The Big Hunt (8 page)

“I did,” Mark replied. “His gun's there, one chamber fired, and you'll likely find the bullet-hole in Calamity's wagon.”

“Ain't doubting you,” answered Berkmyer in a tone which showed he would like to do so but dare not. “He asked for it.”

“Sure he did,” agreed Calamity. “But why'd he do it?”

“Huh?” grunted the marshal.

“I've seen him around town enough times to know he didn't have the brains or guts to try anything this big. Why'd he try to run off the remuda?”

“Those hosses arc valuable,” Berkmyer pointed out.

“Sure. Too valuable for him to take.”

“He's drunk.”

“He'd have to be real drunk to get up enough guts to try it,” Calamity insisted. “Even if that drunk, he would think about doing it.”

“Maybe the other feller put him up to it,” Mark suggested.

“What other feller?” asked Berkmyer, looking around him with more interest than the possible sight of a second horse-thief should warrant. A hint of relief showed on his face when he failed to see another body. “Where is he?”

“Took off running,” Calamity answered. “I carved a smidgin out of his face with my whip afore he went though.”

“Which 'ought to make him real easy to find,” Mark drawled.

“Yeah,” agreed Berkmyer, although he did not sound convincing. “It should at that.”

While Mark knew little about local conditions, what he had seen since his arrival did not fill him
with faith in Berkmyer's ability as a lawman. In fact, his views on the marshal, although accurate and correct, were not charitable to Berkmyer. Mark would be considerably surprised if the other ever located and arrested the second of the thwarted horse-thieves.

“Where do you aim to start, marshal?” he asked.

“I'll bet it's some drifter, new to town, got Siwash all stirred up and set him to it,” answered Berkmyer, confirming Mark's belief that he would always take the easiest way out of any difficulty.

“I'll just bet it was,” sniffed Wainer, who had been close enough to overhear the words. “Town's full of drifters who know that I've got a corral-full of unbranded hosses and know where they can sell 'em.”

“What's that mean?” Berkmyer demanded.

“Nothing at all. Did your cousin say he'd made me an offer on my place?”

“Any reason why he should?”

“None as I know of,” admitted Wainer. “Only if those hosses had gone, I couldn't pay the feller who caught them without selling out.”

“Are you hinting at something?” growled the marshal.

“Just talking is all,” replied the barn's owner calmly. “Say, didn't Siwash do some swamping and heavy toting at times for Corben?”

“Did, and for near on every other place in town as long's they'd put up with him. Corben fired him out today because he never turned up for work sober.”

“Maybe needed extra money then,” drawled Mark. “Losing his job and all.”

“Sure,” agreed the marshal. “And he'd be ripe for an offer to make some. If I can find the feller who talked him into helping, it'll clear up a whole heap of things around here.”

“One thing, marshal,” Mark said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I brought four men in with me. Not one of them needed money and I'm telling you that they wouldn't steal. When I ride out of here tomorrow, I aim to take them with me.”

“You'll do it, too, as long as they're not involved,” Berkmyer promised, seeing one chance of quietening suspicions drop away.

In many a town along the railroad, a cowhand could be framed for crimes and killed without arousing hostility among the local citizens. Berkmyer knew that any attempt to do so in this instance meant facing Mark, and that he did not intend to do.

“Everything appears to be all right, marshal,” Lord Henry remarked, coming from where he and Killem had been inspecting the freight teams. “Can we help you in any way?”

“There's not much to do, it being dark and all,” Berkmyer answered, grabbing the opportunity to change the subject. “Do you aim to have a guard on the corral all night, Wainer?”

“Sure,” agreed the barn owner, “If I can find anybody to do it.”

“I'd say that would be your job, marshal,” Lord Henry commented. “You or one of your men.”

“I don't have but the one deputy and he's stove up from the fight,” Berkmyer answered sullenly.

“It's on your head,” warned the peer. “But I expect to find those horses there in the morning.”

“Don't fret, they will be,” snarled the marshal, thinking of the letter carried by the Englishman.

If looks could kill, Lord Henry Farnes-Grable would have died at that moment. However, Berkmyer raised no objections, although he did not relish standing guard all night, especially as he doubted if any other attempt would be made to remove the horses. Yet if he failed and the remuda went—well, he knew the Englishman possessed the necessary social contacts to cost him his post as marshal. After ordering that the body be removed, he looked up at the sky. At least there did not appear to be any sign of rain.

