Troubled range (6 page)

Which same Mark had also been wondering about. He had his business to attend to and, despite the time being almost nine o'clock, hoped to have it done by four or five in the afternoon. By that time Calamity Jane would be back in town and Mark couldn't see her taking kindly to Marigold's competition.

"I have to go out to the Gamble spread," he said.

She gave him a long, worried look, then smiled and brightened up a little.

"May I come along? We could hire a buggy and take a picnic basket with us."

"That'd be great," Mark replied. "I'll go hire a buggy from Pop Larkin right after breakfast, and you get the basket from the kitchen."

"Come on then," she said eagerly, jumping to her feet and holding out her hand. "Let's go."

"Slow down there, gal," he grinned. "Let me at least put my shirt on first. We don't want folks to think anything has been going on in here, now do we?"

On his way to the livery barn, Mark saw the town marshal ambling towards him along the sidewalk. Much to Mark's surprise, Stocker did not speak, or even appear to notice him.

"She must be some gal," Mark said.

"Huh?" Stocker grunted, halting, then he grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Mark, I was thinking."

"Yeah, and when a feller's thinking that thoughtful, there's usually a right purty lil gal at the end of it."

"For you danged Texas rebs, maybe, but not for us serious minded Montanans."

"That being the case, how do you come to keep on having any little Montanans?" Mark asked.

"We know there's a time and place for everything," Stocker replied. "Right now I'm thinking about a killing."

"Anybody I know?"

"You had a nodding acquaintance with him last night—or should I say a throwing-at-a-wall acquaintance with him?"

"That went right by me without me drawing bead on it."

"He was one of the four yahoos you 'n' Miss Tremayne tangled with in the alley last night," Stocker explained and, before Mark could ask the question which rose to his lips, carried on. "Why sure, I saw it all. Was just fixing to butt in and help the lady when you arrived. Saw you could take 'em and didn't want to spoil your fun."

"Why bless your good lil Yankee heart," grinned Mark, then he became serious. "Who killed him?"

"Framant."

"Fair fight?"

"Looks that way," Stocker admitted. "It happened down in the Black Cat Cafe where that feller was having breakfast. Framant come in and told him he wanted to see him outside. The feller got up and went for his gun, started first. Framant didn't even use his shotgun, drew his Colt and put one through the feller's head."

"I'll buy it," Mark drawled. "Who was the feller?"

"Don't know what name he was using in town. Framant had a wanted dodger on him under the name of Wicker. Stands to collect seven hundred dollars on him."

"Reckon he's the reason Framant came here?"

"Maybe," Stocker grunted, looking sleepily towards the hotel. "Had three pards with him in the Crystal Palace when I looked in last night."

"I never saw you," Mark drawled.

"You was too busy a-drinking, gambling and carousing. Saw Framant sat near to them four, but he didn't make a move."

"Like you said, there was four of them. Maybe he didn't like the odds."

"Could be," Stocker admitted. "Went around looking for

Wicker's three pards, but they've left town. Feller down to the livery barn on Clark Street says they pulled out right after the shooting. Wonder what they wanted from Miss Tre-mayne?"

"Likely figured she'd be carrying her cut of the game and figured to relieve her of it," Mark suggested.

"Yep! Well, I got me an office to run. You fixing to ride out to Tom Gamble's place today?"

"Soon as I hire a buggy. I'm taking Marigold along and we aim to have a picnic on the way back."

Stocker studied Mark with admiration. No other man in town, and plenty had tried, even got to the stage where they could call the Crystal Palace's lady blackjack dealer by her first name.

"How'd you do it?" he asked.

"Us rebs have to stick together in the hostile north," Mark replied. "And now, sir, you-all causing me to keep a lady waiting."

"See you," grunted Stocker and ambled away whistling.

A grin flickered across Mark's face for he recognised Stocker's tune to be "Dixie".

That slow-moving, sleepy-looking marshal had a far quicker set of wits than a man would think just by looking at him. Mark knew Stocker had something on his mind. Something to do with the shooting that morning. Maybe Stocker was wondering, as Mark wondered, why a man holding a shotgun, and in the right, should take time out to draw a revolver.

