Cold Deck, Hot Lead Read online

  “We’ll still have to chance it,” she told the gambler. “Lean on me, get up and then try to keep your leg still.

  At the cost of some pain, Derringer obeyed the girl. Fortunately Calamity led a life which kept her strong and healthy. For all that, sweat soaked her by the time she had supported the gambler and helped him across to the fire. Lowering Derringer to the ground, she looked anxiously at his wound. Blood was trickling from the center of the furrow, but not much and the last of the powder from Calamity’s box went on the place to stem the flow.

  Working as fast as possible, Calamity made the boiled slippery-elm shreds into a poultice. All the time Banyan continued to talk incoherently, but nothing he said made any sense that Derringer could understand. Or did it?

  “Damn it, Ed. There’s no gal at Tor Hill!” Banyan muttered. “If I thought you’d sent me——Can’t sell the damned things while they’re alive——”

  So it went on, vague words, meaningless apparently; about the War, the saloon business, the town, the trip he hoped to make to Europe. Mingled among it all he referred to various women, debating which of them he should take on the trip, if any.

  “Smart gal, Rachel, she’d know her way around,” the big man muttered. “Only she’d want to see operas and all them high-toned do-dads. Won’t Velma make ’em open their eyes. What a gal, what a build. She’d have fellers round her like flies on a honey-pot like always—and I’d wind up knocking some of ’em all ways. Don’t go for that in Europe. Joan, good old Joan. I never fed better’n when you cooked it, Joan gal. Can’t see you in Paris, France though, Joan gal. Maybe if I got Sal in skirts instead of them pants——Naw, she’d never do—”

  “Poor bastard,” Calamity breathed, darting a glance at Banyan as she brought the poultice to Derringer. “This’s going to hurt a mite, Derry. But it’ll draw out any poison.”

  A gasp of pain broke from Derringer as the heat bit into his wound. Gently Calamity wrapped a bandage around the poultice, fixing it into place. At any other time Derringer might have felt embarrassed, but the girl handled him with all the chilling impartiality of a trained nurse.

  “Whooee!” he breathed when she finished. “That stings.”

  “Likely,” she replied. “Now let’s see if we can get your pants on. I don’t know how long it’ll be afore the doctor gets here. But happen he finds you like this, it could plumb ruin my good name.”

  “Small chance of that, damnit!” Derringer snorted, knowing the girl was speaking to take his—and her—mind off their troubles. “Here’s me all undressed and r’aring to go——”

  “And that leg stops you going any place,” Calamity pointed out. “Come on, let’s get your pants on.”

  With that task done, Calamity continued working. She made coffee, then attended to the horses. A call from Derringer brought her across to the fire.

  “It’s Sultan,” he said.

  The big man’s eyes were open and he was trying to raise himself up, weakly gesturing to his feet.

  “M-My boots——!” he croaked.

  “I’ll take ’em off,” Calamity promised, knowing that many men dreaded the thought of dying with their boots on.

  “Gi-Give ’em—Doc Fir——He—knows what to do—with—’em.”

  Feeling puzzled Calamity tried to ease off the boots without hurting their wearer. Blood ran down Banyan’s chin, trickling out of his mouth. Setting the foot down, she sprang to kneel at his side. From all signs she knew the end must be near. Rising, she scanned the range toward the distant town but saw no sign of human movement. A shudder ran through the big frame, then Banyan lay still. Calamity sat at his side, knowing that only the arrival of the doctor—and a miracle after that—could save Banyan.

  “You’ve done everything you can, Calam,” Derringer said gently, laying a hand on her sleeve.

  “C-Calam!” Banyan spoke weakly. “I-I’m near done, aren’t I?”

  “N-No,” lied the girl. “You’ll be up chasi——”

  “Angels maybe,” he interrupted. “Li-Listen, gal. I’m getting weak and mightn’t finish or be able to repeat it——”

  “Yes?”

  “The Russians’ jewellery’s hid in my well.”

