“Girls!” whooped Curly.
“Let up on that hollerin’,” chided Waco. “You want to spook the herd? And quit tryin’ to slick your hair. You look plumb foolish.”
The youthful cowpoke was trembling with excitement. Stretch’s long face creased in a half-hearted grin. Turkey’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Farnum cursed luridly and Larry went right on fretting.
“Mr. Valentine ...!” shrilled Abigail.
“Mr. Emerson!” called Tess. “It’s us!”
The girls stalled the wagons atop the rise, a short distance from Turkey’s half-prepared fire. In a flurry of gingham skirts and lawn petticoats, they descended from the vehicles and advanced on the dumbfounded men.
“Larry,” growled the Box 7 boss, “they know you!” He made it a harsh accusation.
Larry nodded uncomfortably. “Yeah, Buck. They know us.”
“Damn it all, Larry ...!” began Farnum.
“Hold hard now, Buck,” frowned Larry. “This wasn’t our idea.”
“We used up our whole bankroll to send ’em back to Iowa,” declared Stretch.
“And we sold those wagons to an Egansville dealer,” said Larry.
“Which one did you promise to marry?” Farnum grimly demanded.
“Hey, now ...!” protested Larry.
“I count eight of ’em,” breathed Waco. “Eight females!”
“What are you?” Farnum challenged Larry. “A doggone Mormon? You didn’t promise to marry all eight of ’em, did you?”
“For Pete’s sakes,” growled Larry, “I didn’t promise to wed any of ’em!”
“Howdy, Texas,” drawled Rena. “Life is full of surprises, huh?”
“Hey, Larry,” grinned Curly, “ain’t you gonna introduce us proper?”
“Boy,” scowled Waco, “you open your fool mouth just one more time and, so help me, I’ll shut it with my boot.” He glowered at Larry. “Now—you better start explainin’.”
“I want the truth!” bellowed Farnum.
“Quit hollerin’,” warned Stretch, mildly. “You’ll spook the herd.”
“You’ll get your explanation,” Larry promised. “But first—I need an explanation.” He planted himself in front of the smiling Rena. She had never seemed more beautiful and, at this moment, he was tempted to swing her across his knee and paddle her. He resisted that temptation. “All right, Rena. Talk straight.”
“Nothing to it,” she shrugged. “The girls decided they didn’t want to go home to Baker’s Grove.”
“But damn it all,” raged Larry, “we bought passage for you on the train! I sold the wagons so you’d have cash for your travellin’ expenses!”
“I couldn’t talk them out of it,” said Rena. “The minute you and Stretch quit Egansville, Charity and the girls vowed they weren’t heading east to save their lives. Then we cashed our tickets with the railroad clerk and got your money back. And we bought back the wagons from Abe Dunstetter. He wanted extra for the teamers, but Abigail’s an old horse-trader from way back. She wore him down—and here we are.”
“Why in blue blazes,” demanded Larry, “did you come chasin’ after us?”
“Larry Valentine,” growled Charity, “it’s high time you quit cussin’ us and started actin’ like a regular gentleman.”
“You wouldn’t expect eight helpless women to travel all the way to Happy Rock without an escort, would you?” challenged Mary Ann.
“We can’t escort you any place!” fumed Larry.
“We’re herdin’ cattle,” Stretch nervously explained. “Not females.”
“And we sure as hell ain’t headed for Happy Rock!” snapped Larry.
“This outfit,” Farnum informed Rena, “is bound for the railhead at Fane City.”
“Fane City,” she shrugged, “would suit us fine.”
“Now wait a minute ...!” gasped Waco.
“Ain’t no women gonna tag along with this outfit,” scowled Turkey. “Trail-drive is no place for females.”
“My name’s Lucius Orville Dibble,” Curly announced, as he aimed an eager grin at Charity, “but my friends call me Curly. I’m twenty years old, and ...”
“Shuddup!” roared Waco.