On his return with the buggy, Mark found Marigold standing before the hotel. A picnic basket covered by a clean check cloth lay on the sidewalk at her feet. In her right hand she held her vanity bag, but in her left—

"I thought you might like this along," Marigold said, tossing his Winchester to him. "Don't look so surprised. I asked the hall clerk for your key, told him you had forgotten something. The closet seemed the most likely place for you to have left your rifle."

"And I've got the key in my pocket," he pointed out.

"Yes," she replied in a tone which hinted the subject was closed.

Jumping down, Mark helped Marigold into the buggy, went to the other side and swung in beside her.

'Til take the reins, if you wish," she said.

This had long been the accepted western convention. The woman handled the team and left the man free to use his weapons in an emergency. Marigold appeared to be fully capable of handling the spirited horse Pop Larkin had guaranteed to be the best buggy-hauling critter in Montana and one which would eat the trip to Tom Gamble's ranch.

For the first couple of miles Mark and Marigold talked of this and that, and the girl showed a surprisingly wide range of knowledge. She clearly had done a good bit of travelling around the west. Somehow or other the conversation turned to the hold-up in Newton.

"Way I heard it," Mark said. "Those fellers hadn't much of an idea how to handle the job. They hit the bank at evening, when there was only one teller in it. Then they only took thirty thousand, although there was nearly three times that in the vault."

"Maybe they didn't have time to get more," Marigold replied.

"That's what the teller said. Allows their lookout yelled that somebody was coming and they took off like the devil after a yearling. Only when he got outside there wasn't anybody in sight and he had to go and yell for help."

"That sounds like the gang spooked, or bad management."

"1 bet you could have handled it better."

Just why he said it, Mark would never know. It may have been a clumsily worded compliment, meant to show his appreciation of her ability. Or it could have been a blind flash of intuition. Certainly he meant little enough by the words.

A low hiss left Marigold's lips. Her right hand dipped into the vanity bag, came out again with something in it. Mark felt that something boring into his side.

"How long have you known?" she asked; her voice sounding as it did when she saw the girl steal Mark's wallet.

"Known what?" Mark replied, looking down.

"That I'm Belle Starr."

For a long moment Mark did not reply. He looked down

at the gun boring into his side. At first glance it looked like a Navy Colt. Marigold—or Belle Starr—held it like she knew which end the bullet left from. She held the hammer back under her thumb and her forefinger curled around the trigger.

"I didn't know," he said. "But come to think of it, that explains a couple of things which have been bothering me since we met."

"Such as?"

"Like why the four hard-cases were watching you last night. Why you didn't scream for help when they jumped you in the alley. If you had, and they'd been caught, they might have told Joel Stocker who you are. And like why you wanted me around last night, so they couldn't slip in on you while you slept."

"That wasn't the only reason, Mark," she answered. "But it was one of them and I don't think you've cause to complain."

"I'm not complaining. What're they after? Do they reckon you know where the money from the Newton bank job is?"

"They reckon I know," she agreed.

"And do you?" Mark asked innocently.

The gun bored a little harder.

"I do not!" she snorted. "Land-sakes, Mark, do you think I'd be working with a fool bunch of green hands like that lot must have been? I wasn't even near Newton when the hit happened."

"Where were you?"

"On the way here from my folks' place down in the Indian Nations."

"Why here?" he went on.

"Elkhom's growing," she replied. "The banker here is a fat, bulging-eyed pillar of the church with more money than it's decent for anybody but a Southern gentleman to have. So I figure to relieve him of some of it—but not with a gun. His kind fall easy, get them in the right conditions. Only he's gone east on vacation and so I'm getting things set up ready."

"You've done it real well," he smiled. "Maybe just a little mite over-done, but just right for the audience. Put the gun away."

"Why?"

"You aren't going to use it, Marigold—or can I call you Belle?"

"Feel free, if you're so sure I won't use the gun."

"You won't use it for two reasons. One, you know I wouldn't turn you in."

"And the other?" she asked; not moving the gun, but keeping the buggy rolling across the range.

"Those three yahoos from last night are following us."

"Soskin's bunch?" she breathed and looked back.