  Chapter 8

  AFTER MAKING HIS REMARKABLE STATEMENT ABOUT the jewellery, Banyan sank back into unconsciousness. Although he rambled on about various things, he made no further reference to the matter. Calamity remained at the big man’s side, waiting to do anything that might ease him. Then, as Turk came into sight accompanied by two more men, Banyan shuddered. Blood gushed from the man’s mouth, his powerful frame quivered and went limp.

  “No!” Calamity gasped, yet she knew the end had come and skilled medical assistance had arrived too late. “Oh Lord, no!”

  “Easy, gal!” Derringer said, laying a gentle hand on her arm. “You did all you could.”

  “He’s still dead,” the girl groaned. “And with them so close.”

  “Listen, Calam!” Derringer said urgently. “There’s not much time. The sheriff’s going to ask questions. Tell him everything, except about the jewellery.”

  “Why not that?”

  “We know somebody aimed to have him killed and, seeing’s how he saved my life, I want to get whoever it is.”

  “And me!” Calamity stated grimly.

  “It could be over those jewels,” Derringer said. “Way I heard it, they’re worth plenty. So we say nothing and wait. Maybe somebody’ll start asking questions about them. And if somebody does, we’ve got us a suspect, gal.”

  “What’ll we do then?”

  “We’ll likely think of something. There’s another thing to think on. We’ve no way to know who we can trust. Whoever tried to have Sultan killed, if he did it for the jewels, won’t take kind to us knowing about ’em. We might easy be next.”

  “So let’s tell and see what happens!” Calamity hissed, watching the men approaching on tired, hard-pushed horses.

  “Sure we will, hot-head,” the gambler agreed. “Only not until after we know the lie of the land. And don’t forget that Sultan might’ve been wandering in his mind——”

  “He didn’t look it,” Calamity protested.

  “But he could still have been. Let folks get word about it and every money-hungry son-of-a-bitch in the Territory’ll be moving in looking for it.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Cap’n Fog,” the girl smiled, seeing the wisdom of the other’s words.

  “I should be half as smart,” Derringer answered seriously. “Now don’t you forget. Tell everything straight, except for what Sultan said about the jewels.”

  If anyone had been asked to guess the identities of the men who rode with Turk, a mistake would be excusable. Dressed in jeans, a tan shirt and Stetson hat, a Freeman Army revolver hanging holstered at his side, Doctor Eben Fir was as lean as a buffalo-wolf after a hard winter, with a face tanned to the color of old saddle leather by exposure to the elements. He rode with relaxed, competent ease; hardly surprising considering that he had served many years as a surgeon in the U.S. Cavalry and made many of his house calls on the back of a horse.

  Fat as a butter-ball, Sheriff Oscar Wendley gave the impression of town-dwelling ease and presented an air of lassitude. He wore a neat town suit, but the stiff collar of the shirt looked somewhat too large and did not close tightly about the throat in the prevailing fashion. Taken against his general neatness, the collar appeared almost untidy. Yet it served a useful purpose in allowing him to turn his head from side to side unhindered. Instead of carrying his ivory-handled Army Colt in a holster, he had thrust it butt forward in the silk sash about his waist.

  Despite his appearance, the sheriff did not act in a lethargic manner on arrival. After the doctor announced Banyan’s death, Wendley prowled around the camp. He examined the bodies and weapons that lay around, and went over the ground in a way which showed he knew at least the rudiments of reading sign. Then he returned and, while Fir attended to Derringer’s wound, asked t
o be told what had happened. From questions he asked at various points in Calamity’s narrative, she realized that Wendley could read sign with some skill. Nor was he made of flabby fat. Hard, firm flesh formed that well-padded body and she bet he could move fast when the situation demanded it.

  Beginning with how she and Banyan met, the girl told the full story apart from his reference to the Russians’ jewellery. A faint scowl came to Wendley’s face as she told how they decided murder rather than robbery had been the motive of the attack. Then she continued, explaining how Nabbes’ gang had arrived and describing the way in which Banyan had acted.

  “That’d be just like Sultan,” Wendley said, nodding his head. “That one who run, was he hurt?”

  “I’d say my whip bust his wrist,” Calamity replied. “Only with Sultan and Derry both shot, I’d too much on my hands to want him around needing watching.”

  “I’ll take after him, Sheriff!” Turk snarled.