“Where’s Fane City?” asked Tess.
“I happen to know,” drawled Rena, “that Fane City is up in Montana Territory—only a day’s ride east of Happy Rock. Girls, our problems are solved. The way I see it, Larry and Stretch are still responsible for ...” She smiled brightly at the indignant Larry, “for our welfare.”
“Ma’am ...” began Farnum.
“It’s ‘Miss’,” corrected Rena. “We’re all ‘Miss’—all in the market for husbands.”
“Yippee ...” whooped Curly.
Farnum finally got around to doffing his Stetson. Coldly, he eyed Rena and told her, “We’re pushing two thousand head to Fane City. This is the Box 7 outfit—and Larry and Stretch are on my payroll now. You savvy what that means, girl? They’re trail-herders—not bodyguards for a bunch of women. So I’ll thank you to turn those wagons and get the heck out of here—because you sure aren’t dogging us all the way to Montana.”
“No call for you to act unfriendly,” chided Charity. “We wouldn’t slow you down,” Abigail assured him. “One female is more trouble than she’s worth,” mumbled Turkey. “Eight of ’em would drive us loco, ’fore we travelled another mile.”
“They won’t get a chance to drive us loco,” countered Waco, “because they ain't comin’ with us!”
“Guess again, mister,” growled Charity. She pointed to Larry and Stretch. “Where they go—we go!”
“They won us,” declared Mary Ann, “so now they have to protect us.”
Waco and Turkey stared aghast at the drifters. Farnum shook his head dazedly and rubbed at one of his ears, as though doubting if it were functioning correctly.
“You said ...” He blinked incredulously at Mary Ann, “you said they won you? Do you mean they courted you—or something?”
“Poker,” grunted Stretch.
Farnum whirled, stared at him.
“Poker?” he challenged.
“Well,” frowned Stretch, “these other jaspers were holdin’ three queens and a pair of tens—and Larry won the pot—on accounta he had four aces.”
“That was in Egansville,” explained Larry. “You see, Buck, we got mixed into this all-night poker game, and—”
“They gamble for women in Egansville?” gasped Waco.
“It looks,” sighed Larry, “like I better explain Buck the whole damn mess.”
“That’s how it looks,” Stretch sadly agreed.
“Somebody better make sense,” warned Farnum, “and fast.”
“We didn’t know we’d won a couple of wagonloads of females,” said Larry. “We thought we were playin’ for regular merchandise.” With the Box 7 men hanging on his every word, he carefully recounted the unusual circumstances of the Egansville poker session—and its even more unusual aftermath. In conclusion, he explained, “When we left ’em at the railroad depot, we figured we’d never see ’em again—and that’s gospel.”
“Well—damn-it-all ...” began Farnum.
“You weren’t hard to find, Texas,” Rena coolly assured Larry. “In Roddsboro, you left your calling card—the Herders Haven Saloon—all mussed up from a ruckus. The barkeep told us you’d joined up with Box 7, and the rest was easy. We’ve been tagging you since sunrise.”
“But now we’re weary of travellin’ by ourselves,” smiled Fern. “We’d as soon have some sociable masculine company.”
“We ain’t sociable,” snapped Turkey.
“That’s okay—Handsome,” chuckled Donna. “We’ll teach you how.”
“And we’re toting plenty provisions,” drawled Rena. “I spent near seventy dollars of your bankroll on food, Larry. Here’s the rest of it.”
She dipped a hand into the bodice of her gown. Stretch recoiled, averting his eyes. Curly leaned forward so hastily that he lost his balance. The scowling Turkey restored him to the perpendicular. Rena produced the roll of bills, handing them to Larry. He grimaced and shoved the dinero into his hip pocket. Farnum eyed him steadily, and said:
“It’s crazy and it’s impossible. You know that, Larry. You know we can’t have eight women trailing along with us—all the way to Fane City.”
