The Fortune Hunters Read online

  ‘I’m headed to the same place—’

  ‘To go hunting with Bill?’ Calamity gasped.

  ‘Nope. I’m looking for a feller called Claude Thackery.’

  For a long moment Calamity did not speak, but her eyes studied the big Texan’s face. One way and another Calamity Jane knew Mark Counter pretty well. They had been good friends for several years and had sided each other in a couple of tight corners. Calamity reckoned she knew when Mark was funning her, and he did not appear to be doing so at the moment.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to see him!’ she finally said. ‘You’ve never become one of them, have you?’

  ‘One of what, gal?’ grinned Mark.

  ‘One of them stinking socialists, or whatever they call themselves! That bunch who come out of them fancy eastern colleges and start dripping brotherly love over us uncouth, horny-handed workers, hating our guts all the time but willing to use us happen it’ll get them what they want.’

  ‘What do they want, gal?’

  ‘Everything anybody’s worked hard to get and that’s showing a profit. You surely haven’t joined them.’

  Mark grinned. His father owned the biggest ranch in the Texas Big Bend country; one built by hard work and because Big Ranse Counter was smarter and more able than the other men around. Where they had been content to let Big Ranse take the responsibility and risks of ownership, they played safe and accepted wages. The way Mark looked at it, his old man had worked damned hard for what he got and had the right to hang on to it, not hand it over to folks who had been willing to sit back and take his pay while he built his spread up.

  ‘Nope. I’m going to collect him for his old man, ‘lease to get a share of his old man’s will.’

  ‘Had you asked me,’ sniffed Calamity, ‘I’d’ve said Thackery’s maw and paw only met the one time.’

  ‘And I’d say you’re a vulgar, uncouth young lady for thinking such thoughts, Calam,’ Mark grinned.

  One of the reasons he liked Calamity was her complete disregard for the conventions which bound the womenfolk of their day. Calamity lived the way she liked, said what she pleased, and stood full willing to back her words if called on them. She certainly showed no offence or anger at his comment, merely throwing back her head and laughing merrily.

  ‘Aren’t I though?’ she said. ‘And I’m a good cook with it.’

  ‘Why sure you are, Calam. And the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach they do say.’

  ‘I’ve got me a skillet in the caboose,’ Calamity remarked, then became serious again. ‘Are you for real coming up here after Thackery?’

  ‘Why else?’

  ‘Him and his kind’s been riling up the railroad bosses with their trouble-causing and rabble-rousing. They’ve been causing unrest among the track-laying gangs with all their talk about all men being equal and having the right to share their hands on everything other folks have had brains enough to build.’

  ‘You reckon I’ve taken to selling my guns now, Calamity?’

  ‘No I don’t. Only the railroad bosses can play rough when they have to. The last Socialist who came up here flapping his lip left faster’n he come.’

  ‘Alive?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Sure. You don’t have to lean heavy on scum like that. Speak a mite rough to them and they run screaming for the law to protect them. Funny thing about that is they can’t say a good word for the law any other time.’

  ‘And you figure they’re thinking of leaning on Thackery a mite?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Calamity. ‘When I came down to Newton on the train Thackery was expected, but hadn’t arrived. All I know is that the railroad bosses aren’t fixing in to have him or his sort talk the construction gangs into any more delays, and they know a helluva lot of ways to make a man mighty unhappy if they don’t like him.’ She paused and looked out of the window, watching the rolling plains fall behind them. ‘Say, how’s Cap’n Dusty, the Kid and all the folks?’

  And so the subject of Thackery became shelved to let them talk about mutual friends and discover what each had been doing since their last meeting. While they talked, and wondered how they might put this chance meeting to its fullest advantage, the train carried them west towards the forward construction base camp which had been erected to supply the needs of the ever-advancing steel rails.

  Night was falling as the train halted at the depot, if a single canvas walled shack could be glorified by such a grand title. Calamity and Mark were among the first to leave the train and they stood side by side, looking around them.