“Dang spoil-sport,” said Calamity, her voice pitched so that only Mark caught the words. “Now I'll have to go to Ma's place for the rest of the night.”

“He sure is one obliging marshal,” Mark replied. “Real smart, too. He knew that feller had been drinking——”

“That didn't take smart thinking,” objected Calamity.

“It did the way he did it,” Mark said. “He knew without going anywhere near the body—and that's what some folks might call smart.”

“G
REAT SCOTT
, B
ERYL,”
L
ORD
H
ENRY EJACULATED,
staring at his sister as she entered the sitting-room of their suite. “Where did you get those clothes?”

Considering that Lady Beryl wore a Stetson hat perched on her head, bandana knotted at her throat, man's shirt and levis pants, and high-heeled riding boots, his surprise had some foundation. Beryl smiled at her brother's reaction.

“Calamity and I bought them yesterday. She said they would be more suitable than my riding habit for when we're on the Great Plains.”

“Then you should have waited until we got to
the Plains before—oh, well, have it your own way. You usually do.”

“Thank you, dear,” Beryl replied and stretched. “I don't know what that oil Calamity used on me was, but it's taken all the stiffness out. When do we look over the horses?”

“As soon as we've breakfasted, so let's make a start.”

Despite her bold front, Beryl felt just a few qualms as she approached the door to the hotel's dining-room. Her clothing did not fit as snugly as Calamity's outfit, but still exposed considerably more of her shape than convention allowed. With Calamity, completely at ease in the revealing men's clothing, the feeling had not been too bad. However, Calamity left after arriving early to apply the soothing oil to Beryl's aching frame, and the blonde wondered what people might think of her appearance. Then a thought struck her and she smiled. Taken with the blackened eye and scratched cheek gained in the fight, and her activities the previous night, she doubted if her appearance would cause too much comment.

Her guess proved to be correct. After a long, searching glance at her, the few people using the dining-room returned to their eating. Letting out a slight sigh, Beryl sat down and made a good breakfast.

On arrival at the livery barn, Beryl and Lord Henry joined Calamity, Killem, Kerry and Mark—the last-named being introduced to Beryl by Calamity.

“Well,” Killem said to Beryl, “what do you reckon to them, ma'am? Wainer here says they're the best he's had through his hands in years.”

“I've never yet met a horse-trader who didn't,” smiled Beryl, and Wainer took no offense, but grinned back. “May we look them over more closely?”

“Feel free, ma'am,” Wainer answered.

One horse took Beryl's eye as soon as she walked to the side of the big corral. Although nothing showed on her face, she knew that she must have the paint gelding as her personal mount. It might not be the biggest horse in the remuda, but that deer-red and white gelding conveyed an impression of alertness, intelligence, speed, agility and stamina that pleased Beryl more than she could say.

“Which one do you like?” Calamity asked as Wainer returned to talk with Lord Henry.

“The skewball.”

“The
what?
Oh, you mean the paint. Sure, he's the one I had my eye on.”

“Let's start having them out, old chap,” Lord Henry suggested.

“Any particular one first?” inquired the barn's owner innocently.

“
You
trot them out how
you
like,” countered the peer, too old a hand to be caught in such a manner.

Grinning, Wainer looked to where two of his men stood ready to start work. That dude might talk fancy, but he sounded like he knew horse-trading. It showed in his refusal to pick out a specific animal which might have caught his eye, allowing the seller to adjust the price accordingly.

“Bring out that dun,” ordered Wainer.

Mounting the corral rails, one of the hired men swung his rope and sent its loop sailing forward in a nearly perfect hooley-ann throw to head-catch the required horse. From the way in which the dun allowed itself to be drawn in peaceably, it knew what the manila rope about its neck meant.

Giving the horse a quick but thorough check, Lord Henry nodded his approval. “Looks all right,” he said cautiously. “Trot it up and down for a time, so I can see if its legs fall off when it moves.”

After a brisk trotting and walking back and forward, during which all four legs stayed firmly in place, Lord Henry was satisfied. The dun looked up to carrying weight, had the build for speed and staying power. Nor did it show any undue signs of
distress when Kerry fired off a shot from his carbine close by.

