Running Irons (6 page)

“Happen they get on to you, if you take the chore, you’ll likely get your wanting,” Murat stated and explained his idea to Calamity.

When Murat finished speaking, Calamity looked him over with interested eyes. It appeared that the situation was not as dangerous as she first imagined. No sir, it was even worse. With a rope waiting on their capture, cow thieves tended to be a mite rough should they find a spy in their midst. If she went in to Caspar, she would not have the cover of police escort as she had, until the final
night—when, to be fair, she ought not to have gone out—in New Orleans. However, Calamity reckoned she might be able to take good care of herself, especially against another woman; after all no gal had ever licked her yet.

“You’ll not be able to go into the saloon dressed like that, Calam,” Danny pointed out.

“Now me, I’d swear every saloon gal dressed this way,” she sniffed.

“We can easy fix the clothes,” Murat went on.

“Yeah,” groaned the girl. “I figured you might. I can’t stay on for long though. Dobe Killem wants me back with the outfit when he pulls out of here.”

“If you haven’t got us the proof we need in nine or ten days, you likely won’t get it at all,” Murat replied. “How about it, Calam?”

“You just hired yourself a gal,” she answered, holding out her hand. “When do we start, Danny?”

“Now slow down a mite, gal,” Murat ordered. “It’s not as easy as all that.”

“Happen I’d thought it would be, I’d never have taken on,” Calamity told him calmly.

Despite her eagerness to try the novel experience of working as a saloon-girl and undercover agent for the Texas Rangers, Calamity knew nothing must be left to chance. She found Murat’s preparations remarkably, and comfortingly from her point of view, thorough. Knowing that certain
and painful death awaited Calamity if she should be detected as a spy, Murat intended that she should take as few chances as possible. While Danny Fog would also be working in Caspar County, he could not be on hand all the time to protect Calamity. Mostly the girl would have to stand on her own two feet and rely on her brains, courage and ability.

Collecting a trio of horses from the remuda, Calamity, Danny and Murat rode into Austin. During the trip, Murat gave Danny and Calamity instructions. Danny was to take the name Daniel Forgrave, a cowhand who had worked on three different ranches well clear of the Caspar area. Making sure Danny could remember the names of the outfits and their bosses, Murat turned his attention to Calamity. After some discussion they settled on the name Martha Connelly for her and once more Murat gave a list of places where she had worked.

“Remember those four, whatever you do,” Murat warned.

“What if somebody knows them?” she countered.

“That’s always a chance, Calam,” admitted the Ranger captain. “You can always pull out. Fact being, you’d be wise if you did.”

“Never was wise,” she grinned. “You reckon it’s a good thing to use the Golden Slipper here in town, they could right easy telegraph here and ask about me.”

“You’ll be all right, even if they do,” Murat promised.

While Calamity trusted Murat’s judgment, she figured out one detail that a man would be unlikely to think about. She expected to be taken to some dress shop and fitted with clothing suitable for her pose as a saloon-girl and saw danger in the idea. Then she discovered that Murat had been aware of the problem of dress and knew the answer to it.

Instead of visiting a dress shop, Calamity found herself taken in the rear of the Golden Slipper, one of Austin’s better class saloons. Clearly Murat knew his way around the place, for he led his party upstairs to the office of the owner, a big, buxom, jovial woman who greeted him as a friend and lent a sympathetic, understanding ear to the problems facing the Ranger captain.

“Nothing easier, Jules,” she stated after hearing what Murat required. “You boys go downstairs and have a drink on the house while I fix up Calamity with all she’ll need.”

Half an hour later Calamity entered the barroom, only she looked a whole heap different from the girl who came to town with Danny. Gone were the men’s clothing, gunbelt and bull-whip, replaced by a small, dainty and impractical hat, a dress with black and white candy-striped bodice and mauve skirt, some cheap, flashy jewellery and
a reticule, such as a saloon-girl would wear when travelling. None of the items were new, but had been selected from clothing left behind by girls who departed into the respectability of married life.

Calamity had figured suspicion might come her way should she show up in Caspar with every item of clothing damned near brand new. However, Murat appeared to have foreseen the danger and countered it by arranging for her to loan a wardrobe suited to the part she was going to play.

“Got all you need, Calamity?” the captain asked as the girl joined him and Danny at their table.