  A fair sized town stretched before them. It had homes, stores, saloons, a dance hail and a couple of gambling palaces; all of them made of canvas. The railroad had now stretched too far west to make the building of a more permanent town worthwhile at this point. They were well beyond the range where Texas trail drives would come to ship their cattle. So the people erected canvas structures which could be taken down and transported to the next base camp when the present camp fell so far behind the construction that it was useless for its purpose.

  ‘I’ll just go ask the—’ Calamity began, then chopped off her words as she glanced along the train. ‘Ho, ho! I thought they might be along.’

  ‘Who?’ Mark answered.

  ‘Why those three jaspers getting down from the coach ahead? Turning, Mark looked to where a couple of big, burly toughs followed a much smaller man from the far end of the next coach. They all wore derby hats and town suits, but the bigger pair had gunbelts under their coats and tied down holsters. Even though the light was none too good, Mark could tell the two big men had surly mean faces and the shorter carried himself with the swaggering, cocky assurance of a small hombre with plenty of authority and power behind him.

  ‘Who are they, Calam?’ he asked.

  ‘That lil feller’s all I know for sure. His name’s Sam Strogoff and he’s one of Pinkerton’s top men. Other two work for him. I’ve seen them around when there’s been trouble on the railroad afore. And brother, when they left, there’s mostly been heads broken among the trouble-causers.’

  That figured happen a man believed all he heard about the activities of the Pinkerton Agency when handling labour disputes for their employers. Mark, as became a stout Confederate sympathiser, had little respect for Pinkertons, but he kept an open mind as to whether they were as black as a lot of folks painted them.

  ‘Reckon they’re here after Thackery?’ he inquired.

  ‘Could be,’ Calamity admitted.

  ‘Who-all’s the head man up here?’ Mark went on. ‘When we ran the law in Mulirooney last year it was Phil Chaseman.’

  ‘Still is. You’ll know him then?’

  ‘Well enough, Calam. Where do I find him?’

  ‘I’ll take you to him,’ Calamity promised. ‘Just let me go tell the train conductor to keep my gear until I collect it.’

  ‘I’m working this trip, Calam,’ Mark warned grimly. ‘I don’t want to wind up in any saloon brawl. You hear me, gal?’

  ‘I hear you good,’ she replied. ‘And Bill’s told me there’s no job for me happen I make trouble. I like a fight, but I like money good, too.’

  Mark eyed Calamity suspiciously. Like the Ysabel Kid, Calamity was never to be trusted when she sounded as innocent as a church-pew full of choirboys. Dropping a big right hand on her shoulder, his left held his bedroll, Mark gave the girl’s flesh a squeeze which made her wince in pain.

  ‘Just mind you do, Calam girl,’ he warned. ‘Because if you don’t I’ll take down your pants and paddle your bare hide.’

  Rubbing her numb shoulder, Calam looked at Mark in a challenging manner.

  ‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ she asked. ‘And don’t tell me here, wait until later.’

  After seeing the conductor of the train and arranging for the safe keeping of her belongings, Calamity joined Mark. They walked along the railroad track and under a romantic starlit sky, yet they did not speak of romance.

 
; ‘I’ve found where Thackery’s going to speak tonight,’ she said. ‘Asked the depot agent.’

  ‘Where?’ Mark inquired. ‘Did I hurt your shoulder?’

  ‘Naw. I always start every day by letting a hoss walk on it. He’ll be at O’Sullivan’s Load.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘The big place over to the back of town,’ Calamity explained. ‘Swell place, considering the walls are made of canvas. Right strange name it’s got, though.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mark agreed. ‘Real strange. All right, you’ve got me interested. Why’d they call it O’Sullivan’s Load?’

  Calamity explained and Mark began to grin. An idea formed in his head, just tentatively, of how he could get Thackery alone for long enough to tell him about his father’s death, which probably would not interest him; and the fact that he inherited a share of the money which almost certainly would.

  ‘Only one thing though,’ Calamity drawled, cutting in on Mark’s thoughts. ‘The depot agent don’t reckon Thackery’s going to be in very good shape if he goes through with this speechifying tonight. That’s what Strogoff and his boys have come up here to tend to.’

  ‘Is, huh?’ Mark answered.

  ‘Why sure. There’s Chaseman’s private car, up ahead.’