“I'll take that one,” the peer stated.

“Hello,” Beryl suddenly remarked, swinging away from watching her brother examining the next horse to be led from the corral. “I certainly didn't expect to see one of you out here.”

Turning, Calamity saw Shaun approaching. The big wolfhound had been left at Ma Gerhity's place, but must have got out and trailed its master to the barn. To Calamity's horror, Beryl walked toward the dog. Having a shrewd idea of how Shaun would react to such a liberty, Calamity reached for the handle of her whip, ready to use it to protect Beryl from an attack. Already the big dog had come to a halt, standing on rigid legs, tail stiff and unmoving, his top lip curling back to expose the upper canine fangs in silent warning.

“Watch him, gal!” Calamity hissed, realizing that a sudden yell might make Beryl start back and precipitate Shaun's attack.

She did not need to bother. All Beryl's life had been spent in and around the country and she knew better than to ignore the dog's warning.

“All right, I understand,” she said quietly, and looked in Calamity's direction. “He's a beauty and as well bred as any I saw in Ireland.”

“You mean there's more like him?” asked Calamity.

“Irish wolfhounds? I've seen several of them, both in England and Ireland, and this one is as good as any. I wonder who owns him?”

“I do. Miss—ma'am——” Kerry put in, having seen his dog's arrival and come to protect Beryl if she should be foolish enough to go too close. His words died off as he could not decide how a Lady should be addressed.

“Why not say ‘Beryl' and avoid confusion?” the blonde smiled. “I hope you are taking him with us, Kerry.”

“I sure am, Mi—Beryl.”

“Good, then I'll have a chance to get to know him better.”

Something about the girl's attitude told Kerry he did not need to waste time giving warnings. She knew enough about dogs not to make any fool mistakes like trying to pet Shaun; and he still had work to do. Telling the dog to settle down and keep from underfoot, Kerry rejoined Wainer, Killem and Lord Henry. While doing so, he noticed Potter's bunch among the crowd of loungers who gathered—as such always did whenever anything out of the ordinary happened—to watch the selection of the horses. It seemed that the quartet had been on the point of leaving town, for their mounts stood in the background, bedrolls on the cantles. Kerry doubted if the four would cause him any
trouble, especially as he now wore his weapon belt and carried his carbine.

Horse after horse came out, to be examined, accepted or rejected. At last the paint came from the corral and passed into those selected to be used on the hunt. Beryl walked forward as the paint was led toward the group at one side.

“I'll take him, Henry,” she announced.

“He's only been three-saddled, ma'am,” Wainer warned and, seeing the girl did not understand, went on, “that means the breaker's only ridden it three times. That'd be enough for a man to handle it——”

Such a remark was calculated to rouse Calamity's ire and brought an angry snort from her.

“Toss a saddle on him, one of you,” she said. “I'll give him a whirl.”

Grins crossed Mark's and Killem's faces, for both knew Calamity to be better than fair at handling a snuffy horse. Certainly the paint did not appear to have more than average cussedness and Calamity ought to be able to take the bed-springs out of its belly, especially as it had already been three-saddled.

Mark collected his girl's saddle from her wagon while Killem led the paint into the breaking corral which had been left empty for the purpose of testing any horse selected out of the remuda. Handled
by two such skilled men, the saddling went by without a hitch and at good speed. From the calm manner with which it accepted the indignity, the paint knew better than to fight the inevitable—which did not mean it would allow itself to be ridden without protest.

Mark's huge bloodbay stallion and Kerry's gray stood saddled and ready for use at one side of the breaking corral. When dealing with range horses that had been kept in such close confines for a time, it paid to have the means to catch any animal that broke away.

After checking everything was to her satisfaction, Calamity swung astride the paint. Mark continued to hold the horse's head until she settled down firmly in the saddle. Then, at her command, he released his hold and retreated hurriedly.

At first the haste did not seem necessary, for the horse remained standing patiently. Calamity decided to force the issue and rammed her heels into the paint's ribs as an inducement to movement, and immediately had her wish granted. Bogging its head, the paint blew up with a series of high, back-arching jumps; impressive to watch, but nothing out of the ordinary. Always one to enjoy being in the limelight, Calamity had hoped for a better chance to show off her skill.

