The Road to Ratchet Creek (8 page)

Not until 1882 would John, or anybody else, come up with a satisfactory answer to the problem the Winchester Repeating Arms Company sought to solve in the matter of their rifles' chief defect. And of all the methods tried, only John's gave Winchester rifles a mechanism capable of handling the largest rounds.

“Are you ready to eat yet?” asked the girl, coming to his table.

“Huh?” John grunted, jolted from his reverie. “Oh sure, thanks. Let me put the side plate on first though.”

In the bedroom Cole wiped sweat from his face and let out a long breath. With a sigh of relief Calamity let a hunk of lead clatter on to the top of the small dressing table. Blood ran from the open wound and she studied it for a moment then nodded in satisfaction.

“Go fetch my bag, Solly,” she requested. “I'll pack the hole with powdered witch-hazel leaves and stop it bleeding. We'll have to do something about his fever though.”

“I've some spicebush and hemlock tea made up,” Mrs. Janowska put in.

“That'll do fine,” Calamity replied. “Whooee! I'm pleased that's over.”

“And me,” Cole admitted. “You've done good, Calam.”

John looked as Cole came to his table and picked up the girl's bedroll. “Is Joe going to be all right, sir?”

“I sure hope so. Calam dug the bullet out and now she wants to finish it off properly.”

With that Cole turned and carried the bedroll into the sickroom. John watched the marshal go, then turned his attention to the food brought by the girl. Travelling all day with nothing more than sandwiches and the pemmican had left John with a sizeable appetite and he tucked into the heaped-up plate of food eagerly. Before he could finish, the sickroom's door opened and Cole followed Calamity out. Together they walked across the main room, Calamity finished buckling on her gunbelt and the marshal carrying her coiled whip. As they drew near, John started to rise to his feet.

“Thanks for bringing the gear in, Johnny,” the girl smiled.

“Sure, thanks boy,” Cole went on and looked at Calamity. “I need some air after that.”

“And me,” she admitted. “Let's take a walk down and see that they've tended to the team,
shall we? And you'd best finish your supper afore it goes cold, Johnny.”

Before John could protest that he no longer felt hungry, or show her the good work performed on the carbine, Calamity walked from the room at Cole's side. As they left the building, Cultus and the elder of the agent's assistants came up.

“Say, marshal,” the guard said in a low voice. “Neb here's got a problem.”

“What kind of a problem?” Cole inquired, knowing that only something important would make Cultus disclose his identity.

“It's this ways, marshal,” the assistant explained, looking embarrassed. “Maybe three month back a feller come through here. Smart-dresser, real pleasant spoken—.”

“Go on,” Cole prompted.

“He got talking to me after I toted his bags inside, bought me a drink. I reckon he could afford it, being one of the owners of a gold mine out Nevada way—.”

“The Golden Eagle Mine?”

“You've heard about it then?” Cultus asked and Neb looked worried.

“I've heard,” Cole growled.

“Is it any good?” Neb inquired anxiously.

“Not when, as near as we can figure from the description on the stock, it's plumb in the middle of Lake Tahoe,” Cole replied. “How much did he sting you for, Neb?”

“Fifty ten dollar shares and threw in a couple more for good measure,” Neb groaned. “You sure it's the same mine, marshal?”

“I only wish I could say I wasn't,” Cole answered. “He's spread stock for that mine plumb across the Territory. I've passed word out East and West to try and have him arrested.”

“All my savings!” Neb moaned. “He took every lousy, stinking red cent I've managed to save—.”

“You and plenty more, brother,” Cole said quietly. “I only wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Twarn't your fault, marshal,” Neb replied. “You'd not took office here then.”

“If he's caught and the money's recovered, it'll be shared out,” Cole stated, giving all the consolation he could.

“Sure, marshal,” Neb answered bitterly. “Come on, Cultus, let's look what damage them blasted Injuns did to Joe's coach.”

“How is he, Calam?” Cultus asked.

“He'll likely get by,” she replied. “We got the bullet out and he's tough as whang-leather.”

“Damn it to hell!” Cole growled as the two men walked away, Neb dragging himself along dejectedly. “I've more respect for an owlhoot who comes to town open and robs with a gun than for any stinking swindler.”

