The Road to Ratchet Creek (7 page)

When the horses returned, Calamity supervised the feeding. Although she did not offer any advice to John, she watched him to make sure he fitted the nosebags correctly. Clearly John had worked with horses enough to be aware that a loose, low hanging nosebag made trouble. In order to reach the food at the bottom, when the bag hung slackly, the horse would toss its head and spill a fair amount of the contents. Aware of that, and wanting to make a good impression on the girl, John buckled each nose-bag as high as it would go.

Calamity's work kept her too busy at first to allow her to bother with the other passengers. As she helped John to fit the last nosebag into place,
her attention wandered a little. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, with the travellers making the most of the halt. Marshal Cole sat with his back against the coach's rear off wheel, holding the upturned whiskey jug between his knees as he scraped at its bottom with the blade of a knife. Standing some distance away from Cole, Conway and Thorbold conversed in low tones. As Calamity glanced their way, Conway was showing Thorbold something and both looked at John. Seeing the girl's eyes on them, Conway whipped his extended hand into his pocket. If the man had not done so, Calamity would have thought nothing of the incident. His sudden movement caused her to look closely and she identified the object he clearly wished to avoid her seeing as a deck of cards. From inside the coach came the sound of Monique's voice as she gave Joe a report of Calamity's progress.

“Damned if the ole goat don't expect me to slit those fool hosses' throats, or bust a couple of wheels,” she grinned. “Have you anything to eat, Johnny?”

“Ma put me some up, but——,” John began.

“You ate it all,” she finished for him. “Come on, I've some pemmican that we can share.”

Collecting her bedroll from the top of the coach, Calamity opened it. Inside her warbag, wrapped in a piece of clean cloth, was a roll of “Indian
bread,” pemmican.
^*
Exposing the roll, Calamity borrowed Pizen Joe's bowie knife and carved off two liberal slices of the range-country delicacy.

“What tribe made this?” Johnny asked, after munching off a couple of hefty mouthfuls.

“He allows to be Cantonese, or some such,” Calamity answered with a grin.

“I never heard of that tribe before. Are they one of the Sioux bands?”

“Nope. Chinese. Our outfit's cook makes it as good as any Indian.”

“You can say that again,” Johnny told her enthusiastically.

While Calamity replaced the depleted pemmican, John entered the coach and returned holding her carbine. The girl gave him permission to examine it, but had sufficient faith in him not to add any warnings. Any boy reared in the frontier learned early to treat firearms with respect and not to regard them as toys. That ought to apply with extra force to a son of Jonathan Browning, gunsmith.

Her faith was not misplaced, for Johnny held the barrel directed upward and pointing away from the other passengers. Sitting down, he rested the little gun on his knees and worked its lever a couple of times in a thoughtful way.

“Well,” Calamity said, watching him. “What's wrong with it.”

Although she did not expect a reply, John gave one immediately. “The toggle links have come apart, I'd say.”

“Can I get them fixed?”

“Sure. It's not a hard job.”

Before they could say any more, Cole walked over to join them. He no longer held the jug and looked his usual solemn self.

“How soon'll you be moving, Calam?”

“Not long now. Are you in a hurry?”

“You might say that.”

“We'd best think about shifting then,” Calamity stated. “Put the carbine in the coach, Johnny and let's start work again.”

“Yes'm,” John replied. He seemed on the verge of saying something more but thought better of it. Carrying the carbine into the coach, he returned it to its place on the wall. Turning, he found a worried Monique looking at him.

“Tell Calamity,” she said, “I think Joe is getting worse.”

John passed on the message and Calamity came fast. Swinging into the coach, she looked down at the old man. No longer did he lie looking about him and muttering faint complaints at the need to be kept in such a position. Instead he lay unmoving, sweat soaking his face and breathing so shal
low that it barely made any movement of his chest. One glance told Calamity all she needed to know.

“That bullet's going to have to come out!” she breathed.

“Here?” gulped Monique.

“Nope. At Coon Hollow way station. Maybe there'll be somebody on hand who can do it.”

“And if there isn't?”

