting that he was no longer the tough young rooster who reveled in fighting.

  ‘Best walk on by him,’ Dirk suggested in the same aggravating tone.

  ‘Like hell you will!’ Wilson shouted and lunged with hands grabbing at Jigger, the nearer of his taunters.

  Immediately the man gripped the front of Wilson’s bib overalls and swung him around. Struggling together, although Jigger used less than his full strength, they crossed the sidewalk to collide with the wall of the nearest building. With Wilson backed against the wall and partially hidden from the onlookers, Jigger caught the farmer’s left wrist and forced it down in the direction of his Colt’s butt.

  ‘Don’t you try to pull my gun!’ Jigger yelled, wanting to implant the idea of doing so in Wilson’s mind and direct the witnesses’ attention to it should the old man do so.

  Coming up on to the sidewalk, Calamity heard the words and saw the plan with shocking clarity. Already Wilson’s fingers were closing awkwardly on the Colt’s butt, with Jigger pretending to be trying to stop it leaving the holster. The moment Wilson drew the gun, the second of the hard cases would shoot him down and claim to have acted to save his friend’s life.

  In her excitement and hurry to prevent Wilson from being killed, Calamity committed an error in tactics.

  ‘Don’t do it, Tom!’ she yelled, springing forward with her hand fanning across to the handle of the whip.

  Just an instant too late she realized that she ought to have held a weapon before making her presence known. Turning fast, Dirk brought up his left hand to place its palm on her face and shove. Sent backwards and to the side, Calamity hit the hitching rail. Anger at the treatment wiped out discretion, as it often had in Calamity’s eventful young life. Bouncing from the rail, she rushed forward.

  Once more Dirk showed the speed with which he could move. The left hand stabbed forward again, not in a punch but as a more effective way of dealing with an angry female. Savagely Dirk closed his fingers on the firm mound of Calamity’s left breast, sinking the thumb in from the other side to aid the crushing pressure.

  Pain bit into the girl, numbing her thoughts so as to prevent her from acting with her usual effective ability. Forgetting the whip and gun at her belt, she grabbed at Dirk’s wrist with both hands and tried to pull the cruelly-tightening fingers from her flesh.

  ‘You keep out of things that don’t—’ Dirk began, fingers working on the trapped breast and unaware of the big, menacing figure approaching rapidly from along the street.

  Dirk learned soon enough of Mark Counter’s presence. Brought out of the barber’s shop, where he had been awaiting a haircut, by the sound of the struggle, the blond giant saw Calamity in trouble and sprang to her assistance. Passing Jigger and Wilson, he reached out with his big right hand towards the unsuspecting Dirk.

  Fingers with the power of steel clamps closed on the hard case’s neck from behind, driving pain through him and causing him to release his hold on Calamity. Staggering across to the hitching rail, she clutched at her throbbing bust and stared at the men in front of her.

  With a surging heave, Mark swung Dirk to the rear and then propelled him the other way. A good-sized man, Dirk found to his amazement that his unseen assailant handled him as if he weighed no more than a child in arms. Not that he thought for long on the matter. Sent shooting forward by the powerful thrust, he struck the hitching rail alongside Calamity, rolled over it without being able to halt his progress and landed flat on his back at the edge of the street.

  Seeing Mark’s intervention, Jigger decided to take a hand. He also figured a man that strong should be handled from a distance rather than at close quarters. So he struck down hard, knocking Wilson’s hand from the Colt. Thrusting the old man aside, Jigger grabbed at the gun himself.

  ‘Look out, feller!’ Wilson yelled and lunged back to catch hold of Jigger’s wrist.

  Whirling around, Mark saw Jigger with the Colt half drawn and Wilson trying to prevent it clearing leather. With a snarl, Jigger kicked sideways. His boot crashed into Wilson’s shin and brought a croak of pain. The kick also caused the old man to loose his hold and Jigger tore himself free—but too late.