“And me,” Calamity admitted. “Come on, you look like you need that walk.”

“Hell's fire, gal, I feel—.”

“Then don't. Like Neb said, you warn't even in the Territory when that jasper sold the fake stock.”

“Yeah, but—.”

“And you've done all you can to nail his hide to the wall,” Calamity interrupted firmly. She took his arm and started his feet moving. “Anyways, you never finished telling me why you go around acting like a preacher.”

“Looking like one,” he corrected. “There's a difference.”

“I'd bet money on that,” Calamity grinned. “How'd you start?”

“Like I said, Belle Boyd got evidence against the Deacon for forging and I went after him. He run, killed a feller to steal a hoss and lit out. I caught him seven days' ride from the nearest town and brought him back alive. Then I spent maybe a month 'round him until they'd tried him and stretched his neck. Well, the Deacon was a friendly sort of cuss, he killed spooked not for meanness, and I got to like him. Started to pick up his way of talking. That gave Belle an idea. She reckoned I should pretend to be him, us being much of the same build. So I started dressing like this, spouting bits of the bible. By the time we'd rounded up the whole forging ring, it'd come to be a habit. Made my work easier, too, folks tended to talk more with me dressed like this. So I kept right on
doing it, even after I was fetched in here as U.S. marshal.”

“I've heard plenty about the Rebel Spy. Is she as tough as you rebs claim?”

“She's smart and a real lady, but she's tough enough when there's need.”

“I'd like to meet her,” Calamity remarked casually.

Not that her casual tone fooled Cole. He had heard would-be hard-cases use a similar way of speaking when they heard the name of a prominent member of the gun-fighting fraternity and itched to see if he lived up to his reputation of fast drawing.

“Happen you do and you start a fuss with her,” grinned Cole, “watch her feet. She fights
à la savate
. That's French kick-fighting like they do in Louisiana.”

“I'll mind it,” Calamity promised.

Although she did eventually meet the Rebel Spy, circumstances prevented Calamity from testing the other girl's ability in the fighting line.
^*
However Calamity did manage to gain first-hand experience of
savate
, when settling a difference of opinion with a Creole girl, during the trip to New Orleans which wound up with her acting as a decoy for and capturing the murderer who had strangled eight women in the city's parks.
^†

“I sure hate nosey women who ask questions,” the girl went on as they approached the empty hay barn. “So I'm not going to ask why you're on the stage.”

“Then I won't tell you there's been some hold-ups out Ratchet Creek way.”

“Stages?”

“Nope. Ranchers, local businessmen and the like coming or going from town, nothing big yet.”

“Then can't the local sheriff handle it?”

“Maybe,” admitted Cole. “But I reckon there's more to it than just a few two-bit stick-ups. I reckon somebody's trying out for the—a big one.”

“
A
big one, or
the
big one?” asked Calamity.

“A real big, big one, Calam girl. Just how big I can't tell you. So I figured to ride up and be on hand. Only now this Injun business has come up.”

“We licked 'em good, why should they bother you?” Calamity said. “I'll bet they're high-tailing it back to their reservation as fast as the hosses'll run.”

“Only the feller who sold them the whiskey's not,” Cole reminded her. “And it's him I want. Like the good book says, wine's a mocker and strong drink sure makes them red varmints paint for war.”

“
That's
in the Bible?”

“Maybe not them exact words,” Cole replied cautiously.

“You reckon you can find whoever sold the whiskey to 'em?”

“Maybe.”

“Through that jug?” she went on. “Hell, I've seen hundreds just like it all over the West.”

“Peddling whiskey to the Injuns was one of the things I was told to stop when the Governor appointed me,” Cole told her. “So I did some nosing around and learned who made most of the stuff that comes here. Saw the bosses of the distilling companies and got their help. We marked the bottom of their kegs secret-like and they sent me a list of where each lot went.”

“Helpful,” Calamity remarked.

“That and scared they'd lose their licenses to brew the stuff,” Cole answered. “Trouble being I left the list at my office in Promontory. So I've had to send a telegraph message to my deputy and ask him to check who bought the jug. When I learn that, I'll see how to play the hand.”