“Just about all,” she replied. “Got me this outfit, three fancy saloon gal frocks, shoes, stockings and some fancy female do-dads you pair don’t know the name of, or ought to be ashamed of yourselves if you do. Ain’t but one thing more I’d like along with me.”

“And what’s that?” asked Danny.

“One of those forty-one caliber Remington belly guns.”

Such an item would not arouse suspicion, or be out of place in a saloon-girl’s possession. Many a girl working in a saloon or dancehall carried a Remington Double Derringer, or some other such small, easily concealed firearm, in her reticule, or strapped to her garter.

“There’s one in my office and some shells for it,” Murat told the girl. “I can let you have it as soon as
we’ve bought your stage ticket to Caspar. You’ll go on tomorrow’s stage and be there in three days.”

“I’ll pull out now,” Danny drawled. “That should see me in town a day ahead of Calamity.”

“Reckon it should,” agreed Murat. “Break up that cow stealing, Danny.”

“Yes, sir, Captain,” replied Danny soberly. “I aim to do just that.”

A
PAIR OF SPIRALING TURKEY VULTURES CAUGHT
Danny Fog’s eye and caused him to bring his big
sabino
to a halt. The sight of those black-plumed scavengers hovering in the sky never struck a western man as being a beautiful sight. When turkey vultures gathered, they followed death and a corpse, or something near to it, lay below them. Human or animal, it made no never mind to a hungry turkey vulture. Gliding down from the skies, the birds tore flesh from bones and leaving only a picked skeleton behind when they departed.

Two days had passed since Danny rode out of Austin and at almost noon, he figured he must be
on the eastern ranges of Caspar County, most likely crossing Buck Jerome’s Bench J.

“Might be nothing, hoss,” he said, patting the
sabino’s
neck and glancing at the dun cutting horse borrowed from Sid Watchhorn to aid his disguise and which now followed the
sabino
without fighting the rope connecting to Danny’s saddle. “I reckon we’d best take us a look though.”

Such an action would be in keeping with the character he must play while in Caspar just as much as when he rode in his official capacity of Texas Ranger. Any man seeing circling buzzards—as the non-zoologically-minded Western folk called
Cathartes Aura,
the American turkey vulture—would investigate. The attraction might be either an injured man or animal, or some critter died of a highly infectious disease. In which cases the knowledge could be useful: in the first to save a life; in the second, one might prevent a spread of the infection by prompt action.

From the look of things, the birds circled over a large cottonwood that spread its branches over the range maybe a mile from where Danny sat his horse. A touch of his heels against the
sabino’s
flanks started the horse moving and the dun followed it without any fuss. As yet Danny could see nothing of the dead or dying creature which caused the turkey vultures to gather in the sky.

Danny had covered about half a mile when a
bunch of pronghorn antelope burst out of a hollow ahead of him. Stopping the
sabino,
he watched the animals speed away, covering the range at a pace only a very good horse could hope to equal. While Danny loved hunting, and lived in an age when game-preservation had never been heard of, he made no attempt to draw his rifle and cut down any of the fleeing antelope. He carried food in his bedroll and would likely be on some ranch’s payroll before it ran out. So there did not appear to be any point in killing a pronghorn and he had never seen any sense in shooting some creature just to see it fall.

Led by a buck that carried a pair of horns which would have gladdened any trophy-hunter’s heart, the herd held bunched together and went bounding through the bushes at Danny’s right, disappearing into a basin. Just as Danny started the
sabino
moving again, he saw the pronghorns bursting wildly through the bushes, scattering in panic as they raced out of the basin once more.

“Now what in hell did that?” he mused and drew his rifle.

Four possible answers sprang to mind: a bunch of wolves denning up among the bushes; a mountain lion that had been cut off from timber country by the coming of daylight and took what cover it could find: a grizzly or black bear hunting berries, but willing to augment its diet by the flesh of a suc
culent pronghorn; or the presence of hidden men. Predators all, any one of them would cause such panic among the pronghorns should the fast-moving animals come unexpectedly upon it in the bushes when already fleeing from danger.

Danny nudged his
sabino’s
ribs and started the horse moving forward. On reaching the edge of the bushes, he halted the horse and slid from the saddle. Not even as steady an animal as the big
sabino
would face the sudden appearance of one of the predators in thick bush and Danny could think of a number of more pleasant ways to die than under the teeth and claws of a startled grizzly after being pitched from the back of a bear-spooked horse. Of course, there might not be a bear in the bushes, but it cost nothing to take precautions.

