Troubled range (9 page)

"How'd you gals like to earn five dollars each?" he asked.

"Ail ofusT gasped the boss-girl, a big, beautiful black-haired woman, eyeing Mark with doubt and admiration.

"Not for that," Mark replied. "I want you to tote Marigold and Calamity to their rooms at the hotel."

"Sure we'll do it," grinned the boss-girl. "I'm not doing anything important after that though."

"I wish I wasn't," drawled Mark and took out his wallet. "Take them in the back way."

Four girls took Calamity by the arms and legs, raising her from the floor, while the other four lifted Belle. To admiring cheers the battered girls were carried out of the saloon's rear door.

"Here, Mark," Stocker said, coming over with a couple of glasses in his big hands. "I fetched you a drink along. Being a duly appointed officer of the law, I don't get the give-away stuff."

One sip at the contents of his glass told Mark that Stocker spoke the truth. Like most saloons, the Crystal Palace kept a stock of cheaper whisky to be used when the boss announced drinks on the house. The liquor in Mark's glass tasted like best stock. It seemed that, like Mark, the owners of the Crystal Palace were not fooled by Stocker's sleepy-acting

ways and knew how to show a good lawman their appreciation.

"Man, that came from a customer's bottle," Mark said, then noticed Stocker looking around the room. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing much. I was wondering where Framant has gone."

Setting down his glass on the nearest table, Mark looked around the room. He had last seen the bounty hunter before the fight started and Framant was showing considerable interest in Belle's actions.

Without a word to Stocker about his fears, Mark turned on his heel and headed across the room towards the main doors of the saloon.

There was considerable excitement at the hotel as Mark entered its reception hall. Although the girls had carried Belle and Calamity in through the rear door, they still had to bring their groaning burdens to the front and up the stairs. In doing so, they attracted attention, their chatter bringing residents from the dining- and sitting-rooms to see what was happening.

Shoving through the crowd, Mark found the desk clerk, a plump, pompous young man, blocking his path.

"May I ask just what is going on, Mr. Counter?" the clerk said as Mark started up the stairs. "This is not the sort—"

His words trailed off as Mark's hands gripped him by the lapels of his coat, then lifted. The man's feet left the floor and kicked futilely as Mark set him aside. Gurgling incoherently, the clerk turned and stared after Mark as he went up the stairs. It shook a man to be picked up as if he was a baby and set aside in so casual a manner.

"Just set the blonde down, you calico cats," a voice said from the passage above. "I'll tend to her."

Three strides brought Mark to the head of the stairs and he turned the corner. It seemed he had not come a moment too soon.

"Hold it, Framant!" Mark snapped.

Standing with his shotgun in his left hand, Framant looked towards the big blond Texan. The saloon-girls had

laid Belle down and fallen back, flattening themselves against the walls and stared in fear at the bounty hunter.

"Keep out of this, cow-nurse," Framant replied. "I'm taking her down to Newton with me."

"How long have you known who she was?" Mark replied, watching the hand which gripped the small of the shotgun's butt, its forefinger on the trigger.

"Had me suspicions since I come in," Framant growled.

"And left it until now to take her?"

"I don't take chances," Framant answered. "Now just get out of my way."

Framant bent down, reaching for Belle's arm.

"Leave her lie," Mark said quietly.

"Yeah!" the bounty hunter replied, straightening again. "Why? 'Cause you want to take her in?"

"Nope. But you hadn't the guts to stack against her while she was on her feet and you'll leave her now. Or take her through me."

A grin twisted Framant's lips as he studied the big Texan.

"That can be done easy enough."

He made a gesture to lift the shotgun in his left hand. Mark watched the move—then remembered something. Another man had faced Framant that day, and he died with a revolver bullet, not a charge of buckshot in him.

Dipping his free hand, Framant closed his fingers around the butt of his revolver and started to lift it. Just like all the others, that big Texan had been watching his shotgun, not the revolver, and would shortly pay the penalty for crossing Jubal Framant.

Too late the bounty hunter saw his mistake.

Mark's right hand dipped, the Army Colt flowed from the holster in a liquid smooth move. Cocking back the hammer as the gun lifted, Mark sent a bullet into Framant's head; holding his gun waist high and using instinctive alignment for he did not have time to take aim in any other way.