By that time they had reached the barn's door and halted. “Wonder if there's a golden horseshoe nail inside,” Calamity said, gently squeezing Cole's arm. “Mark promised to show me one and never got round to it, so I figured your family owes me.”

“We could always take a look,” Cole replied and they walked through the door into the darkness. “Say, you know what you was saying about the pieces sticking out in different places?”

“Sure.”

“Is that the living truth?”

“Don't you know either?” asked Calamity. “Maybe we ought to find out.”

“I never could stand living in doubt,” Cole agreed.

A quarter of an hour later Calamity sighed contentedly and whispered, “You Counters are sure some family—I'm pleased to say.”

O
NCE AGAIN
C
ALAMITY HAD INADVERTENTLY TRAMPLED
over John's feelings. Bitter pangs of jealousy twisted at him and added to his sense of loneliness as he watched the girl walk from the room with Cole. Leader by age of a family group of six children, he never lacked company in Ogden and so felt unhappy at being alone. So he wanted companionship and considered that Calamity had rebuffed him. Annoyance at, and disillusionment with, women in general and Calamity in particular filled him by the time he ended his solitary meal.

Across the room Thorbold nudged Conway, nodded in John's direction and said, “He's getting ready.”

“Now?” asked Thorbold.

“Let's just leave him for a spell. If that gal don't come back, he'll be the more willing to come in with us.”

“You reckon we ought to go through with it, Wally?” Thorbold said worriedly.

“Why not?” Conway spat back. “If the gal and that damned preacher've gone out for what I figure they have, they won't be around for a spell. There's nobody else here we need worry about.”

“Maybe he'll tell them about us.”

“And let
her
know he's been took for a sucker? He'd sooner die.”

“How about Monique?”

“She's gone to red up and I don't reckon she'll bill in if we offer her a cut of the take,” Conway answered, paused for a moment eyeing his companion sardonically and went on, “Of course if you don't want in——.”

Greed and worry warred on Thorbold's face, the former winning. “All right, I'm in. Only let's make a start now.”

Shrugging, Conway led the way across to John's table. “Hey there, Johnny,” he greeted. “You on your own?”

“Sure.”

“Mind if we sit along with you?”

“Nope.”

“It's hell just sitting 'round with nothing to do, ain't it,” Thorbold remarked, drawing out a chair. “Now if we had a deck of cards——.”

“Maybe there's one behind the bar,” Conway suggested. “I'll go ask.”

Although John watched the drummer walk across the room, he did not have a chance to see what went on at the bar. Thorbold nodded to Calamity's carbine and asked if John had mended it. Watching his chance, after ordering drinks from the bartender, Conway slipped the deck of cards which had caught Calamity's eye from his pocket. When he picked up the tray loaded with two schooners of beer and a glass of sarsparilla, he held the cards under its edge. Having been distracted, John failed to see this and accepted that the cards came from behind the bar when Conway dropped them on the table.

“You figure it's any fun playing two-handed, Wally?” Thorbold asked.

“Not much. Maybe you'd like to sit in, Johnny?”

“I haven't played cards much,” John replied.

“Let's play banker-and-broker then,” Conway suggested.

“I've never played it,” John admitted, feeling rather ashamed of his inexperience.

“Hell, it's so easy you can't lose,” grinned Thorbold. “I thought everybody knew how to play it.”

“I can learn, I reckon,” John stated.

“Trouble is,” Conway told him. “It's no fun without playing for money.”

John might be naive in some matters, but he had heard many times about dishonest gamblers. Yet
everything seemed perfectly all right. Neither of the drummers looked like the professional gamblers who passed through Ogden; and the deck of cards retained their sealed wrapper in addition to having, as he believed, come from behind the bar.

“Maybe the
boy
don't play cards for money, Wally,” Thorbold remarked.

Already smarting under a sense of injustice at Calamity's desertion, John found the word
“boy”
irritating in the extreme. Sure he might lack years, but he could handle a man's work in the gunsmith's shop and had mended the carbine, a task probably beyond the capabilities of the drummers.

“Sure I do!” he snapped. “Let's have a game.”

Exchanging glances, Conway and Thorbold settled down in their chairs. While Thorbold handed around the drinks, Conway asked John to open the deck and stack the cards ready to begin.