Leaving the horses standing, the
sabino’s
trailing before it in a manner which it had been trained to regard as holding it still as effectively as if being tied, Danny went into the bushes with some caution. He saw nothing to disturb him or explain the panic among the pronghorns. A flock of scarlet-plumed red cardinal birds lifted from among the bushes at his approach, but nothing dangerous or menacing made its appearance. Ahead of him the bushes opened into a clearing at the bottom of the basin. Danny came to a halt and studied the scene before him with worried, calculating eyes.

“Looks like I got here too late,” he thought.

Two bodies lay alongside a dead fire’s ashes. Cowhands, Danny concluded from their dress; and of the kind he had ridden from Austin to hunt down if the pair of running irons meant anything. Cautiously he studied the clearing, noting the pair of cow horses which stood tied to the bushes at the far side, then taking in the scene around the fire once more. Moving closer, he looked down at the bodies. One had been shot in the back and must have died without even knowing what hit him. Nor would the second have been given much better chance to defend himself by all appearances. Kneeling by the body, Danny examined the holster and doubted if anything remotely like a fast draw could be made from it. The revolver still lay in the holster, its owner having died before he could draw it.

Cold anger filled Danny as he looked down at the two bodies. Neither cowhand looked to be much gone out of his teens and, ignoring the distortion pain had put on the features, appeared to be normal, pleasant youngsters. These were no hardened criminals, or he missed his guess; only a couple of foolhardy youngsters who acted without thinking. They deserved better than to be shot down like dogs.

Danny was no dreamy-eyed moralist or bigoted intellectual regarding every criminal as a misunderstood victim of society to be molly-coddled and
pampered as a warning that crime did not pay. In most cases a man became a criminal because of a disinclination to work and had no intention of changing his ways. As a peace officer and a sensible, thinking man, Danny approved of stiff punishment, up to and including hanging, for habitual criminals. While any form of punishment would be most unlikely to change such a man’s ways, it served to deter others from following the criminal’s footsteps.

For all his thoughts on the subject, Danny hated to think of the way the two young men died. He promised himself that their killer would pay for the deed.

Throwing aside his feelings, Danny forced himself to think as a lawman and to learn all he could about the happenings of the previous night. Carefully, he studied the ground around him, using the knowledge handed on by that master trailer, the Ysabel Kid. From what he saw, there had been three cow thieves present, all occupied with their illegal business when death struck. The third member of the trio made good his escape, or at least got clear of the fire, for Danny found signs of somebody, possibly the killer, racing a horse across the clearing in the direction taken by the fleeing cow thief.

At that point of the proceedings Danny began to feel puzzled. His examination of the tracks told
him that one rider had returned, set free some of the calves and led off three more. Yet the same person did not free the dead men’s horses, nor even go near the bodies.

“Sure puzzling,” he mused, turning to leave the clearing and return to his horses. “From all I’ve heard, this looks like Gooch’s work. He never takes chances and wouldn’t give those boys chance to surrender or make a fight. But why would Gooch free half the calves and take the others. And why would he leave the two bodies when they’d fetch a damned sight more bounty than three calves would bring him?”

A possible answer occurred to Danny as he reached the horses. He stood on Bench J, not Forked C land, so it was not the range Gooch had been hired to protect and the bounty hunter did not work for the love of his labor. Of course, it might not be Gooch who killed the cowhands, although everything pointed in that direction. Most men, especially ranchers and honest cowhands, hated a cow thief, but few would go to the extreme of shooting down two in cold blood. No, it appeared the thing Governor Howard and Captain Murat feared had happened. Tired of merely earning his pay, Gooch left the Forked C range to hunt bounty on other property.

Just as Danny swung into the
sabino’s
saddle, a distant movement caught the corner of his eye.
Turning in the saddle, he looked across the range to where a trio of riders topped a rim and swung their horses in the direction of the circling turkey-vultures.

Taking out his off-side Colt, Danny thumbed three shots into the air. Instantly the trio brought their mounts to a halt, looking in his direction. Sweeping off his hat, Danny waved it over his head and the three men put their spurs to the horses, galloping toward him. Three shots fired into the air had long been accepted as a signal for help, one which would only rarely be overlooked or ignored. The three men might be as interested, as Danny had been, in the circling vultures, but his signal took priority over the sight.

