“Get up!” Florence snapped at Vandor as Logger ran toward her. “She was right about one thing. We both had lousy luck in picking our male help.”
Lurching erect, Vandor rubbed his chest and moved toward where Calamity sprawled motionless on the ground.
“I’ll kill her!” the gunslinger spat out.
“My way,” Florence interrupted. “Get hold of one of those crowbars, Logger. Lift that log on the carriage high enough for Mr. Vandor to slip a length of rope under it. Then put the girl on the log, fasten her there.”
Picking up one of the big, wide-ended iron crowbars which were used for altering the positions of the logs on the carriage, Logger obeyed. Vandor paused for a moment, looking at the blonde.
“You mean you’re going to——?”
“I’m going to arrange for an ‘accident’ to happen to Miss Martha Jane Canary,” Florence answered coldly. “She has to die, or The Outfit will want to know why not.”
“Yeah,” Vandor agreed.
Already the girl knew enough to make trouble for a member of The Outfit and that organization was not noted for restricting its reprisals to the direct cause. If Martha Jane Canary lived, The Outfit were going to ask why and Vandor would be one of the people required to give an answer.
“And, in case anything goes wrong,” Florence continued. “I want to be able to show anybody who can demand an answer that it was an accident. Way her body’ll look after it’s been through the saw, I doubt if there’ll be too close an examination of how she died.”
Collecting a length of rope that hung on the wall, Vandor went to do his part in the execution. Florence took hold of Calamity’s ankles and dragged her toward the men. Leaving them to raise her, the blonde collected a small hammer and some nails from the stores area of the mill.
Opening her eyes, Calamity groaned. First she tried to move a hand to her jaw, then to sit up. Through the swirls of dizziness, she realized that she was held down on a hard, rough surface. An attempt to move her legs warned that her trousers were fastened against the sides—of a log.
Understanding of her position sank in like an icy cold knife. Turning her head from side to side, Calamity knew that her supposition had been correct. Managing to raise her shoulders, she looked down her body to where the shining serrated blade of the circular saw glinted at the other end of the carriage. Only by exerting all her willpower could she hold down a shudder as she swung her eyes back to Florence and the two men.
“Is this because I helped get your brother killed?” the girl asked Florence.
“Partly,” the blonde admitted. “Partly because you humiliated me in town. But mainly so that you meet with a fatal ‘accident.’ Naturally I’ll be horrified and distressed when I hear the news. But nobody can blame me if you get killed ‘accidentally’ while you’re snooping around my sawmill.”
“Reckon these two fellers’ll go along with you on doing it?”
“They will. Logger’s been blacklisted by every major timber company. He’ll never get another job. So he’ll do what I tell him to keep this one. And Mr. Vandor knows that he daren’t let you live. The Outfit wouldn’t like that at all. Start the saw, Logger. We’re going to fetch in the rest of the men from Burwell.”
“Sure, Miss Eastfield,” Logger answered.
“Hey, fatso!” Calamity called as Florence turned away. “You’d better hope this works, ’cause if it don’t and I get loose, I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born.”
Chapter 15 WHERE’VE THEY GOT THE GAL?
“TEND TO THE BLASTED HORSES, BUNJY!” MUTTERED the man assigned to that task by Vandor as he removed the last saddle. “Get me another ready! I’d’ve been better off working as a wrangler on a ranch.”
With that he let the third horse free in the corral. He had collected a rope from the bunkhouse and took his time in selecting then catching a mount for Vandor to use. While doing so, he looked at the sawmill and wondered what was happening inside. Still muttering, he leisurely saddled the horse and led it from the corral. About to replace the poles of the gate, a movement down the slope beyond the enclosure attracted his attention. Hand dropping to the butt of his Colt, he looked that way. With a grunt, he removed his hand. A dun gelding, riderless and without a saddle, was moving through the trees and bushes.
“Damn it!” Bunjy spat. “One of ’em must’ve got out. I’d best go get it or they’ll say I let it slip by me.”
With that, he fastened Vandor’s mount to the corral, closed the gate and picked up his rope. Walking toward the horse, he tried to think who owned it and how it had escaped. It must belong to the sawmill, no other horses strayed that far into the wooded slopes.
Drawing closer, Bunjy noticed that the dun appeared to have been hard-ridden and was lathered heavily. Not a particularly bright man, he failed to detect any special significance from the animal’s condition. It stood grazing beyond a thick, heavily foliaged dogwood bush. Advancing slowly and cautiously, so that he could get within rope-throwing distance, he had eyes for nothing but the horse.
Suddenly a hand and black-sleeved arm extended from beneath the bush and closed about Bunjy’s forward ankle as it touched the ground, giving a sharp tug at it. Tumbling forward, the man opened his mouth to yell. His arrival on the ground drove the breath from his lungs. To his ears came a rustling of the foliage, then a knee rammed into his spine and pinned him down. He felt his revolver jerked from the holster and tried to struggle. Apparently his unseen assailant had tossed the gun aside, for the same right hand which had removed it shoved off his hat and dug into his hair. Letting out a grunt, Bunjy prepared to cut loose with a louder sound as his head was dragged back and up. Before the shout could be uttered, he saw something which caused him to hurriedly revise his opinion. Passing slowly through his range of vision, the enormous, razor-sharp blade of a bowie knife sank and its cutting edge touched lightly against his tight-stretched throat.
“Make one sound and it’ll be your last!” growled a savage voice. “When I move my knee, roll over slow ’n’ easy.”
Feeling the knee and knife move, Bunjy obeyed. He knew that his assailant had not gone far, a view that was confirmed as he turned on to his back. A tall, bare-headed, black-dressed man dropped into a kneeling position astride Bunjy and the bowie knife’s point prodded under his chin. Held flat on the ground by the figure’s weight and threat of the knife, Bunjy stared up at an Indian-dark, savage face. Hearing footsteps approaching, Bunjy turned his head slowly. Any hopes of a rescue that he felt died as he saw Cash Trinian and a cowhand coming up the slope in his direction.
“Wha—How——?” Bunjy croaked.
“From where I’m sitting,” drawled the Ysabel Kid, “I’d say it was for me to be asking the questions.”
“And, mister,” Staff went on, holding the Kid’s rifle almost reverently, “was I you, I’d right quick ’n’ truthful come up with the answers. We’ve been riding too hard ’n’ fast to want lies.”
Clearly the young cowhand spoke from the bottom of his heart. In fact, Staff would never forget what he had just been through. Although able to ride almost from the time he could walk, the young cowhand had been hard pressed to keep up with his boss during the journey from Hollick City. Trinian, no mean hand on a horse, had at times been on the point of suggesting to the Kid that they make a slower pace.
On being told the news of Calamity’s capture, the Kid, Trinian and Staff had reduced their horses’ burdens to a minimum. Carrying only a reserve of ammunition, they had set out for the sawmill. Born and raised in Hollick County, Trinian had led his companions by a shorter, more direct route than that taken by Vandor’s party. The way they had come did not offer easy traveling and they had crossed areas that would have been impossible to any but the finest horsemen. Avoiding the river trail, they had missed the men sent to cover it by Vandor.