“Maybe you'd best take the bank first, Wally,” Thorbold suggested. “That way we can show you easier, Johnny.”

“Sure,” John replied, not certain if such was the accepted thing but unwilling to admit his ignorance.

“It's easy enough,” Conway explained as John gave the cards an awkward over-hand stack. “All we do is split the deck into three piles and you two bet the bottom card of the stack you fancy is higher than mine. If it is you win, if not you lose. Ace's high, deuce low.”

Despite his brilliance in matters pertaining to guns, John's schooling had been fragmentary. On the face of it, to his way of thinking, the game seemed easy enough and its odds evenly balanced between banker and players.

“I understand,” he said, watching Thorbold remove a wallet and drop it on to the table. Not wishing to be out-done, John took out his own wallet, containing twenty dollars given by his father to cover his expenses, and placed it by his glass.

Taking the deck, Conway split it into three even piles.

“I'll have a dollar on the middle,” Thorbold announced.

A dollar was, to John, a vast sum of money. However he did not want the men to know it. Acting as nonchalantly as if he did the same kind of thing daily, he pulled a bill from his wallet and laid it on top of the left hand pile of cards in imitation of Thorbold's move.

“Seven of clubs,” Thorbold said, raising his pile.

“Nine of hearts,” Johnny went on, looking at his bottom card.

“Just to show there's no cheating, I'll split mine,” Conway remarked and cut the remaining pile to show the middle card. “Eight of spades. You win, Johnny, but I'm up a dollar on you, Lou.”

Never had John made a dollar with so little effort and he felt that gambling had its advantages.

Three more times he won, on the last occasion placing down two dollars instead of one. He became aware that Thorbold doubled the amount bet after each loss and wondered why.

“That's the way to do it, Johnny,” the drummer told him, winning the next show of cards while John's two dollars went to Conway. “Double up each time you lose and when you win, it all comes back to you.”

Thinking about the matter, John saw that Thorbold spoke the truth. As the dealer paid off at even money, the doubled-up bet brought in the amount already lost and showed a dollar profit. With that in mind, John did not hesitate to place four dollars on his next choice.

“Nine of spades,” he said.

“Nine of diamonds,” Conway countered. “Ties go to the dealer.”

“That's the rules, Johnny,” Thorbold confirmed.

Collecting when both he and the player held a card of equal denomination gave the banker an advantage of five and fifteen-seventeenths percent, an edge which showed a profit even in an honest game.

The next pass around of the betting saw John lose and he felt worried as he placed sixteen dollars for his next try.

“King of spades,” he said with relief.

“Six of hearts,” Conway replied, cutting the cards. “You win.”

Counting out sixteen dollars, the drummer
dropped them before Johnny and a grin crossed the youngster's face.

“It's a good system,” Thorbold said as Conway insisted on fetching another round of drinks. “I'm going to start betting five dollars, that way I'll get an extra five back when I win instead of one.”

“But he's your friend,” John protested.

“Not when we're playing cards. Anyways, he can afford to lose.”

So, on Conway's return, John placed five dollars down on a pile and won. Sitting back, he wondered how long this kind of thing had been going on. There were times when his father's business did not take five dollars during a day, yet he had won that much at one turn of a pile of cards. The next time, however, John lost. With just a touch of trepidation he piled on ten dollars for the next try and, winning, recouped the loss. Then he lost again, doubled up the bet, lost once more and a third time in a row.

Coming from her room, Monique looked about her. A frown creased her face as she saw the cards and money. On walking over to stand a short distance behind John, she heard something which handed her a shock.

“I'll put forty dollars on the right,” John announced.

“Can you cover it if you lose?” Conway demanded.

“Sure I can,” John assured him, not especially
worried by the prospect of losing as his previous losses had been swept away by following Thorbold's system.

Worry flickered on Monique's features as she watched the way Conway cut the cards, with particular emphasis at how he gripped them when making the final separation of the pile left to him by the players. She looked around and found the room devoid of possible sources of assistance. Working in saloons taught a girl caution and she could well imagine what would happen to her if she mentioned her suspicions to the drummers without adequate support. There was no sign of Calamity or the “deacon,” while the agent and all his staff had disappeared into the kitchen. Adopting a disinterested expression, she sauntered across to the front door and went through it. Maybe Conway and Thorbold would have attached significance to her actions but they hardly noticed her as they approached the climax of the game.