In the course of her lifetime, over-confidence had
landed Calamity in more than one scrape, and so it proved that day. Suddenly the horse made a fence-corner pitch, going up pointing due north but landing at a forty-five-degree angle to its original direction. Taken by surprise, Calamity felt herself slipping and took the easiest way out. Kicking her feet from the stirrup irons, she parted company with the saddle in full flight. She had ridden for long enough to learn how to fall and, although lighting down on her rump, softened her landing in a manner which saved her from serious injury. Bouncing twice, Calamity slid halfway out of the corral almost at Mark Counter's feet.”

“Thought I saw you on that horse, Calam,” the blond giant remarked.

“Help a lady up, you long, white-topped slab of useless Texas cow-nurse!” she answered hotly. “I'll show him who's the boss next time on.”

Before Calamity could do so, Beryl ducked between the fence rails. Shooting out his hand, Lord Henry caught his sister by her arm.

“Don't be silly, Beryl!” he snapped. “You've not ridden astride since we were children.”

“Haven't I?” smiled Beryl. “It's time I learned if I still can, then.”

With that, she shrugged his hand from her arm and walked toward the horse. Speaking gently, she reached for and caught hold of the paint's reins.
Just as smoothly, she moved around until in a position to mount. Up went a dainty foot and into the stirrup iron. Then, with a little swing, Beryl mounted the horse. Her move was so smoothly executed that she had her rump on the saddle and other foot firmly in iron before the paint realized that another human being challenged it. Once the realization came, the paint took off in a high buck. Although she rose into the air more than the horse, and her face showed pain as she landed, Beryl stayed in the saddle instead of dirtying her shirt on the ground.

While the saddling took place, Kerry led Shaun into the livery barn and left him there. To a certain degree Shaun could be trusted around people, but Kerry preferred not to take chances. Already an excited crowd gathered round the corral, and in the excitement somebody might kick or bump against the wolfhound with unpleasant and painful results. After safeguarding the public, Kerry hurried back to see Calamity thrown and Beryl take the red-head's place.

Again and again the paint bucked, leaping high and slamming down hard; but without the devastating change of tactics which sent Calamity out of the saddle. Yells of admiration, whoops of delight and shouts of advice rang out from the men who surrounded the fence. From the excited way some
of them acted, Kerry showed wisdom in removing his dog.

“Yahoo!” Mark whooped, almost deafening Calamity at his side. “Stay up there, Beryl!”

“Damn it!” Calamity snorted, feeling just a touch of pique at Beryl's success. “She didn't get bit where I did last night.”

“I bet she got more sleep, too,” Mark grinned.

“
You're
to blame for that,” Calamity reminded him. “All I—watch him, gal, he's going to pitch fence-cornered.”

And the horse did, using the trick which threw Calamity. For a moment it seemed Beryl would smell corral dirt. She hung over in the saddle, made an effort and remained in her seat. Pique forgotten, Calamity almost drowned out the cheers of approval at Beryl's skill.

“Where did Ber—your sister—learn to ride like that?” asked Kerry, turning to Lord Henry.

“I'm blessed if I know,” the peer admitted. “Probably been riding astride back home when nobody watched her.”

“She's sure some gal,” enthused Kerry. “I've only seen——”

His words chopped off as he saw the paint change tactics. Forgetting bucking after its lack of success, the horse ran across the corral, heading for the fence facing the open range beyond the
town. By that time Beryl had gained the feel of her mount and found no difficulty in staying on it at a gallop. However, she knew that she could not turn the paint in time to avoid a collision with the fence. Feeling the horse's muscles bunch, she guessed what it planned and gave the idea her full cooperation. Hand, legs and body worked in conjunction with the paint as it took off, rising up toward the top of the six-foot-high top rail of the fence. Spectators scattered hurriedly and a concerted gasp rose from among the others as the paint sailed into the air.

Having ridden to hounds on numerous occasions in England, Beryl knew how to take a jump; but she had never done so while sitting astride. So when the paint landed, she instinctively adjusted herself to take the impact as when riding side saddle. Although she managed to retain her seat, the paint's landing slammed her down hard enough to make her lose control of the reins for a vital instant. Taking the bit between its teeth, the paint bolted, streaking away from the corral and toward the open range.