Running Irons

miss again.

Letting the whip fall, Calamity prepared to make a grab that would see the twelve-shot Winchester Model ’66 carbine in her hands—unless she took a .44 Starr bullet between the shoulders first. It had been her original intention to make the wagon, collect the carbine and fort up some place where she could have a clear field of fire at the front of the cabin. If the plan had succeeded, Calamity reckoned she ought to be able to hand those jaspers their needings.

Only she had forgotten Gomez and it seemed that her lack of foresight would cost her dearly. She doubted if he aimed to miss a second time. Nor would there be time for her to grab the carbine and stop him.

Even as death stared Calamity in the face, while the Mexican aimed his revolver and pressed its double- action trigger, a shot rang out. Not the deep boom of a handgun, but the crack of a Winchester rifle. For an instant Calamity thought her unseen rescuer had struck a flour-sack, for something white sprayed up from Gomez’ head. Then she realized that the Winchester’s bullet, on striking the skull, had shattered the bone, spraying slivers of it and pulped out brains flying into the air. The Starr fell from Gomez’ hand as his body collapsed in a limp, boned-out manner to the ground.

Not that Calamity wasted any time in thinking about the sight. Already Choya and Manuel were coming through the cabin door and they looked mean as all hell. Each man held a gun and had murder in his heart, with Calamity as the one they aimed to kill.

Bending down, Calamity jerked the carbine from its boot fitted to the inside of the wagon box. The move saved her life for both Mexicans fired at her and the lead passed over her head. The roars of the revolvers mingled with yet another shot from her unseen rescuer’s rifle. Swivelling around, carbine in hand, Calamity saw the effect of the second rifle bullet. Choya leaned against the door jamb, sliding slowly down. A trickle of blood ran from his chest and his Remington had fallen out of his hand.

Manuel saw Calamity swing toward him, the carbine held with practiced ease in her hands. For a moment he hesitated, wavering between handling the girl and locating the as yet unseen rifleuser. That indecision cost him his life, it gave the girl a vitally needed second or so in which to throw up and sight the rifle. Even as Manuel started to bring his revolver in her direction, Calamity shot him dead. She knew the Comanchero breed, knew the only way to stop their evil ways was to kill them, and felt no remorse at taking Manuel’s life.

Which same left Ramon. Badly injured though he was, with an eye that he would never see through again, the Mexican still drew his gun and started shooting as he made for his horse. Twice he fired and, even though pain misted his eyes, he sent the bullets into the wagon box. Splinters kicked into the air but Calamity’s luck, now changed again for the better, held, and the bullets missed her. Yet she knew she must shoot back for Ramon had other charges in his gun and clearly aimed to use them. Her rescuer appeared to judge the situation in the same light for his rifle spat out at the same moment as Calamity’s carbine cracked. Struck by two flat-nosed, Tyler Henry-designed .44 bullets, Ramon whirled around twice, crashed into the nearest horse and went down.

Silence dropped after the thunder of guns, the wind wafting away the burned powder’s smoke. Calamity let out a long shuddering sigh and lowered her carbine. She felt that the last half hour or so put years on her life and, sure as hell’s for sinners, was about as close a call as ever came her young way; up to and including the time she acted as human decoy to lure out of hiding a murderer who had strangled eight girls in the old city of New Orleans. And that time had been mighty rough, for she wound up taking the Strangler alone; due partly to her own cussedness and mule-headedly going out without a police cover. She reckoned that not even the feel of the Strangler’s killing cord around her throat had been as bad as waiting for those four Mexicans to jump her.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” called a male voice.

For the first time Calamity saw her rescuer. He stepped from the shelter and cover of the bushes some fifty yards away, his rifle held in both hands down before his body yet ready for instant use. Although he wore no badge of office he handled himself in the manner of a trained lawman. Despite calling out the question about her welfare, he never took his attention from the four Mexicans.

Calamity studied her rescuer with interest. There appeared to be something familiar about his features; as if she should know him, yet could not place him. He stood maybe six foot one, with a good pair of shoulders that trimmed down to a lean waist. An expensive black Stetson hat, low crowned and wide brimmed in the Texas fashion, sat on the back of his dusty-blond head. He had an intelligent, handsome face made even more grim- looking by trail dirt and a three-day stubble of whiskers, but it looked like it might relax under the right conditions. The tight rolled green bandana which trailed long ends down over his blue broadcloth shirt, his brown levis pants with the cuffs turned back and hanging outside his high-heeled, fancy-stitched boots, all were trail-dirty and showed hard wear. His gunbelt hung just right, a brace of matched staghorn butted 1860 Army Colts in the contoured holsters. The guns rode just right for a fast draw and in a significant fashion; the right side’s Colt pointed its butt to the rear, that at the left turned forward. Such a method often being used in the days before metallic-cartridge revolvers replaced the percussion-fired guns. Due to the slowness of reloading a cap-and-ball revolver, many men carried two guns, although few learned to be ambidextrous in the use of their weapons. Most folks toted their left gun so it could be drawn with the right hand. In a tight spot which called for sustained fire from his weapons, the young man who rescued Calamity most likely drew and emptied his right side Colt first, then either holstered it or made a border-shift—tossing the gun from right to left hand—and drew the second weapon cross-hand so as to continue shooting.

“Dang it though,” Calamity mused, studying the young man. “I should know this feller from someplace. Now who in hell does he remind me of?”

Quickly Calamity thought of some of the men who passed through her hectic young life, trying to decide which of them the young Texan reminded her of most. She discounted Wild Bill Hickok right away. Nor did her rescuer remind her of Beau Resin, the Indian scout she met while freighting supplies to a fort in the Dakotas and with whom she shared some mighty stirring times. Her thoughts went next to Mark Counter, that range-country Hercules from the Texas Big Bend country. No, handsome though he was, the young man did not come up to Mark’s standards, nor resemble the blond giant enough to remind Calamity of Mark. Yet he for sure looked like somebody Calamity knew.

Even as the girl decided to ask, she saw something that jolted all thoughts of who the young Texan resembled clean out of her head.

“Look out!” she screamed.

Clearly Choya, leader of the Comancheros, had not been hit as badly as they imagined. Suddenly, his eyes opened and his right hand scooped up the Remington in a fast-done move. He had been playing possum to lure his unseen attack in close enough to be shot down. The move came fast, deadly and unexpected as the strike of a copperhead snake, and was typical of a Comanchero’s way of fighting. Even as Choya fired, and almost before Calamity screamed her warning, the young Texan acted. He moved with commendable speed, going into a crouch and lining the rifle hip high. Three times he fired, working the lever in almost a blur of movement. Choya got off one shot which fanned the Texan’s cheek in passing and might have hit if the Comanchero’s hand had been steadier. Twice splinters erupted from the wall, drawing closer to Choya. On the third shot no splinters flew, but the Comanchero jerked under the impact of lead. For an instant he struggled to keep his gun lined. The Texan levered another bullet into his rifle and prepared to shoot again. The precaution proved to be unnecessary. Opening his hand, Choya let the Remington fall from it. This time when the gun landed on the ground, Choya would not be picking it up again.

Chapter 4 YOU’RE DUSTY FOG’S KID BROTHER

“RECKON YOU FEEL UP TO COVERING THEM WHILE I pull their fangs, ma’am?” asked the young man who had saved Calamity’s life, his voice an easy-sounding Texas drawl.

Maybe Calamity did feel just a little mite shaken by her experience, but the words stiffened her like a hound- scared cat.

“Naw!” she replied. “I’m all set to start swooning and like to pee my tiny pants.” She hefted the carbine for