Hoping against hope, Murat swung his horse through the gates into the compound of Troop “G,” Texas Rangers. No imposingly military structure lay before him. The compound had no parade ground, for the Rangers did no drill and wore no uniform. Just an adobe office building and cells, three wooden cabins, a long stable and barn, and a pole corral made up the company’s headquarters. Murat glanced hopefully at the corral, but found it to be empty. The company’s remuda had been taken out on to the range beyond the compound to graze and any horse in the corral would mean that one of his men was back from a chore.
Even as a youngster, one of the trio who acted as wranglers for the Rangers’ horses, dashed up to collect Murat’s mount, a tall man in cowhand clothes and with his right arm suspended in a sling left the office building. The man walked toward Murat and the captain asked:
“No sign of any of the boys, Sid?”
“Nope. I’m near on fit though.”
The injured Ranger knew a summons from the Governor meant something urgent and wondered what further trouble had been heaped on Murat’s shoulders.
“Near on’s not good enough, Sid. I can’t send you out until you can handle a rifle as well as a Colt.”
“Danged spoilsport,” growled Sid, but he knew Murat to be right. A Ranger with a bullet-busted wing sure would be at a disadvantage in handling any risky law work. “It bad?”
“Bad enough,” admitted Murat. “Let’s go in and I’ll tell you about it.”
Following Sid into the office, Murat made a decision. Unless at least one of his men had returned by sundown the following day, Murat intended to disregard the Governor’s orders and head for Caspar himself.
Chapter 3 MISS CANARY IN DISTRESS
MISS MARTHA JANE CANARY EXPECTED TO BE raped and killed before fifteen more minutes went by. Already the sweat-stinking fat cuss had finished his food and started opening the drawers of the side-piece, grinning slyly at her and waiting for her objections. The handsome jasper, if you cared for swarthy features and a drooping moustache, the others called Choya still sat eating; his black eyes studying the girl as if trying to strip her with his gaze. After finishing his meal, the short, scar-faced hombre named Gomez had left the cabin on a visit to the backhouse and the fourth member of that evil quartet, Manuel, sat wolfing down a mess of victuals like it was going out of style. When they all had finished eating and no longer required her services as cook, the ball was sure as hell going to start.
From the first moment she saw the four Mexicans riding toward the cabin, the girl expected trouble. One saw plenty of Mexicans in this part of Texas, but the quartet struck her as being wrong. While they dressed to the height of vaquero fashion, they showed a mean-faced, slit-eyed wolf caution which did not go with the behavior of such Mexican cowhands she had seen on her travels. The backward glances, the careful, alert scrutiny of the place as they rode toward it, each told the girl a story. She knew instinctively the four men riding toward her were bad. Outlaws of some sort; maybe Comancheros, those human wolves who preyed on both white and Indian, leaving a trail of carnage wherever they went. All but smashed by the Texas Rangers before the Civil War, a few small bands of Comancheros had avoided capture, or sprung into being during Davis’ incompetent administration. It seemed in keeping with the girl’s general lousy luck of the past few days that she should run across one such bunch under the present conditions.
Way she looked at it, only one good thing could be said of the situation. Those four snake-eyed greasers did not know her true identity. They must take her for the wife or, as she wore no rings, daughter of the house; easy meat for their evil purposes once she had filled their bellies. Most likely they would not have been so relaxed, or taken such chances, had they known her to be Calamity Jane.
Not that Calamity looked quite her usual self. She had seen to that on taking stock of her position in respect of the approaching riders. Her hat, a faded old U.S. cavalry kepi, hung behind the door instead of perching at its usual jaunty angle on her mop of curly red hair. Nothing about her tanned, slightly freckled, pretty face gave a hint of her true identity; the eyes were merry most time, the lips looked made for laughing and kissing, but could turn loose a blistering flow of team-driver’s invective at times. The man’s shirt she wore looked maybe two sizes too small as it clung to her rich, round, full bosom and slender waist, its neck open maybe just a mite lower than some folks regarded as seemly, the sleeves rolled up to show strong-looking arms. However, she wore a black skirt from the waist down, effectively covering her levis pants; the latter, like the shirt, fitted a mite snug and drew sniffs of disapproval from good ladies when Calamity passed by. Not that Calamity usually gave a damn about how folks regarded her style of dress. She wore men’s clothing because she did a man’s job and only donned the skirt as a piece of simple disguise which appeared to have fooled the four Mexicans.
Calamity had been on her way to Austin with a wagon-load of supplies, handling a contract for her boss, Dobe Killem, and decided to call in to visit with her friends, Dai and Blodwin Jones. On her arrival she found the Jones’ had gone into Austin that morning, but with frontier hospitality they left the house open and food around for any chance-passing stranger to take a meal. Being hungry and trail-dirty, Calamity decided to night at the house. After caring for the team which drew her big Conestoga wagon, Calamity took a bath in the Jones family’s swimming hole behind the house—leaving her gunbelt with its ivory butted Navy Colt, Winchester carbine and bull whip in the boot of the wagon. Like a danged fool green kid fresh out from the East, she did not collect the weapons before entering the house and cooking up a meal.
Not until she heard the hooves of the Mexicans’ horses and looked from the window did Calamity realize the full gravity of her mistake. One glance told the range-wise Calamity all she needed to know about the visitors and she did not like the thought. The Jones’ had taken their weapons with them when they headed for town. Nobody left guns, ammunition, powder and lead around an empty house. Even so close to Austin, capital city of the State of Texas, there was always a chance of an Indian raid and no Texan wanted to present a bunch of hostiles with free firearms. Calamity did not even consider using one of the butcher knives to defend herself. Mexicans were a nation of knife-fighters and she would have no chance against them using cold steel. Nor did she commit the folly of dashing out to her wagon. Before she could make it, the Comancheros would be on her.
Thinking fast, Calamity headed for the Jones’ bedroom and grabbed one of Blodwin’s skirts. Blodwin stood a few inches taller than Calamity and the extra length of the skirt hid the fact that Calamity wore men’s pants and Pawnee moccasins, then she waited for the Mexicans to arrive.
On their arrival, the four men had been all politeness. Choya, he appeared to be their leader, greeted her in fair English, asking if the señorita could feed four poor travellers. All the time he spoke, his three men scanned the place with careful eyes, searching for sign of the male members of the household and sitting with their hands on gun butts. On receiving Calamity’s permission to enter, the Mexicans left their horses standing outside, not fastened but with trailing reins to prevent the animals straying. Calamity cooked up a meal of ham and eggs, conscious of the evil, lust-filled eyes watching her every move. There had been a knowing, mocking sneer on Choya’s lips as he listened to her remarks about the ranch’s crew being due back at any moment; he knew her to be alone and, as he thought, real helpless.