Shock, amazement and terror warred among themselves for expression on Framant's face an instant before Mark's bullet struck between his eyes and wiped off all expression. In that last moment Framant knew he had met a man who saw through his trick and beat him.

A girl screamed. Another turned, hiding her face in her hands. Framant's shotgun fell from his left hand, the revolver slipped from between the fingers of his right. Its barrel had barely cleared leather and it clattered to the floor, beating Framant's lifeless body by a split second.

Feet pounded on the stairs behind Mark. Stocker appeared at the stair-head, travelling with a speed which belied his usual lethargic pose. Holstering the big Dragoon, Stocker looked down at Belle, then towards Framant.

"What happened?'

"Framant threw down on me," Mark replied. "And I found out what he toted the shotgun for."

Turning, Stocker ordered the people who started to flock upstairs back down again. The cold tone which replaced his sleepy voice warned the crowd that they had best do as he told them without argument.

"How'd you mean, Mark," he said, after Mark had carried Belle into her room where she and Calamity now lay side by side on her bed. "You know why he toted the shotgun."

"It was a plant. Kept the other feller watching his left hand, while his right fetched out the gun. It near on caught me, only I remembered that feller he shot this morning and wondered why in hell he'd chance drawing a revolver when he held the scatter."

The local doctor arrived, having pushed his way through the crowd, showing a complete disregard for social standing as became the only medical man in almost five hundred miles. s

"I'd best see about moving Framant," Stocker remarked, as the doctor went into Belle's room.

"Sure," Mark replied. "I'll go pick up the gals' belongings from the saloon. They'll not be feeling like bothering, way they're all tuckered out."

"Go ahead. You leaving town in the morning?"

"Sure," Mark agreed.

"Nothing personal, but I'll not be sorry to see you go. Be pleased to have you back any time—but come alone."

Mark grinned. Having served under Dusty Fog as a deputy marshal, he could appreciate Stocker's point of view.

At the saloon, Mark gathered up Belle's vanity bag and Calamity's gunbelt. The owner of the saloon himself came over, grinning broadly.

"You sure brought our Miss Tremayne out, Mark," he said.

That the man knew his name did not surprise Mark. A saloon-keeper always tried to keep in touch with important people who used his establishment, and without false modesty Mark admitted he was well enough known to warrant such interest.

"I've got their clothes bundled up back of the bar," the man went on. "Reckon they might need them, although apart from Calamity's pants and moccasins and Miss Marigold's shoes, there's not much they'll be able to wear."

"I'll take them anyways," Mark grinned. "What they don't want I'll have built into the suggan I had made after the battle in Bearcat Annie's."*

"Was you—sure, that was while Cap'n Fog was town marshal in Quiet Town."

The battle in Bearcat Annie's saloon, where three female deputies fought it out with the saloon-keeper and her girls to allow Dusty Fog, Mark and the other male deputies a chance to enter the saloon and arrest a bunch of gunmen, had become a legend in the west. Mark had gathered the remnants of clothing and had them made into a suggan, a thick patchwork quilt, which he now carried in his bedroll.

Mark intended to have Calamity's shirt and Belle's blouse and skirt added to the other material, as a memento of the occasion.

For a time Mark stayed at the saloon, talking with the owner and a number of prominent business men of the town. The doctor arrived with word that neither girl had sustained any really serious injury, although Belle's hand would always carry the mark of Calamity's teeth.

"Reckon I've lost my blackjack dealer for a spell," grinned the owner. "But, man, what a fight."

Soon after Mark left the saloon, carrying the girls' belongings with him. On his way to the hotel, Mark thought

*Told in Quiet Town by J. T. Edson.

of Stacker's apparent lack of interest in why Framant should be in the building. This did not fool Mark. If Stocker guessed the truth, and Mark reckoned he did, he was holding off until Belle had recovered from the brawl before seeing her.

How long Mark had been asleep, he did not know. Lying in bed in the darkness of his room, he waited for a repetition of the sound which woke him. Reaching out his right hand, he drew a Colt from where his gunbelt lay on the chair.