Danny studied the men as they approached. Two of them were cowhands; a leathery man of middle-age, plainly dressed and with a low-hanging Dance Brothers revolver at his side; the second looked around Danny’s age, a freckle-faced, red-haired young man, cheery, wearing a flashy bandana and red shirt and belting an Army Colt in a cheap imitation of a contoured, fast-draw holster. From the two cowhands, Danny turned to study the third rider. He sat a good horse with easy grace. Although his clothes looked little different from the other two, there was something about him, an air of authority and command, which said “boss” to range-wise eyes. A Remington Beals Army revolver
hung butt forward at his left side and looked like he could use it. Not that the man bore any of the signs of a swaggering, bullying gunslinger, but merely gave the impression of being mighty competent.

“You got trouble, friend?” asked the third member of the trio.

“Not me,” Danny answered. “But those two fellers down there—man, have they got trouble?”

“Two?” put in the youngest rider. “Reckon it’s Sammy and Pike, Buck?”

“Best way to find out’s to go look,” replied the third man. “Name’s Buck Jerome, friend, this’s my range. These gents are my foreman, Ed Lyle and Tommy Fayne, he rides for me.”

“Howdy. I’m Danny Forgrave. Best go down there and take a look though.”

Accompanying the men down the slope. Danny studied their reactions as they looked at the tragic scene in the clearing. He could read little from the two older men’s faces, but guessed the scene hit them hard. On the other hand, Tommy Fayne showed shock, his face paled under the tan and his lips drew into tight lines.

“It’s Sammy and Pike!” he said in a strangled voice. “That damned murdering skunk Gooch killed them.”

“Easy, boy,” Jerome said, laying a hand on Tommy’s sleeve. “We don’t know for sure it was him who did this.”

“Who else but a stinking murdering bounty hunter’d gun down two kids like Sammy and Pike without giving them a chance?” Tommy answered hotly. “They weren’t neither of ’em good with a gun, and you know it, Buck.”

“Hosses are tied, Buck, that’s why they never come back,” Lyle said quietly. “Happen this feller hadn’t found them, they might have laid here for days.”

“Might at that,” admitted the rancher and turned to Danny. “No offense, but how did you come to find them? You know how it is when you find something like this, questions have to be asked.”

“Sure,” Danny agreed. “I was headed for those buzzards when I put up a herd of pronghorns and they went down into this hollow. Only they came bursting out like the devil after a yearling. Got me curious to find out what spooked them. I figured it might be either bear, cougar or wolves and that I might be able to pick up a few dollars on its hide. So I came down and found this.”

All the time Danny spoke, he felt the other three’s eyes on him taking in every detail of his dress and appearance. Not that he had any need to fear detection on that score. Before leaving Austin, Danny dressed for the part he aimed to play. He retained his hat, boots, gunbelt and saddle, but the rest of his clothing no longer bore the mark of a
good tailor. Instead he wore a cheap, gaudy bandana, a blue flannel shirt and faded, washed-out jeans. Not was there anything out of the ordinary in the arrangement. Many young cowhands bought the best they could manage in saddlery, hats and gunbelts, but took what they could afford for the rest of their clothing.

After studying Danny, Jerome and Lyle exchanged glances. Both had reached the same conclusion—and just the one Danny wanted folks to make about him. Although this soft-spoken youngster wore two guns and looked proficient in their use, he had none of the ear-marks of a proddy trigger-fast-and-up-from-Texas kid. A good cowhand, most likely, and probably one with a yen to see new ranges around him.

“If Gooch shot the boys, why’d he leave ’em here?” asked Lyle, voicing one of the problems which had been worrying Danny.

“He knew I wouldn’t pay him,” Jerome answered.

“Then why’d he bother shooting?” growled the foreman. “Gooch didn’t give a damn whether the cow thieves stole us blind as long as he got his bounty.”

“He maybe aimed to take the boys back to the Forked C and claim he downed them on Crither’s range,” guessed Jerome. “Cut for sign, Ed, see what you can learn while we start loading the
boys. We’ll have to take them into town and report this to Farley Simmonds.”

“If he handles this as well as he done the rest of the stealing, we’ll sure see some action,” sniffed Lyle and went to obey his boss’s orders.

None of the men expected the task of loading the bodies to be pleasant and they were not wrong. While Lyle examined the ground, Danny, Jerome and Tommy wrapped the bodies in their slickers and loaded them, stiff with
rigor mortis
across the two horses’ saddles. By the time the task was completed, Lyle had made his examination and came to his boss to report.