Running Irons

there was such a thing as the price being too high. The sooner the Ranger captain could send one of his men to Caspar, the better he would feel. Even one Ranger on the ground might act as a steadying influence and prevent Gooch from going too far in his bounty-hunting search for wealth.

“There’s a couple more gunhands hanging around town,” Jacobs remarked. “Are on Ella Watson’s payroll, I think. They don’t say much, or do much. ’Course, they only came in the day afore I left.”

Once again the pedlar gave Murat worrying news. Hired guns always meant bad trouble. If Ella Watson had brought in a couple of guns, it might be for the purpose of nullifying the threat Gooch offered to her cow-stealing business—always assuming that Jacobs had his facts right and she did run the she-bang.

Without letting his concern show, Murat slipped another five dollars into Jacobs’s hand. “If you go south, see if you can learn anything about those stage robberies they’ve had down that way,” he said.

“Sure, Cap’n. How about that Caspar fuss?”

“I’ll send word to the sheriff up there and let him do what he wants.”

“Aren’t you sending your men in?” Jacobs inquired.

“Only if the local law asks for them,” replied Murat cagily.

While Jacobs had proved himself a reliable source of information on more than one occasion, Murat did not trust the man. Knowledge of the coming of a Ranger, or a party of Rangers, would fetch a good price from the right area and Jacobs might just as easily sell his news to the cow thieves as he had to Murat. So Murat did not intend to give too much away; not with the lives of his men at stake.

“Don’t reckon he’ll ask,” grinned Jacobs. “Sheriff Simmonds ain’t the best, or smartest, lawman in the West.”

“He getting paid for sitting back and doing nothing?”

“I couldn’t say, Cap’n. Only he’s sure dressing better now than he did last time I saw him, before the cow stealing started.”

“I likely won’t hear anything from him then,” Murat grunted. “Which same I’ve paid out fifteen iron men for nothing.”

“News is always valuable, Cap’n,” answered Jacobs.

“So they do tell me,” agreed the Ranger. “See you, Jake.”

“I’ll be around,” promised the pedlar. “You wanting me to go down south and see what I can find about the stage hold-ups?”

“If you’re headed that way—and afore you ask, don’t. You’ve made fifteen bucks off me for something I might not be able to put to use.”

Turning, Murat walked to his horse and swung into the saddle. Jacobs watched the Ranger captain ride away and then swung aboard his wagon. With an annoyed sniff, the pedlar started his team moving. He felt disappointment at not learning more about Murat’s plans. The Ranger captain most likely aimed to send at least one of his men to Caspar and to be able to identify the man might have proved profitable. Ella Watson would have paid well to know of her danger and be able to recognize it when the Ranger arrived. One thing Jacobs learned early was never to try to sell half information to criminals. While Ella Watson might be interested to know that the Rangers were coming, she was unlikely to pay for the information—at least not enough to make a return trip to Caspar worthwhile—unless Jacobs could also tell who exactly to watch for.

Murat rode between the two buildings and back on to the street once more, turning over the problem and Jacobs’s information in his mind. A worried frown creased his face as he continued his interrupted return to his company’s barracks. One thing was even more sure now. The Governor had been right to worry about the developments in Caspar County. Cow stealing was bad enough; but when both sides started importing hired killers the situation became far worse.

Hoping against hope, Murat swung his horse through the gates into the compound of Troop “G,” Texas Rangers. No imposingly military structure lay before him. The compound had no parade ground, for the Rangers did no drill and wore no uniform. Just an adobe office building and cells, three wooden cabins, a long stable and barn, and a pole corral made up the company’s headquarters. Murat glanced hopefully at the corral, but found it to be empty. The company’s remuda had been taken out on to the range beyond the compound to graze and any horse in the corral would mean that one of his men was back from a chore.

Even as a youngster, one of the trio who acted as wranglers for the Rangers’ horses, dashed up to collect Murat’s mount, a tall man in cowhand clothes and with his right arm suspended in a sling left the office building. The man walked toward Murat and the captain asked:

“No sign of any of the boys, Sid?”

“Nope. I’m near on fit though.”

The injured Ranger knew a summons from the Governor meant something urgent and wondered what further trouble had been heaped on Murat’s shoulders.

“Near on’s not good enough, Sid. I can’t send you out until you can handle a rifle as well as a Colt.”

“Danged spoilsport,” growled Sid, but he knew Murat to be right. A Ranger with a bullet-busted wing sure would be at a disadvantage in handling any risky law work. “It bad?”

“Bad enough,” admitted Murat. “Let’s go in and I’ll tell you about it.”

Following Sid into the office, Murat made a decision. Unless at least one of his men had returned by sundown the following day, Murat intended to disregard the Governor’s orders and head for Caspar himself.

Chapter 3 MISS CANARY IN DISTRESS

MISS MARTHA JANE CANARY EXPECTED TO BE raped and killed before fifteen more minutes went by. Already the sweat-stinking fat cuss had finished his food and started opening the drawers of the side-piece, grinning slyly at her and waiting for her objections. The handsome jasper, if you cared for swarthy features and a drooping moustache, the others called Choya still sat eating; his black eyes studying the girl as if trying to strip her with his gaze. After finishing his meal, the short, scar-faced hombre named Gomez had left the cabin on a visit to the backhouse and the fourth member of that evil quartet, Manuel, sat wolfing down a mess of victuals like it was going out of style. When they all had finished eating and no longer required her services as cook, the ball was sure as hell going to start.

From the first moment she saw the four Mexicans riding toward the cabin, the girl expected trouble. One saw plenty of Mexicans in this part of Texas, but the quartet struck her as being wrong. While they dressed to the height of vaquero fashion, they showed a mean-faced, slit-eyed wolf caution which did not go with the behavior of such Mexican cowhands she had seen on her travels. The backward glances, the careful, alert scrutiny of the place as they rode toward it, each told the girl a story. She knew instinctively the four men riding toward her were bad. Outlaws of some sort; maybe Comancheros, those human wolves who preyed on both white and Indian, leaving a trail of carnage wherever they went. All but smashed by the Texas Rangers before the Civil War, a few small bands of Comancheros had avoided capture, or sprung into being during Davis’ incompetent administration. It seemed in keeping with the girl’s general lousy luck of the past few days that she should run across one such bunch under the present conditions.

Way she looked at it, only one good thing could be said of the situation. Those four snake-eyed greasers did not know her true identity. They must take her for the wife or, as she wore no rings, daughter of the house; easy meat for their evil purposes once she had filled their bellies. Most likely they would not have been so relaxed, or taken such chances, had they known her to be Calamity Jane.

Not that Calamity looked quite her usual self. She had seen to that on taking stock of her position in respect of the approaching riders. Her hat, a faded old U.S. cavalry kepi, hung behind the door instead of perching at its usual jaunty angle on her mop of curly red hair. Nothing about her tanned, slightly freckled, pretty face gave a hint of her true identity; the eyes were merry most time, the lips looked made for laughing and kissing, but could turn loose a blistering flow of team-driver’s invective at times. The man’s shirt she wore looked maybe two sizes too small as it clung to her rich, round, full bosom and slender waist, its neck open maybe just a mite lower than some folks regarded as seemly, the sleeves rolled up to show strong-looking arms. However, she wore a black skirt from the waist down, effectively covering her levis pants; the latter, like the shirt, fitted a mite snug and drew sniffs of