  Already Mark was moving into the attack, right hand smoothly scooping the off-side Colt from its holster. If Jigger had completed his draw, Mark would have shot him. However Wilson’s intervention prevented the need for that. Around swung Mark’s right arm, laying the barrel of the Colt alongside Jigger’s jaw. During his time as a deputy in Quiet Town and Mulrooney, Mark had learned to gauge how much power he put behind such a blow. With his strength he might easily have broken the man’s jaw, or worse, but he held back on the power. For all that Jigger went down like a pole-axed steer, sprawling unmoving on the sidewalk.

  Sitting up, Dirk spat out a curse and his eyes focused on Mark’s back. The hard case realized that only the blond giant among the onlookers possessed sufficient strength to handle him in such a manner and prepared to take revenge. Sliding the revolver from his holster, he began to lift it to point at the big Texan’s back.

  Although watching how Mark dealt with Jigger, Calamity did not forget her attacker. Hearing his voice spitting out an obscene word, she turned. One glance told her all she needed to know. Unless something was done fast, Mark stood a chance of taking a bullet in the back. Calamity figured that she was in the best position to help out.

  Swiftly she brought up her hands to catch hold of the bottom of the rail. With a heave, she swung herself beneath it and landed alongside Dirk. Giving his full attention to the men on the sidewalk, he failed to see the new danger. After felling Jigger, the big blond turned with a speed that warned Dirk what kind of man he faced. Even without that peace officer’s badge on his shirt, the giant Texan would be a deadly danger and no man to be treated lightly. So Dirk concentrated on Mark and failed to give Calamity’s actions any notice until too late.

  Before the hard case could realize the danger, Calamity launched up her left leg in a kick. Ever since the time she fought a Creole girl well-versed in the art of savate, xiii Calamity had formed a high opinion of the feet as weapons. She had no cause for complaint as the boot drove up under Dirk’s hand and sent the gun flying from it.

  Snarling his fury, Dirk started to turn on his new attacker. Whatever faults of recklessness Calamity might occasionally show, she always tried to avoid making the same mistake twice. Having already received painful proof of how fast the man could move, she knew better than to take unnecessary chances. Even as she kicked, her right hand slid the whip from its belt loop. Up that close she could not make use of its long lash, but came out just fine despite of that. Swinging up, the weighted handle made a whistling arc and descended with some force on Dirk’s head. Having lost his hat while going over the rail, Dirk’s skull lacked even that protection against the attack. His fingers were closing on Calamity’s leg, so fast did he react, when the whip’s handle landed. Immediately the grip relaxed, the hand fell away and he flopped limply on to his back.

  That ought to have ended the attack, but Calamity’s bust still throbbed its painful reminder of Dirk’s treatment. While a good-hearted girl, Calamity did not lightly forgive sins against her. At least, not until she had handed out a few in return. With that in mind, she turned towards the man. Dropping to ram a knee into his chest, she swung the whip up for another blow.

  ‘Calam!’ Mark yelled, leaping towards her. ‘Quit that!’ For a moment the whip, capable of splitting the man’s skull if used with all her strength, quivered in the air. Then slowly Calamity lowered her arm and stood up to face the big Texan.

  ‘Can’t I whomp him just an itsy-bitsy one?’ she asked.

  ‘You was like to bust his head,’ Mark growled. ‘Just what in hell’ve you stirred up this time, Calamity?’

  ‘So help me, Mark,’ the girl protested. ‘I never started anything—this time.’

  Hobbling to the edge of the sidewalk and holding off his wife who had crossed the street, Wilson spoke in Calamity’s defense.

  ‘They’re two of a bunch that cheated me out of my farm, mister.’

  ‘Did, huh?’ Mark said. ‘Then jail’s the place for them, don’t you reckon so, Dusty?’

  The latter part came as the small Texan arrived. On his way to send telegraph messages requesting information on the Wilson business, Dusty had seen the trouble and headed for it. By the time he arrived, he found that Mark had the situation in hand and heard Wilson’s words. An idea began to form in Dusty’s fertile brain. One which, if it worked, might solve the old nester’s problems.

  ‘I reckon it is,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Get some of these fellers to help tote them down there. Calam, go to Bella Union and tell Doc Leroy I want him pronto.’

  ‘It’s done,’ the girl replied and departed immediately.

  ‘You reckon they’re hurt bad enough to need Doc?’ Mark inquired.