  On establishing this spot as a base camp, the railroad officials had caused several sidings to be built from the main tracks. Here in safety, stood the mobile offices, the big cars which would move on when another camp be fixed farther west. As befitted the senior official present, Chaseman’s car stood in its own siding. Only the nearest end of the long car had light at the windows and Mark saw the big, bulky silhouette of Chaseman pass one of the windows, he appeared to be pacing up and down restlessly. From what Mark could remember, that meant Chaseman had a difficult decision to make. Mark could even hazard a guess at what the decision had to do with.

  Seeing the two big Pinkerton men lounging by the lit end of the wagon, Mark knew, or felt reasonably certain, his guess was correct.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Calamity announced unnecessarily. ‘Want me along?’

  ‘Thought you’d work to do?’

  ‘Naw. Not until late tomorrow. Say those two Pinkertons are waiting.’

  ‘Why sure. Stay on here, Calam. I’ll go talk to them.’

  One thing Calamity had learned early was not to argue with Mark when his voice took on that quiet, but grim note. She knew Mark expected trouble in getting to see Chaseman and the only menace she could see was the two burly Pinkerton men who lounged by the lit end of the car. While figuring Mark could take care of the two men, Calamity uncoiled her whip and flipped its long lash behind her. A girl lost nothing by being ready for any emergency.

  Warbag in hand, Mark walked towards the railroad car, Calamity trailing on his heels, but a few feet behind him. The car’s lit window had been raised a little and he could hear Chaseman’s voice.

  ‘I don’t like it, Strogoff.’

  ‘Your head office does,’ came a reply.

  ‘They aren’t out here. All you’ll do is ma—’

  ‘Where do you reckon you’re going, cow-nurse?’ asked the bigger of the two men, thrusting himself from the side of the car to block Mark’s path.

  ‘To see Phil Chaseman.’

  ‘He’s busy,’ the second man stated, ranging himself alongside his pard. ‘At least that’s what he told us, ain’t it, Sid?’

  ‘That’s what he told us all right, Meyer,’ the bigger man agreed. ‘Go ‘way and come back in morning, please honourable cownurse.’

  ‘I’ll see him right now,’ Mark drawled and Calamity tensed, for she knew the note which crept into the big Texan’s voice.

  ‘You will, huh?’ Meyer grunted, moving forward. ‘We’ll see about th—’

  His words ended abruptly as Mark’s heavy bedroll rose into the air and drove out to crash into his chest, staggering him backwards.

  Sid had been taken just as much by surprise as had Meyer. Seeing his partner stagger backwards, Sid prepared to take action against the big Texan. However, the taking of action needed quick thought. Guns were out, that was for sure. Sid knew his limitations and could guess that any attempt at gunplay would see him wind up second best. Nor had he failed to notice the casual manner in which Mark raised the bedroll and tossed it into Meyer’s face. A man that strong needed real strong measures taken against him.

  With that thought in mind, Sid dipped his right hand into his jacket pocket instead of at his gun butt. In the pocket, his fingers found the holes of a set of brass knuckledusters. Sid made the move with the easy skill of long practice and without any fumbling. His hand entered his pocket empty and came out bearing a deadly brass armoury sheathing his knuckles ready to rip the big Texan’s face out of shape.

  Only he reckoned without Mark’s ingrained objections to having the shape of his face altered.

  Catching a faint glinting of light on the hand which emerged from Sid’s pocket, and knowing the man was not wearing rings which might have caused it, Mark guessed what Sid planned to do. Mark also took exception to the plan. Stepping forward fast, Mark drove out his left fist, throwing a punch with all his weight behind it into Sid’s belly. Sid had never been kicked in the belly by a mule, but after the blow he was in a position to describe how it would feel to take a mule’s kick. All his breath went in a croaking, agonised gasp as he doubled over.

  Up lashed Mark’s right hand, driving under Sid’s unprotected jaw with a crack like two lumps of rock colliding together. Sid abruptly changed direction. Instead of going downwards, his head and shoulders shot erect and his body, already moving backwards, flew to the rear and smashed into the side of the car. Like twin heat-buckled candles, Sid’s legs buckled under him. His eyes glazed over and he tumbled forward on to his face.