For a long moment Calamity did not reply. Sucking in a long breath, she looked at the old timer, then raised her eyes to Monique's face.

“Then I'll have to do it myself.”

And, if the worst came to the worst, Calamity figured that Pizen Joe would want to die under a roof, with his boots off and in bed.

C
OON
H
OLLOW WAY STATION HAD BEEN ERECTED BY
the Wells Fargo Company at a sufficient distance from Promontory to present stagecoaches en route to Rachet Creek with a convenient place for a night halt. So far it had not attracted residents other than Company employees and their families, although situated in a pleasant location close to a small lake. In time other people might settle in the vicinity, building a hamlet and, if fortune smiled, even expand into a prosperous town. Other communities rose along the tendrils of the Wells Fargo and other stagecoach trails in such manner.

Two large pole corrals and a sizeable stables
housed livestock for use by the Company's various enterprises, for Wells Fargo did not deal exclusively with mail and passengers travelling by stagecoach. A couple of small log cabins accommodated the agent's assistants, while he and his family lived in the big main building. Set up strongly enough to act as a fort in time of need, this latter consisted of a bar and diningroom, kitchen, bedrooms, office and the agent's quarters. It offered the passengers adequate facilities to spend a comfortable night while travelling.

Night had fallen as Calamity brought the coach down the trail toward the buildings and they made a mighty welcome sight for the girl. During the last part of the journey Joe's condition grew gradually worse. Yet there was nothing she could do for him on the trail. So she pushed on grimly, driving the horses as fast as she dared and taking chances in her inexperience with the coach. Never had anything been so welcome to her eyes as the glowing light of the way station's windows. She prayed silently that help would be on hand.

Surprise showed on the agent's face as he stood on the porch of the main building and watched the approaching coach. Although he could not identify Calamity as a woman, he knew that Pizen Joe did not handle the ribbons. In a casual manner he dropped his right hand to the revolver in his waistband.

“Hey, Curly!” Cultus yelled, seeing the move and knowing that the agent was taking precautions against a surprise attack. “Joe's inside. He's been shot and's hurt real bad.”

Immediately the burly, bald agent removed his hand. He knew that Cultus would not be riding the box or acting in such a manner unless the driver could be trusted. Walking forward, he saw the coach's door open and a man swing out.

“Is your telegraph working?” Solly Cole demanded before the agent could form any idea as to the reason for his appearance.

The suspicions which sprang to the agent's mind died as he saw the open wallet in Cole's hand. From the way the marshal's badge was shown, the agent concluded that he did not wish his official status disclosed to the other passengers. A U.S. marshal's wishes on any matter were better respected, so Agent Janowska nodded his agreement.

“Sure it is. I'll be with you as soon——.”

“Go now, mister,” Calamity put in, already off the box and headed for the coach's door. “Get word to the nearest doctor.”

“I have to check in the treas——,” Janowska began.

“Go send the message, Curly!” Cultus interrupted. “I'll see that nobody steals the chest or mail afore you get back.”

Although a way station's agent might rank
higher than a shot-gun-messenger in the Company's hierarchy, Janowska did not press the point of seniority. One look at Cultus' grim face warned him that the guard did not intend allowing even the safety of the “treasure chest” and mail bags to delay sending for medical aid. So Janowska put aside all thoughts of waiting until after they had been locked in his office's safe.

“Sure, Cultus,” he said, darting curious glances at Calamity. “I'll get to it right away.”

“I'll come with you, brother,” Cole told him and looked at the two drummers as they prepared to leave the coach by its other door. “I reckon you two gents'll not mind lending a hand with Pizen Joe?”

“Naw, we'll help out,” Conway replied although he did not look too pleased with the idea.

“There's nobody here knows about doctoring, is there?” Calamity inquired from inside the coach.

“Only my wife,” Janowska answered. “Come in—I'll shout for her.”