“I’m mighty sorry, Buck,” said Larry. “Sure didn’t mean to wish this trouble onto you. We’ll pull out right-away, take the girls to the nearest town, and ...”
“You can’t pull out!” gasped Farnum.
“Now, look ...” Larry gestured impatiently. “If Stretch and I stay with the drive, the girls will tag along—and you don’t want that. If we take the girls someplace else, you’re two herders short—and you don’t want that either.”
Farnum gnawed at his underlip, stared worriedly towards the herd. Quietly, he declared, “I need you crazy Texans. Without you, I don’t know how we could make it to trail’s end.”
“What you don’t need,” Waco opined, “is eight sassy females taggin’ along.”
“You haven’t bought and paid for this whole territory, have you?” challenged Rena. “All the country between here and Montana? I don’t see how you can stop us from tagging along.”
“Where Larry and Stretch go,” asserted Charity, “we go.”
“You shouldn’t of treated ’em so gentle, runt,” chided Stretch. “They’ve took a shine to you—and now we’re stuck with ’em.”
“Waco ...” frowned Farnum.
“You’re the boss, amigo,” grunted the ramrod. “You have to make the decision.”
“I’m over a barrel,” complained Farnum.
“That’s for sure,” nodded Waco. “That’s for dang sure.”
“If they stay quiet while we’re moving,” muttered Farnum, “and keep their wagons up front with Turkey …”
“We might still make it,” mused Waco. “I don’t take kindly to the idea, Buck, but it seems like you got no choice.”
“Larry,” said Farnum, “do you have that much nerve—that much courage? You’d still have to handle your share of the regular chores—but you’d be responsible for the women as well. And that seems a lot to ask of a man.”
“I’ll be glad to help you, Larry,” offered Curly.
“Button your lip,” mumbled Turkey.
“Cheer up, boys,” smiled Rena. “We’ll try hard not to slow you down.”
“We got to convince these soreheads somehow,” decided Charity. “Got to make ’em understand that us ladies ain’t useless.”
“How about supper?” suggested Abigail.
“Good idea,” approved Rena. She gestured to Turkey. “Move aside, Pop. We’ll start a fire and fix supper.”
“From here to trail’s end,” Tess cheerfully informed the men, “you gents are gonna eat nothin’ but woman-cooked chow.”
“Don’t mean to brag,” drawled Charity, “but us gals know more about cookin’ than any man’ll ever learn. Mary Ann—Fern—Tess—break out the vittles and let’s get to work.”
“We’re gonna be short on water ...!” began Turkey.
“No we ain’t,” grinned Charity. “We’re totin’ two extra barrels.”
Fearful that Curly might propose to one or all of the girls at any moment, Farnum ordered him out to tend the herd, and sent Waco along to bodyguard him. As the ramrod slid a boot into a stirrup, Rena began introducing her friends, and Larry reciprocated.
“That’s Waco,” he nodded, “mountin’ up right now with Curly. The boss is Buck Farnum and the cook is Turkey Legg.”
One by one, Rena named the girls. Then, with great reluctance, Curly rode away, tagged close by the vigilant Waco. Chattering gaily, the girls hustled back and forth between the wagons and the fire and, within a very short time, appetizing aromas wafted to the nostrils of the men squatting by the chuck wagon. Stretch sniffed appreciatively. Farnum grudgingly conceded:
“Woman-cooking on a trail-drive mightn’t be so bad.”
“I wanta be sure I savvy this set-up,” growled Turkey. “Them females are gonna handle all the cookin’ from here on?”
“Treat ’em friendly,” grinned Larry, “and they’ll sew buttons and patches on your duds for you. What’s more, if you got laid up with a sickness, they’d likely want to nurse you.”
“Well ...” frowned Turkey.
“With Turkey relieved of his cooking chores,” reflected Farnum, “he can take a hand with the droving.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted the chuck-boss. “Be glad to do my share.”