On the porch Monique looked around for some sign of help. Seeing no one, she went to the stables and looked inside to find it empty. Next she made for the corrals and again met with disappointment. Just as she thought of returning and telling the agent of her discovery, she saw two shapes leave the darkened barn.

“Yes sir, Solly,” Calamity remarked as she and the marshal stepped into the open. “We sure proved that the bits do sit——.”

“Calamity!” Monique called and ran forward. “It's John!”

“What's wrong with him?” Calamity barked.

“Those two drummers have got him playing at banker-and-broker. I think they are using ‘humps.' Whichever way, he's losing a lot.”

“Is he?” Calamity hissed, her hand going to the whip's handle and she headed for the main building at a rush.

While John knew that a win would once more see him five dollars ahead, he still felt concerned as he realized that he must bet six hundred and forty dollars in order to recover the three hundred and twenty just lost. Yet he knew he must go on. Already his losses had cut deeply into the amount needed to purchase the machinery and its owner had demanded the full one thousand dollars before he would part with it. The only hope was that he would win the next cut of the cards, for he could not double up again should he lose.

Conway exchanged a grin with Thorbold as he riffled the cards. This would be the deciding play, or at least the end of the game. Maybe it was better ended, for at any moment Calamity Jane and the “preacher” might return. Carefully squaring the deck, Conway began to cut it. Again he and Thorbold were so engrossed with the prospect of making easy money that they failed to stay alert. Neither heard the front door open or noticed Calamity and Cole enter.

Something hissed through the air and struck the table close to Conway's hand with a pistol-shot crack, carving a groove in the wood. Thorbold let out a startled yell, jerked backward, overturned his chair and sprawled with it to the floor. No less surprised, Conway thrust his chair from under him and came to his feet. John also rose, his eyes following the lash of the bull whip to its owner. Never had the boy seen such an expression of fury as Calamity's face held as she stalked toward his table with Cole close behind her.

“You stinking, no-good, four-flushing bastards!” she spat at the men, then her voice softened a little. “Pick up your money, Johnny.”

“Go ahead,
kid
,” Conway sneered. “Pick it up, and then let her wipe your nose for you.”

“I'll wipe yours for you!” Calamity shouted and her arm rose, sending the whip's lash curling behind her.

“Easy, sister,” Cole said, catching her wrist. “Let me speak with this here miserable sinner for the good of his soul.”

“You mind your own damned busi——!” Conway began, dropping his right hand into his jacket pocket.

Before the Colt Pocket Pistol could come out, Cole glided forward and ripped a punch into its owner's belly. Conway let out a strangled croak, folding in the middle for his jaw to meet Cole's rising other hand. Calamity watched approvingly
as the drummer straightened up again to catch Cole's third blow solidly on the side of the jaw. From the way the marshal handled himself, it appeared that the Cole branch of the family could do other things near on as good as the Counters. Spinning around under the impact of the punch, Conway crashed into a table which collapsed under his weight, and he measured his length on the floor.

“Behind you, deacon!” Monique squealed from the front door.

Whirling around, Calamity and Cole saw Thorbold sitting up and trying to pull the Smith & Wesson from his pocket.

“He's mine!” Calamity yelled and sprang forward.

Maybe Calamity had never seen a
savate
fighter in action at that time, but she could still use her feet. Perhaps not as well as a Creole trained in the noble art of French foot-boxing, but sufficient for her own simple needs. Certainly she had no cause for complaint at the result. Out lashed her right leg, the toe of her boot driving solidly under Thorbold's jaw. He pitched over, landed flat on his back and the revolver slid away from his limp fingers; not that he could have used it right then even had he kept hold of it.

“What the hell?” Janowska yelled, bursting from the telegraph room.

At the same moment, also attracted by the
noise, Mrs. Janowska, her daughter, Cultus and the bartender appeared from the kitchen. Cole turned and looked at the agent, then he indicated the cards.