“There’s plenty of timber on the hills,” drawled the Kid. “And it’d bring money into the county.”
“Did you ever see a hill range after all its timber’d been cut?” the sheriff asked, leading Calamity and the Kid along the sidewalk and watching the crowd disperse.
“Can’t say I have,” the Kid admitted and Calamity shook her head.
“It’s ruined,” Leckenby stated vehemently. “With all the big trees gone, there’s nothing to shelter what small stuff the loggers haven’t bust down or trampled underfoot. So it dies off. Then the rains wash away the soil, ’cause there’s nothing to hold it. That makes the rivers ’n’ streams into mudholes that fish can’t live in nor cattle drink out of. I’ve seen it happen, Kid, Calamity. That’s what she’ll bring here, unless she’s stopped.”
“Is it that bad?” Calamity asked.
“It is,” Leckenby replied. “To fill her contract, she won’t leave a tree standing the length of those hills.”
“With something like that on hand,” drawled the Kid, “why in hell does she want Calamity’s land?”
“I don’t know,” the sheriff answered. “Maybe Orde Endicott can tell you. Only we’ll get you settled in at my place afore we go to see him.”
Chapter 12 OLAF’LL BREAK HIM IN TWO
BEING MARRIED TO A PEACE OFFICER FOR SEVERAL years had accustomed Millie Leckenby to surprises. So the plump, cheerful-looking woman showed no concern at learning she would have two visitors for the night. She did not even seem put out at the sight of Calamity’s unconventional attire. There was only one spare room at the small house, but the Kid said that he would be all right in the stable. While hospitable, Mrs. Leckenby did not look as if she would condone bundling, even with the use of a virtue-saving pine-board. Telling the sheriff to help the youngsters stable their horses, she went to make up a bed for Calamity.
“Florence Eastfield’s face when you offered to fight her for the deeds,” Leckenby chuckled, as they walked inside the barn. “What’d you’ve done if she’d called your bluff?”
“I wasn’t bluffing,” Calamity replied calmly. “Shucks, I one time licked a gal’s claimed to be the female fist-fighting champeen of the world.”*
“How’d you do that?” the sheriff asked, still grinning.
“Got her fighting my way, ’stead of her’n,” Calamity explained. “And I’d got me a shy lil schoolmarm from back East helping me.”
Before the girl could go into greater detail, a gangling, excited-looking townsman appeared at the stable door.
“Day!” he said. “It’s old Skelter. He’s got this scattergun and’s headed for the Fittern place.”
“Damn it!” the sheriff snorted and looked at his guests. “Sorry, Calam, Kid. This’s an old fuss. I’ll have to ride out there and quieten things down.”
“Need any help?” asked the Kid.
“Nope,” Leckenby replied. “I’ll take ole Buck there and handle it on my own.”
Figuring that the sheriff was the best judge of the matter, the Kid did not press his offer. Courtesy had required that he make it, but he did not wish to leave Calamity unescorted in the town.
While the sheriff saddled his big buckskin, Calamity and the Kid attended to their horses. Night had fallen by the time they went up to the house and told Mrs. Leckenby of her husband’s departure. The woman heard the news with no sign of alarm. It was, she explained, not an unusual occurrence for the sheriff to have to quieten down either Skelter or Fittern. A pair of irascible old-timers, they carried on a long-standing feud. Mostly it simmered harmlessly, being continued, Mrs. Leckenby suspected, as a means of avoiding boredom. On the rare occasions when tempers rose too high, the sheriff was needed to apply a restraining influence.
“It’ll take Day about two hours to get out there and back,” Mrs. Leckenby finished. “We’ll wait supper for him, unless you’re hungry.”
“Ate right well with Corey-Mae and Cash Trinian,” Calamity told her. “What say we go see Lawyer Endicott right now, Lon?”
“Not until you’ve had a cup of coffee,” the sheriff’s wife stated. “It’s all ready for you.”
After drinking their coffee, Calamity and the Kid rose to leave. They had placed their Winchesters on the wall-rack and left them there. Mrs. Leckenby told them how to locate Endicott’s home and asked that they should bring the lawyer back with them. Agreeing to do so, Calamity requested that the woman keep her documents. Florence Eastfield and her men had left town, but there was no point in taking needless chances. Mrs. Leckenby accepted the envelope and locked it in the drawer of her husband’s desk.
Although Calamity and the Kid found the main street deserted on their return, they did not feel surprised. It was Thursday and in the middle of the month, so the town would not be over lively. Going between two buildings, they followed Mrs. Leckenby’s directions. By the livery barn, they located Endicott’s house. It did not strike them as the dwelling to be expected as a successful lawyer’s residence. The whole place was in darkness, which did not hide its tumble-down aspect.
“He ain’t to home,” called a voice from by the barn.
“Where’s he at, then?” asked the Kid, turning to face the speaker.
“Down at the Clipper,” the man answered. “Where else? Damned drunk.”
“Let’s go get him,” Calamity suggested and made a wry face. “From the look of this place and the way that feller talks, I can see why the pride of that fancy Eastern law school wound up here.”
Returning to the main street, they headed toward the Clipper Saloon. Its hitching rail was devoid of horses and trade seemed to be very bad, if the lack of noise from inside was anything to go on. Two boys stood on the seat, looking over the painted lower section of the left side’s window. Hearing Calamity and the Kid approaching, they turned.
“What’s up?” the girl asked tolerantly.
“They’re getting old Lawyer Endicott liquored up in there,” one of the boys replied. “He’s a screaming whoop when he’s that ways, until he falls asleep that is.”
Being aware that baiting a drunkard, especially if he also happened to be well-educated, was a favorite indoor sport of small-town loafers, Calamity let out an explosive snort and headed for the batwing doors. A good-hearted girl, she hated petty cruelty of that kind. Even without having need of the lawyer’s professional services she would have reacted in the same manner. Slipping her whip from its loop, she went striding into the Clipper Saloon.
Knowing his Calamity, the Kid followed on her heels. He reckoned that she might require some backing if the men concerned with the lawyer-baiting objected to her intervention. Just a moment too late, as the doors swung closed behind them, the Kid realized that they had walked into a trap.
The barman stood behind the counter, looking scared. Off to the right of the room, Olaf was seated facing a tall, thin, unshaven man wearing a threadbare, but once expensive suit, a grubby, collarless white shirt and scuffed, cracked town boots. Two grimy hands gripped at a beer schooner into which the giant was pouring the contents of a whiskey bottle. The long-handled axe lay across the table.
Even as a realization of the danger bit at the Kid, he heard a footfall from behind him and felt the hard muzzle of a revolver gouge into his back. At the same moment, a muffled curse from Calamity caused the Kid to turn his head. The smallest of the three gunslingers they had last seen with Florence Eastfield stood behind the girl. He had his arms locked tight about her elbows and torso, and knew enough to keep his face clear of her head.