“Those girls,” Farnum went on, “know how to handle a wagon and team, it seems like. One of them could drive the chuck wagon. Yeah. Well now—maybe they won’t slow us down.”
~*~
On the afternoon of Jay Crisp’s return to Happy Rock, the big mining camp appeared livelier than ever. More gold-seekers had arrived during Crisp’s absence. More frame buildings had been erected, more tents raised. North and west of the sprawling settlement, amid the Lodge Hills and the lower reaches of Bridger Creek, the prospectors had staked their claims. Some panned, some dug, some chipped and some blasted for the precious yellow. The broad division between the shacks in the heart of the camp—Happy Rock’s poor excuse for a main street—was abustle with miners bound for the houses of entertainment, the largest of which was Cole Banning’s Jubilee Hotel.
This three-storeyed architectural monstrosity was Happy Rock’s nerve center and the heart of all the Banning enterprises. Banning had personally supervised its erection; it had been opened for business within three months of Banning’s arrival at the scene of the gold-strike. The Jubilee was many things. Its ground floor accommodated a combination of saloon, dance-hall and gambling house. On the second floor, Banning had established his own private quarters, including the office from which he directed his many nefarious projects.
In consolidating his position as Happy Rock’s wealthiest and most influential identity, Banning had spared no effort. Moreover, he had surrounded himself with a small army of enforcers, men of no conscience, professionals who lived by the gun. Very early in the boom period, the local law—in the person of Sheriff Vernon Usher—had rallied to Banning’s support. Usher could be bought. All it took was money, and Banning had devised a dozen ways of acquiring that popular commodity.
Crisp strutted complacently into the crowded barroom, steered a course for the bar and enquired of a beer-puller,
“The boss upstairs?”
“With the sheriff,” nodded the barkeep.
The inscription on the last door along the first floor corridor read: “C. J. BANNING—PRIVATE.” Crisp knocked and, in answer to the drawled challenge from beyond, named himself. The door was opened by Happy Rock’s venal peace officer. Vern Usher was a big man, bushy-browed and untidy, with cloudy brown eyes and a hefty frame running to flesh in middle-age. He greeted Crisp with a preoccupied nod, swung the door wider to permit him entry.
The all-powerful Cole Banning lounged in an overstuffed chair behind the mahogany-topped desk and eyed Crisp expectantly. He was a lean, well-groomed forty-year-old with dark, pomaded hair, thin moustache and piercing gray eyes set in a sharp-featured countenance.
One way or another, the entire population of the gold-fields answered to Cole Banning, acceded to his demands, obeyed his orders and feared his displeasure. His authority was far-reaching. As well as owning the Jubilee, every local saloon, several stores and all the houses of ill-repute, he controlled the Miners’ Trust Association, an organization supposedly formed to protect the miners’ interests. Its operation was simple enough. Miners contributed a generous percentage of their gold to the trust. In exchange, Banning guaranteed protection against the thieves and cut-throats infesting the goldfields—his own henchmen. The few prospectors who refused to contribute had lived to regret their decision. Some had ceased to live—abruptly.
Day by day, Banning had become richer. Rich enough to engineer a project very dear to his heart. Some months ago, Vern Usher had acted as his spokesman and had circulated a proposition to all interested parties. A bonus of two hundred dollars would be paid to any man offering reliable information as to the present whereabouts of two famous nomads—Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson—the Lone Star Hellions.
And now Crisp had come to collect.
“Evening, Mr. Banning,” he grinned. “If you’re ready to pay what you offered, I’ll take it in small bills.”
Banning’s eyes gleamed.
“That sounds promising,” he drawled. “I’d say Jay sounds mighty sure of himself—wouldn’t you, Vern?”
“Mighty sure,” grunted Usher.
“And he looks thirsty,” said Banning.
