“What the hell fool game’re you playing at?” Calamity demanded, looking at Vandor and seeing he carried her gunbelt across his saddle.
“Miss Eastfield wants you,” Vandor answered and looked her over from head to toe. “You sure don’t have any papers on you.”
“Could allus make good ’n’ certain,” Poole suggested.
“We’ll push on!” Vandor ordered. “Flo’s got something in mind for her. Say, gal, we heard that Texas gun-slick of your’n rid out of town. Where’d he go?”
No matter how they had managed to enter the barn, or even if somebody in town had been helping them, the men did not have a reliable source of information. So it would do no harm if they thought that the Kid was no longer a factor in the game.
“Back south, the stinking-son-of-a-bitch!” Calamity spat out. “Took my money and’s soon’s the going got rough, he run out on me.”
“You should’ve tried paying him a bonus,” Poole said maliciously. “Same sort the boss gives Van he——”
The words ended as Vandor jumped his horse forward to face the other man. Anger twisted the handsome face and Vandor’s right hand raised above the Smith & Wesson’s butt.
“What did you say, Poole?”
“Hey! Easy there, Van! I was only fooling.”
“Then don’t!” Vandor warned, turning his horse and setting it moving. When Poole, leading Calamity, came alongside, he went on, “You watch your mouth, Poole. Else you’re likely to get some more of what Flo gave you for missing the sheriff.”
“I didn’t miss him!” Poole protested. “That feller back in Hollick telled us Leckenby was bad hit. His hoss carried him clear——”
“You was supposed to kill him,” Vandor pointed out. “He came back to town alive and Olaf got killed.”
“That was you ’n’ Torp’s doing, not mine!” Poole protested. “Anyways, why’re you so all-fired worried about that crazy bastard? He was better off dead.”
“I know it. You know it,” Vandor said dryly. “But don’t you ever let Flo hear you say it. Olaf was her brother and the best logger around until he had a tree drop the wrong way.”
“That’s how he got the scar and like he was, huh?” Calamity put in. “Poor son-of-a-bitch.”
“That’s how,” Vandor agreed, looking at the girl. “I don’t know what Flo’s got in mind for you. But, was I you, I’d be scared.”
“Could be I don’t scare easy,” Calamity answered, hoping that the icy cold sensation which ran along her spine would not make its effects noticeable.
“Maybe you ain’t got enough good sense to be scared,” Vandor sniffed. “But I’ll tell you one thing, gal. If you’re not dead by nightfall, it’ll be because you’re praying that you should be.”
Having delivered his cryptic prediction, Vandor urged his horse on at a faster pace. Throwing a glance to their rear, Poole forced his and Calamity’s mounts to keep up with the other animal. They were already out of sight of the town, riding through wooded country along the valley through which the Middle Loup River flowed. Hills rose on either side at that point and the valley wound through them.
After three hours continuous hard riding, they approached a place where the valley narrowed to a sheer-sided gorge. Coming out of the narrow stretch, the Loup widened to form a ford. Calamity noticed that the shallows had been much used over the past couple of months or so, both shores being churned into soft mud by continual coming and going of men and heavy wagons. A narrow path ran up the side of the gorge toward which the party was riding, but they did not follow it. Turning the horses, they rode up the scar ripped across the more gentle slope of the valley by the same means that had created the muddy banks.
Reaching the top of the incline, Calamity found herself in a fair-sized clearing on nearly level ground. The sawmill’s buildings fanned in a rough circle ahead of her. There were several log cabins designed to house the workers and supply their needs, or to hold stores. Most of them appeared to be empty as the girl rode nearer. That could be accounted for by the twenty or so horses in the pole corrals, most of which looked more suitable for draft-work than riding. Beyond the other buildings, backing on to a creek at the upper side of the gorge, was the sawmill itself, a large plank-built structure with chimneys for its steam-engines rising from the roof. Smoke curled lazily from one of the chimneys, and the sound of a circular saw working reached the girl’s ears.
“Looks like the boss’s fixing to take herself a ride,” Poole remarked, nodding to where a fast-looking bloodbay gelding stood saddled, its reins looped on the hitching rail of a cabin clear of the others and close to the side of the gorge.
“She’s fetching the rest of the boys in from Burwell most likely,” Vandor answered, then raised his voice. “Torp!”
Coming from what would be the cookshack, followed by three more gun-hung hard-cases, Torp eyed the girl malevolently before turning his gaze to Vandor.
“See you got her.”
“That’s what I was sent to do,” Vandor replied. “Where’s the boss?”
“Her ’n’ Logger’s up at the mill, testing the gear,” Torp answered. “Reckons they’ll be starting work real soon.”
“Could be she’s right,” Vandor grinned and dropped from his mount. “Bunjy, take my hoss and toss my saddle on another. Rest of you, get your rifles and go watch the trail.”
“Somebody coming?” asked one of the men.
“A bunch from town,” Vandor explained. “If Trinian’s with ’em, the boss’ll pay five hundred dollars to the feller who downs him.”
Removing Calamity’s gunbelt and draping it across his shoulder, Vandor went to the girl. He released first one foot, then the other, while the men disappeared into the cabin. Knowing that she could not hope to escape at that moment, Calamity swung her right leg up and forward to drop to the ground. Five men came from the cabin, carrying rifles, and moved off toward the trail. Taking hold of an arm each, Vandor and Poole hustled the girl toward the sawmill. Muttering under his breath, the man called Bunjy led off all three horses toward the corral.
Halting inside the doors of the mill, the men and Calamity watched and listened to the scream of the whirling circular saw as it ripped down the center of a sizeable tree trunk.
“Miss Eastfield!” Vandor called.
Looking over her shoulder, Florence smiled at the sight of the girl between the men. Like Calamity, she wore moccasins and had on a man’s shirt and an old black skirt. With her sleeves rolled up, she showed a powerful pair of arms. Signaling to the burly man at the controls, she walked toward the newcomers. The man pulled on a lever, halting the log carriage which held another large trunk ready to be put through the saw.
“We’ve got her, Miss Eastfield,” Poole announced.
“You wouldn’t’ve showed your face back here if you hadn’t,” Florence answered coldly. “Was she carrying any papers, Mr. Vandor?”
“No,” Vandor replied.
“It doesn’t matter,” Florence decided. “After we’ve dealt with her, we’ll go over to Burwell and bring back the rest of the men. Then we’ll visit Hollick City and have you elected sheriff.”
“Maybe you’ll have trouble getting the folks to vote for him,” Calamity remarked, praying silently to have her hands free and a clear run at the blonde.
“I don’t think so,” Florence replied. “A town’s only as tough as its leading citizens. Without Leckenby and maybe ten others, Hollick City is full of sheep. When I ride in, it will be with enough guns to make sure they know who’s running things.” Her eyes went to Vandor. “Is the Texan dead?”
“He left town last night, soon’s he found out the sheriff’d been shot,” Vandor replied. “Gal says he run out on her.”