Under Calamity's guidance, Cultus, the drummers and one of the agent's men removed Joe's still body from the coach to carry him into the building. Already on hand, Mrs. Janowska put off until later her routine work of welcoming the guests and allocating sleeping quarters. She asked no questions, but led the way to one of the doors at the rear of the big combined bar and diningroom. After carrying Joe into the room and setting him down on the bed, the drummers made a hurried
departure. Cultus and the other Wells Fargo employee remained, hovering in the background as the woman stood alongside the old timer.

“You'd best go tend to the team and that damned box,” Calamity told them.

“Sure, Calam,” Cultus replied.

As the two men left, John put his head around the door. “Can I help, Calam?” he asked.

“No!” she snapped and immediately regretted sounding so brusque. Drawing back, he closed the door before she could think up an apology.

Already Janowska was sitting at the table in the telegraph office where he rattled out a request for a doctor to be sent from Promontory, adding a warning about the Arapahoes and suggesting that an armed escort accompany him. While the agent worked, Cole wrote out a message for his office in Promontory. Reading Cole's writing, Janowska wondered what the cryptic message meant. He asked no questions but once again started the key moving to flash the marshal's words to the waiting operator at the other end.

“Will it be delivered tonight?” Cole inquired to Janowska stopped using the telegraph key.

“If they can find the feller it's sent to.”

“He'll be around, or I'll want to know why when I get back. Let me know the answer as soon as it comes through.”

“Sure, marshal.”

Leaving the telegraph room, Cole paused to study the situation. By the front door Monique stood watching the men carry in the “treasure chest” and mail bags. John Browning walked by them and outside, looking a mite put out, or Cole missed his guess. By the bar, Conway and Thorbold took drinks served by a grizzled old man. Cole ignored them as he crossed the room and asked where Joe had been taken. On learning, he went to the room and entered.

“It's bad, marshal,” Calamity announced in a quiet voice. “That bullet's got to come out right soon.”

“I hope you're a doing man, as well as a praying man, deacon,” Mrs. Janowska went on. “I've never taken a bullet out of a man.”

“Or me,” Cole told her.

“Which makes three of us,” Calamity concluded. “Well, there's got to be a first time for everything they do say. Let's make a start of it.”

“You'll need hot water, bandages——,” Mrs. Janowska began.

“And a knife,” Calamity went on. “Something a mite handier than that damned great toad-stabber Joe totes.”

“See if you can raise something to feel down for the bullet with, ma'am,” Cole finished.

“I'll get them,” the woman promised and hurried from the room.

“Marshal,” Calamity said quietly. “I wish you was a doctor, or a real parson, or I was a hundred miles from here——.”

“You'll do fine, Calam,” Cole replied gently. “Cousin Mark allowed you're a good gal to have around in a calamity.”

“Ole Mark said that about
me
?”

“Why he always talks highly of you—sometimes.”

“Say, why in hell do you make out like you're a preacher?” Calamity asked, as much to take her mind off what lay ahead as to satisfy her curiosity.

“Got like it working for the U.S. Secret Service just after the War, hunting counterfeiters——.”

“What in hell're they?”

“Forgers, they make their own money. Well, there was one of 'em called the Deacon. Real smart jasper too, but he made a mistake and Belle Boyd got on his trail—.”

“Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy?”
^*

“Sure. She was like me, went to work for the Yankee Secret Service when the War ended. Anyways, the Deacon got word we were after him and——.”

It seemed that Cole's explanation was doomed to be interrupted. Mrs. Janowska entered, carrying a bottle of whiskey and a steaming kettle. Set
ting them down by the bed, she took a long, thin carving knife and a meat-skewer from her apron's pocket.

“I'll fetch the bandages now,” she said.

An Eastern surgeon might have thrown up his hands in horror if asked to perform an operation with such meager and unusual equipment, but the items which Mrs. Janowska brought were all that stood between Pizen Joe and death.

“Let's get at it,” Calamity suggested in the kind of tone used when faced with an unpleasant but necessary task.