The door of his room inched open and he could see a shape, darker than the surrounding blackness, at it.

"Mark!" a voice whispered.

"Come ahead, Belle," he replied, swinging from the bed and reaching for his levis.

Belle entered the room and closed the door behind her, standing still until Mark drew the curtains and lit the lamp. In its light, Mark studied Belle and a grin of admiration flickered to his lips. She wore a flimsy robe he had seen her in the previous night, but her hair and face still bore traces of the fight even though the doctor had tried to clean her up. The admiration came as a tribute to her courage, not her appearance. After that brawl, Belle could still get up and walk, if hobbling painfully.

"I'm in trouble, Mark," she said, limping to the bed and flopping down to sit on it.

"You sure look that way," he agreed.

"Framant saw me. I'm sure he knows who I am. And so does Joel Stocker."

"Don't worry about Framant," Mark said gently. "He was waiting up here for you."

Which explained itself to anybody who took a minute to think about it. The fact that Mark was still alive, and she still had her freedom, told Belle all she needed to know.

"Joel Stocker knows," Belle went on. "He's not as du—"

Her words stopped abruptly as the room door opened. Mark caught up his Colt ready to use, and Belle reached towards the second gun.

"I thought I'd find you here!" Calamity said from the doorway.

She stood for a moment, eyeing Belle with a mixture of anger and admiration. The last thing Calamity felt like doing was going visiting in h^r present state of health.

"Shut the door and keep your voice down, Calam," Mark snapped. "Belle's in trouble."

"I'll say she is," Calamity replied, closing the door. "B— Belle?"

"Belle Starr, the moustached lady," Belle grinned.

"You mean—you—I—you're—"

"Whatever that means, I'm still Belle Starr."

Crossing the room, Calamity flopped down beside Belle, staring at the other girl and holding the blanket draped around her shoulders.

"Belle Starr!" she said wonderingly, then held out a hand. "I'm sorry, Belle, I didn't know about it when I went to the poster. Shucks, if I had, I'd've kept away and found some other way of starting the brawl so I could hand you your needings. Say, who won?"

Both girls looked at Mark expectantly, for neither could remember the details of the final stages of the fight and each felt sure she had been beaten.

"It was a stand-off," he replied. "With both of you plumb tuckered out."

"That's a good way to be," Belle said and took Calamity's hand. "No hard feelings, Calam?"

"Not if you haven't. Say, was you ever in Fort Baker? There's a gal—"

"Let's leave old home week until later," Mark put in. "Belle's got troubles enough without that."

Possibly for the first time in her life Calamity looked contrite.

"Gee, I'm sorry, Belle. It's all my fa—"

"Forget it, Calam. It's as much my fault as yours. I didn't have to let you needle me right then."

"Framant won't forget it," Calamity pointed out.

"He's no worry," Belle replied. "I'm thinking about Joel Stocker. He knows I'm Belle Starr now, and Joel's too good a lawman to overlook it. He might not like doing it, but he'd take me and send me back to Newton."

Clapping a hand to her forehead, Calamity groaned. "And I'm the darned fool who caused it all. We'll just have to pull out of town tonight."

"Neither of you are in any shape to ride," Mark pointed out. "Even if Belle had a hoss."

"Which I haven't."

"You couldn't handle my bloodbay, the condition you're in." Mark went on, looking at Belle. "And even if you could, the saddle's locked in Larkin's office."

"Will the marshal be coming after you tonight?" asked Calamity.

"Not if I know Joel. He'll be around in the morning when I've had time to get around to talking and walking."

"Then we've a chance," Calamity grinned. "All we need is a feller with a strong back—which same we've got right here."

On hearing Calamity's plan, the other two agreed it might work. They wasted no time in preparing to put it into action.

"Calam, honey," Mark grinned, putting on his shirt. "You pair know of more ways of making me lose sleep than anybody I know."

Mark was just boosting a sick, sore and groaning Calamity on to the box of her wagon ready to leave town when Marshal Stocker strolled up. It was morning and the wagon stood ready to roll, Mark's bloodbay stallion waiting saddled for its master to mount.

"Morning, Miss Calamity, Mark," he greeted. "See you're fixing to leave."