  “We’ll both go after him when we’re through here,” Wendley answered. “Mind if I talk to the gent without you on hand, Miss Calamity?”

  At any other time the suggestion that she might be lying would have aroused Calamity to anger. However, she knew that Wendley was merely performing his duty. Any capable peace officer would take the same precaution when investigating a multiple killing. So she withdrew and started to gather up her belongings ready to continue her journey. Sultan Banyan lay dead, but the rest of life must go on. In her wagon were supplies that must be delivered to the town.

  “Are you feeling all right, Calamity?” Doctor Fir inquired, coming up as she placed the blankets Derringer had used in the wagon.

  “Sure,” she replied.

  “You did well, gal. Without your help, Sultan’d’ve died sooner and in bad pain. Derringer there should thank you, too. You did a good job patching up that leg.”

  “Thanks for saying so, Doc. Hey though, Sultan told me to give you his boots. Allowed you’d know what to do with them.”

  “Hell, yes!” Fir grunted. “I’d forgotten about that. Lord! This’s a blow. I wonder what brought old Sultan out here?”

  “He didn’t say,” Calamity replied, forgetting the garbled references Banyan had made to the nester girl at Tor Hill. In the West one did not question a chance acquaintance’s motives for travelling, so her lack of knowledge could be excused.

  At the same moment Wendley was posing an identical question to Derringer. However, the answer came from Turk, not the gambler.

  “The boss heard there was a real pretty lil French gal living out by Tor Hill. So he told me he’d be headed that way to see her.”

  “That’d be Sultan’s way,” the sheriff admitted.

  “When he didn’t get back by midnight, I figured I’d best come out looking for him,” Turk went on. “Damn it. Why didn’t I start out sooner?”

  “Did Sultan expect trouble?” Derringer asked.

  “Naw!” snorted Turk. “I just watch out for him is all.”

  With that the young man turned and slouched away. After watching him go, the sheriff returned his attention to Derringer.

  “Sultan say something to you that made you think he did expect trouble?”

  “Nope,” admitted the gambler. “Only if we called it right, somebody hired those three jaspers to kill him. That spells trouble to me.”

  “Can’t think who it’d be,” Wendley said. “Sultan’d a way of getting on real well with folks. Anybody’d lost in his place could get five to ten bucks broke money for the asking. He treated everybody, help, customers, other saloon-keepers decent enough.”

  “How about his wives? He mentioned something about four of ’em. Was he joking?”

  “He’d had one wife as I know on, no more,” Wendley replied. “I’ve heard him talk about the others and allus figured it to be a joke. He sure was one for the gals, old Sultan.”

  “You’ll be staying in Banyan for a spell?” the sheriff asked, after a few more questions about the affair.

  “As long as you need me around,” Derringer promised. “I planned to stay on for a spell, anyways.”

  At that moment the doctor walked up and said, “If you’re done, Oscar, I’d like to get Derringer here to town so I can look to his leg properly.”

  “Sure, Eb,” the sheriff answered. “When you get back, tell Tyler Kitson to come out with the hearse for Sultan.”

  “He’ll need more than the hearse with three here and three back on the trail,” Fir commented. “I’d best have him bring a wagon as well.”

  “Sure. It can load these three, then follow Turk and me to the others.”

  “One thing,” Derringer said, looking at the sheriff. “Can you find out who told Sultan about the gal at Tor Hill?”

  “Why?” asked the doctor.

  “Those gun-hands were waiting on the trail for him to come back and there was no gal out at Tor Hill.”

  “How’d you know that?” Wendley demanded suspiciously.

  “He said something about it while he was rambling in his mind,” Derringer replied. “I didn’t think much on it at the time, the rest he said wasn’t making much sense.”

  “So you reckon somebody told Sultan about the gal, knowing that he’d be hide-bound sure to go take a look,” Wendley said. “Fixing to have him killed on the way back to town.”

  “That’s how it looks to me,” Derringer agreed. “Maybe Turk’d know.”

  “I’ll ask him,” the sheriff said. “Only not now. He’d not discuss Sultan’s business in front of the doc here even. He’s coming with me. I don’t want him taking off after that feller got away on his own. Reckon when we’re alone I can learn all I need from him.”