In a land of sparsely populated and vast distances most people picked up at least a rudimentary knowledge of medical and surgical skill. Both Calamity and Cole had seen bullets removed and so possessed some idea of what to do. Hygiene and sterilization were at that time novel ideas even in the major hospitals of the East, while evening dews and damps were among the other things believed to cause lockjaw, gangrene or septicemia. So Calamity and Cole did no more than soak their collection of instruments in whiskey and run them through the flame of matches. Then the girl took the skewer and walked purposefully toward the bed.

On the porch of the main building, young John Browning stood glaring into the darkness. He had wanted to help Calamity, but she had refused his offer in a way which hurt his feelings. At that mo
ment John, feeling the first pangs of puppy-love, suffered like all rejected lovers.

“Hey, Johnny,” Cultus called. “How about toting Calamity and the marshal's gear inside for us?”

For a moment the boy felt like telling him to throw Calamity's gear into the lake. Then he realized the kind of strain she must be under and relented. Going to the side of the coach, he caught his carpetbag and Calamity's bedroll as the guard dropped them down. Next he collected the two Winchesters from inside and gathered Cole's bag from the boot. Well loaded, he entered the building and set his burden down on the table.

At which point John remembered about Calamity's carbine being broken. There was a way to impress her with his ability and knowledge. If he mended it, she would see him in a far better light and regard him as something more than a village kid who needed watching over. With that thought in mind, he opened his bag and took out the bulky leather wallet.

Bringing the other passengers' baggage in, Cultus saw John with the open bag and remembered what it held. “Why not put that money in the safe until morning, Johnny?” he asked.

Normally John was a sensible and level-headed youngster—he later proved to be a much shrewder businessman than his over-generous father—but at that moment he suffered from the pangs of his first love, a condition noted for mak
ing one act foolishly. Born and raised in a small Mormon community made him a touch naive in such matters, but he felt sure that Calamity would have no respect for a man who needed someone else to safeguard his property. So he shook his head firmly.

“No, it'll be safe enough.”

“Have it your own way,” Cultus said and went to attend to his business.

A pretty girl of John's age entered the room from the kitchen, carrying a tray with steaming coffeepot, milk jug, sugar basin, cups and biscuits on it. Telling the passengers that supper would be ready in half an hour, she darted an interested glance in the youngster's direction. He ignored her, being more concerned with his plans to win Calamity's approbation.

Clearing the top of the table, he laid the carbine on it and opened the wallet. Inside lay several tools and a selection of the spare parts a gunsmith found himself most likely to need: mainsprings—which propelled the hammer against the charge's percussion cap—for Colt, Smith & Wesson or Remington revolvers, Winchester and Sharps rifles, firing pins for the Henry and other cartridge rifles and sets of toggle links. Made up for him by his father, the wallet offered John all he required to perform the repair and so earn Calamity's gratitude and, he hoped, affection.

While John might labor under a feeling of unre
quited love, he did not allow it to override good sense where his work was concerned. If his diagnosis of the trouble was correct, and he did not doubt it would be, making the repair posed no great problem. First, however, he must take the basic precaution of unloading the carbine. Doing so the usual way meant operating the lever and ejecting the bullets in the manner of its empty cases. With the breechblock inoperative that would not be possible.

After ensuring that the muzzle pointed at the outside wall, John selected a screwdriver and began to unfasten the side plate of the frame. With the mechanism exposed, he saw that he had guessed correctly as to the cause of the trouble. His first concern was to render the carbine harmless. Carefully easing back the breechblock, which he had closed before taking it into the stagecoach, he let the bullet slip out of the chamber. Then he held down the carrier block and tipped the remaining rounds from the magazine tube. Not until he was sure that he need not fear an accidental discharge did he start work.

Such was the simplicity of the Winchester's mechanism that John changed its most important operative parts with no difficulty and in a very short time. Then he sat back and looked down at the exposed interior of the carbine. While admitting that the toggle-link system worked well and had much to recommend it, John also acknowl
edged its limitations, chief of which was an inability to handle long, powerful and large caliber bullets. Every time he worked on a Henry or Winchester, the former a forerunner of the Model 1866, he gave thought to the problem, but came up with no answer. Yet he felt sure there must be a way that the lever action system could be made suitable for even the most powerful bullets available.