  ‘It never pays to take chances,’ Dusty replied. ‘You go get a room at the hotel, Mr. Wilson. I’ll send for you when they start taking notice again and you can swear out your complaint against them.’

  Sitting on a bunk in one of the jail’s cells, Dirk touched the top of his head and groaned. On the opposite bunk, Jigger lay holding his swollen jaw. Dirk looked around him, through the bars separating him from the next cell in which a small Texas cowhand lay apparently sleeping off a session of drinking. Then Dirk lifted his eyes to the window and scowled as he saw the position of the sun. From all appearances almost two hours had passed since the girl clubbed him down with her whip.

  Although Dirk had been conscious for some minutes, he waited to allow an improvement in his condition before making any move. At last he felt that he could think well enough to talk with the peace officers who had brought him to jail. Rising, he lurched across to the door.

  ‘Hey!’ he yelled, hanging on to the bars. ‘Where’s somebody?’

  ‘Want something?’ asked the Ysabel Kid, coming through the connecting door to the office.

  ‘Yeah. What am I doing here?’

  ‘Making one helluva noise. You’ll wake up the other guests happen you keep at it.’

  ‘Damn it!’ Dirk snorted. ‘I mean why’ve you got us in here?’

  ‘For jumping and whomping a feller ’n’ gal in the street, the marshal told me,’ answered the Kid.

  ‘That old goat started it!’ Jigger growled, joining Dirk at the door.

  ‘Sure hope the judge reckons so,’ the Kid replied.

  ‘I want to see Lawyer Grosvenor,’ Dirk stated, trying to sound polite.

  ‘What’s up in there, Lon?’ called a voice from the office.

  ‘One of them jaspers you hauled in wants to see the law wrangler.’

  ‘Is that the marshal?’ Dirk asked.

  ‘You might say that,’ drawled the Kid.

  ‘Lemme talk to him.’

  ‘Feller wants to talk to you,’ announced the Kid.

  ‘Fetch him in here,’ ordered the voice from beyond the connecting door.

  Unlocking the cell’s door, the Kid stood aside and allowed Dirk to walk by him. However he refused to let Jigger out, declaring that the marshal said he wanted to see ‘him’, not ‘them’. Turning, Dirk told Jigger to sit and wait. Despite the Kid’s concern, the noise did not appear to have disturbed the jail’s other ‘guest’ for he still lay facing the wall and snoring gently.

  On entering the office, Dirk scowled at the sight of the man behind the desk. It was the blond giant who had handled him with such apparent ease on the street. Then Dirk remembered who ran the law in Trail End. It seemed that all the stories about Dusty Fog’s exceptional size and strength had a considerable basis of truth. One thing Dirk knew for certain; he must shelve his antagonism and play careful if he hoped to get out of the difficulty in which he found himself.

  ‘What’ve you got me and my pard locked up for, marshal?’ Dirk asked, eyeing the badge on the other’s shirt for a moment.

  ‘Assault,’ Mark Counter replied, satisfied that the man did not suspect the deception being played on him. ‘I figured you to be a couple of drunks when I saw you rough-handling that old nester and the gal. So I cut in and quietened you.’

  ‘That crazy old cuss jumped us,’ Dirk protested, speaking slowly as he put his thoughts to words. ‘Allowed we’d slickered him out of his farm.’

  ‘That’s what he told us,’ Mark answered.

  ‘Have you slickered him out of it?’ drawled Waco, leaning against the weapon rack on the wall.

  ‘The hell we have! Our boss bought the place legal, paid good money for it,’ Dirk replied, pausing before going on as if a thought just struck him. ‘Say. Maybe he’s trying to get his farm back now he’s got the money for it, and jumped us knowing you’d be on hand to look out for him, so’s folk’d think he told the truth.’

  ‘Is that what you reckon?’ inquired the Kid.

  ‘Hell, Cap’n Fog here saw it. That old cuss went for us and tried to grab my pard’s gun. Only a crazy man, or somebody wanting folks to think he was crazy’d try a game like that.’

  ‘You mean he wanted us to think he’d been driven to desperation by you cheating him out of his farm,’ Mark suggested. ‘Figuring maybe I’d shoot one or both of you afore you could explain?’

 

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