Mark's left hand stabbed down, closing over the cylinder of her revolver. He dropped his thumb so it lay between the hammer and the percussion cap. The move was done only just in time. On feeling her revolver grabbed, Belle's finger closed on the trigger and she released the hammer. Instead of it striking the percussion cap and firing the chamber's contents, the hammer landed harmlessly on Mark's thumbnail.

A sudden twist plucked the gun from Belle's hand. She clenched her fists and glared at Mark, then dropped her eyes to the gun.

"Oh, Mark!" she gasped, reaching out to draw the hammer back to the half-cock position. "I'm sorry."

"My fault," he replied, changing his hold and placing the hammer down after turning the cylinder so the striker rested between two of the percussion caps.

For the first time Mark saw the revolver was not a Navy Colt. It appeared to be one of the copies produced by various little companies during the Civil War, when the relaxing of patent restrictions gave them a chance to sneak in and grab a quick profit. The gun looked better made than many of the copies and its cylinder had only five chambers, instead of the Navy Colt's six.

"A Manhattan, isn't it?" he asked, offering the weapon butt forward to the girl.

"Yes. I like its balance," she replied. "Is Soskin and his bunch on our trail, or were you only bluffing?"

"Take a peek and see."

She obeyed, and saw.

"They're following."

"Would a Southern gentleman lie to a lady?" Mark grinned. "Who are they?"

"Two-bit long riders," she answered. "Must have seen me down in the Nations some time and recognised me. Soskin, he's the one who jumped you first, he runs the bunch. Wicker was the one you splattered against the wall. Varney's the one I used my knee on. And Carter—hey, there are only three of them after us."

"Framant killed Wicker this morning."

A shudder ran through Belle's frame and she moved closer to Mark at the mention of the bounty hunter's name. Ordinary men did not scare Belle Starr, but she knew Framant would kill her without thinking twice about it; shoot her in the back, if he thought he could get away with it, rather than take a chance.

"Does he know who you are?"

"No. That wanted poster in the saloon is flattering, but nothing like me," she replied. "What about those three?"

"What about them?" Mark countered.

"Mark," she said quietly. "I had nothing to do with that holdup in Newton. 1 give you my word on that."

"And I believe you, gal," he replied, bending to take up the rifle. "Let's show them we know they're there. Stop the buggy."

Without argument, she obeyed, nursing the Manhattan on her lap as she brought the buggy to a halt. Mark stood up in the buggy and turned to face the men. His action caused them to bring their horses to a halt and show some consternation at finding their presence discovered. Taking off his hat with his left hand, holding the rifle in his right, Mark gave the men a wave 'round.

In the sign language of the range country to take off the hat and wave it from left to right around the head when looking at approaching riders meant keep away, you are not wanted. If the warning should be ignored, the next move came from Mark's rifle in the shape of a flat-nosed .44 bullet powered by twenty-eight grains of powder.

The three men clearly understood the sign. One of them reached down towards the butt of his rifle.

"Get set, gal!" Mark warned.

"I'm set," she replied calmly. "Anyways, they won't make a fight of it."

If Belle did not know the men, she judged their characters correctly. Before the man reached his rifle, one of the others stopped him. They sat their horses for a moment, pointing and talking, then turned and rode away.

"You called the play right," Mark drawled, not relaxing his hold of the rifle's foregrip and small of the butt; he had put his hat on his head after giving the wave 'round, so as to be ready for action.

"Sure. I know their kind. Especially that bunch. Cheap, nasty and not brave. They saw me at my folks' place and know how far they can push me. And they'll reckon that wherever you are Captain Fog and the Ysabel Kid won't be far away. So I don't reckon they'll fix to tangle with us."

Mark guessed he could take Belle's summing up of the situation as being accurate. She had been raised in the Indian Nations, Oklahoma Territory, a haunt of badly wanted outlaws of all kinds. Growing up among such men, Belle had learned to know them. Some were lions, afraid of nothing, honest within their code and lights. Others, like the trio following them, were coyotes, sneaky, treacherous, deadly if they had the other side at a disadvantage. Thinking that Mark's very able friends Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid might be around, those three would not risk an attack which might end in Mark's death.