  Having dealt with Sid, Mark swung around to handle the menace that Meyer ought by this time to be offering him. He found his fears groundless and his attentions not needed, for Meyer had troubles of his own.

  On landing hard upon his rump, Meyer began to spit out curses and saw Sid’s hand dip into the pocket. Knowing what Sid’s pocket carried, Meyer did not think he would be needed; except to help put a boot into the unconscious Texan’s body. Then he saw that the Texan was not the one rendered unconscious and so jerked the Adam’s revolver from its holster. Haying seen the efficient way in which the Texan handled Sid, Meyer did not aim to take any chances.

  Calamity had stayed in the shadows, watching what happened. She did not doubt that Mark could handle both men and saw no reason to spoil his fun. Watching Mark fight was both enjoyable and instructive. Calamity had learned more than one trick from Mark’s repertoire that came in useful to her at some later date.

  Then she saw Meyer start to draw his gun and knew Mark would not have finished with Sid in time to take the appropriate counter measures. Swinging up her arm, Calamity raised the whip’s lash and sent it coiling out. Nor did she use the whip gently, for Calamity had no love of Pinkerton men. Out curled the lash, wrapping around Meyer’s wrist even as he raised the gun, jerking savagely at it.

  Meyer yelled in agony, feeling as if his wrist had been broken in the crushing grip of the whip’s lash. Grabbing with his left hand, Meyer caught the lash and hauled on it with all his strength. He not only felt the grip on his injured wrist relax, but hauled the whip-wielder bodily towards him. Having seen how comparatively small and slight Calamity looked, Meyer prepared to drive his left fist into flesh when the girl came into range.

  In all fairness to Meyer it must be stated he did not at that point know Calamity was a girl. To be truthful, the knowledge would not have changed his plan in the slightest. When he was hurt, Meyer’s instincts always led him to hurt back and he did not care who received the injury.

  So, although his Adams had fallen from a numb and useless hand, Meyer still determined to fight back. By heaving on the whip’s lash he hoped to bring the figure at the other end into range where he could strike at it.

 
He got his wish—although not quite in the manner he hoped for.

  Feeling herself hauled forward, Calamity prepared to use an old whip-fighter’s trick she had learned from a freighter. Although Meyer thought his pull alone propelled the girl towards him, Calamity was running forward and measuring the distance with her eye. Just as Meyer prepared to send his fist smashing up between Calamity’s legs, she made her move. Up lashed her foot, the riding boot’s toe catching Meyer under the chin. Calamity had a shapely pair of legs, as Mark well knew, but they were also legs packed with powerful muscles and she knew how to get the best out of them.

  Calamity timed her kick just right, it lifted the man’s rump a foot from the ground, snapped his head over almost hard enough to break his neck, and sent him flat on to his back. He landed sprawled out, arms thrown wide and without making any movement.

  ‘Thanks, Calam honey,’ Mark grinned.

  ‘Behind you!’ she yelled, her right hand twisting palm out and bringing up the Navy Colt, the whip falling to her feet.

  Turning fast, Mark’s right hand brought its Colt from leather, clicked back the hammer under an educated thumb and lined it up to where Strogoff and Chaseman stood on the platform of the car.

  The fact that two guns now covered him changed Strogoff’s intention of drawing his Colt Cloverleaf House Pistol from under his jacket. Having heard the noise outside the car, Strogoff and Chaseman came hurriedly to investigate. Seeing his two men flattened in such a manner brought a desire for revenge to Strogoff’s heart, but not such a strong one that he would risk his own hide to take it.

  ‘Just stand like that, hombre,’ Mark told Strogoff,’ then glanced at Chaseman. ‘You’re a hard man to get to see, Phil.’

  ‘It’s Mark Counter, isn’t it?’ Chaseman replied.

  The head of the construction camp looked much the same as when Mark last saw him, a big, burly man, hard as nails under the frilly fronted white shirt and city style pants he wore around his office. His face held a warm, welcoming smile which clashed with the scowl Strogoff directed at the big Texan after looking at the two unconscious toughs.