  “Oscar’s calling it right, Derringer,” Fir went on. “Turk was real loyal to Sultan. Lord. I’d hate to be the man who tried to have him killed should Turk learn his name.”

  “And me,” grunted Wendley. “Like to see you when I get back to town, Mr. Derringer.”

  “Sure enough, Sheriff,” the gambler promised, and the doctor helped him to the side of Calamity’s wagon.

  During the journey to town, Derringer tried to learn more about the situation from Fir. Although willing to discuss Banyan’s known past, the doctor proved reticent on the matters which interested Calamity and the gambler most. Not wishing to arouse Fir’s suspicions, Derringer refrained from pressing too hard for information. Calamity followed the gambler’s lead and soon Fir sank into silence. Nor, with him riding alongside the wagon, could Derringer and the girl compare views on the dead man’s last conscious statement.

  The town of Banyan proved bigger than Derringer expected, with the log-walled fort in the distance to the west. Turk Street split the town into two almost equal sections. Along its length could be found most of the business premises, saloons and other places of entertainment, a large hotel, the civic offices neatly compressed into one building. Further testifying to the town’s size and importance, Wells Fargo maintained a large depot and stage-coaches branched out from it to nearly every point of the compass. One of the gaily painted coaches rolled by the fort on its way into town even as Calamity’s wagon went by the hotel.

  “It’s as good as the Granada in Tribune,” the doctor commented, nodding to the latter establishment in passing. “My office’s along the street there, Calamity. Between the jail and that store.”

  “Want for me to take you down there?” she asked.

  “I reckon we can manage,” Fir assured her. “You’ll find Sam Werner’s store opposite the Harem.”

  “Need me to collect you when the doc’s finished, Derry?”

  “Can I walk, Doc?” Derringer inquired.

  “I’m not fixing to put in any stitches,” Fir replied. “So if you keep it clean, dry, stop out of any fist-fights or foot-races, it ought to be all right. You’ve got that cane to take the weight.”

  “Then I’ll walk back to the hotel when I’m through, Calam,” Derringer told the girl. “I’ll book a room there for you, unless you’ve other ide
as.”

  “There’ll do,” grinned Calamity, halting the wagon and dropping to the ground to help the gambler dismount.

  After closer examination and application of clean bandages, the doctor helped Derringer to don the trousers belonging to the town suit. He found that he could walk slowly, yet well enough and with little discomfort, provided he used the cane-gun for its former purpose. In a way the wound might prove advantageous as it allowed him to carry the cane without arousing suspicion. Paying for his treatment, he left the office and made his way back toward the hotel.

  Along the street, the stage-coach had arrived and disgorged its passengers. One of them, followed by a couple of the loungers who hung around the depot carrying a trunk, was approaching the hotel’s main entrance. Studying the passenger, Derringer concluded that he had never seen such a sultry, sensual woman. Despite having just completed a stage-coach journey, she had contrived to keep her piled-up blonde hair almost faultlessly in place under the tiny, impractical hat. Nor did her beautiful features show signs of the journey. The pert little nose and full, pouting lips added to the attraction of the langorous, come-to-bed eyes. Under the travelling dress of daring cut lay an almost perfect hour-glass figure, rich full bosom exposed to the limits of modesty by the decollete of the neck.

  Burdened only by a tiny parasol in her left hand and vanity bag hanging from the right, she slunk along the sidewalk with a hip-swinging, sensuous grace that drew male eyes and scowls of feminine disapproval from the other pedestrians. The two loafers carrying her trunk remained behind her and never took their eyes from the way the bustle moved under the dress.

  Taking in the girl’s appearance and mannerisms, Derringer first thought she might be a saloon worker. Then he noted the costly material of the dress and that the jewellery she wore seemed to be both genuine and expensive. No saloon worker, unless she be the boss’ favorite. A stage performer, maybe, on her way to appear at the theater? The lack of baggage seemed to rule out that possibility. Not a successful prostitute either; such a person would not be allowed to enter the Plaza Hotel. Still wondering who she might be, Derringer followed her into the hotel’s lobby.