Usher took the hint, rose up and sauntered to a table by the wall. On it reposed portion of Banning’s private stock, fine imported brandy and whisky, bourbon and rye, nothing but the best. The lawman filled three tumblers, placed one on the desk, passed the second to Crisp and took a pull at the third. Crisp gulped gratefully. Banning nodded and said:
“Yeah. Mighty sure of himself. Mighty confident.”
“You wanted information,” said Crisp. “Well, I got it. Everything you wanted to know—and more.”
“More?” prodded Banning.
“I can tell you,” said Crisp, “just where those Texans are headed. I can even tell you the route they’re travelling.”
“They’re on the move?” demanded Banning.
“Headed in this direction—kind of,” nodded Crisp. “I spotted them in a place called Ruddsboro, Mr. Banning. They’ve signed on with a rancher name of Farnum, and now they’re pushing a couple thousand head of longhorns north to Fane City. Seems they had a drought in that territory ...”He talked on at some length, recounting in detail the conversation between the Texans and the Box 7 veterans.
“Only a half-dozen of them,” mused Banning, “riding herd on two thousand head.”
“They’ll follow the river,” offered Crisp.
“Which side?” asked Banning.
“West bank,” said Crisp. “All the way to the railhead.”
“You’ve done well, Jay.” Banning produced a cashbox from a drawer of the desk, dug out a thick wad of banknotes and briskly counted out the two hundred. As he made payment, he muttered a warning. “Forget what you’ve told me, Jay. What others don’t know can’t hurt them—or you.”
“I’ve forgotten it already,” grinned Crisp, as he pocketed the money and headed for the door.
Usher opened the door for the informer, while Banning returned the cashbox to its drawer. Then, after closing the door, the lawman flopped into a chair.
“All right, amigo. You know where to find Valentine and Emerson—but why is this so all-fired important to you? I’ve heard of those crazy trouble-shooters. They’re nothin’ but a blame nuisance to the likes of you and me. If it was up to me, I’d say leave well alone.”
“It’s not up to you,” growled Banning.
“Just what did those Texans ever do to you?” demanded Usher.
“To me—nothing,” said Banning. “I’ve never even seen them.”
“Yet you hate their innards,” accused Usher. “You crave to see them dead.”
“I don’t care a damn about seeing them dead,” countered Banning, “just so long as I know they are dead. They have to die, Vern. That’s the price they have to pay. Their lives—for the life of my brother.”
Usher nodded thoughtfully.
“Would that be Rocky Banning? It never struck me before, but you kind of favor him. I recall seein’ his face on bulletins, a few years back.”
“Three and a half years ago—exactly,” muttered Banning. “Rocky ran a rough outfit in those days. Not as big as what I’ve built, Vern, here in Happy Rock. But tough. Mighty salty. No lawman ever got close enough to faze them. Rocky was smart.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Rocky was the best!”
“You weren’t ridin’ with him?” prodded Usher.
“I was finishing a five-year stretch in the Utah pen,” frowned Banning. “Rocky was working Nevada Territory. The stage lines—banks—the railroad—everybody jumped when they heard his name. If he’d stayed alive, he’d have made the James boys look like raw amateurs.” He gritted his teeth. “Valentine and Emerson changed all that—helped wipe out Rocky’s whole outfit. But for Valentine, Rocky might have gotten away alive.”
“Ever since,” guessed Usher, “you’ve waited for a chance to even the score.”
“I don’t have to wait any more,” declared Banning. “I’m ready now. I have everything it takes to whip those Texans. Money—men—guns.” He finished his drink, propped his elbows on the desk-top. “Do something for me, Vern. Go find Neemoy and send him to me.”
Usher got to his feet.
“You aim to send Neemoy after the trouble-shooters?”
“Neemoy ...” Banning smiled thinly, “and nine men of his choosing. Ten top guns in all, Vern. They’ll be more than enough, wouldn’t you say? Ten professionals—against two proddy Texans and four no-account trail-herders.”