Free The Road to Ratchet Creek by J. T. Edson Page A

sister,” Calamity elaborated. “I’d look like hell wearing ’em over my pants.”
    â€œOf course!” Monique replied, hands fluttering to her skirt’s waistband. “I didn’t think for the moment.”
    With that she turned and disappeared into the coach. Nodding in satisfaction, Calamity continued her interrupted removal of the driver’s shirt. Needing help, she looked up in search of the marshal and felt a mite surprised at his occupation.
    After the departure of the drummers, Cole had picked up the jug he had collected at the river so as to enforce his demands if necessary. Slowly he turned it in his hands, studying it with far more care and interest than such a commonplace object appeared to merit. In particular he gazed at the maker’s name and a number painted on the side in prominent black figures. Then he tilted the jug and looked at its bottom.
    â€œThis’s no time to start thinking about taking a quick snort, deacon,” Calamity remarked.
    â€œHuh?” grunted Cole. “What’d you say, Calam?”
    There was something changed in his attitude. The solemn expression had been replaced by a cold, grim mask that told Calamity of the true man behind his pose. However she was in no mood to worry about minor details.
    â€œLend me a hand here, will you,” she said.
    â€œSure, sister,” he agreed and the old way cameback to him. “Let me just put this some place safe.”
    Calamity felt puzzled by Cole’s interest in the jug, although she could see the reason for it. Selling liquor to Indians had long been a crime of Federal as well as local interest. Naturally Cole wanted to know who put the fluid dynamite in the hands of the Arapahoes. For all that, Calamity failed to see what he hoped to learn from the type of jug used by almost every whiskey distiller in the West. She put the thought out of her mind as the sound of ripping reached her ears and several strips of white cloth were hung on the window of the coach.
    After examining the wound closely, Calamity decided against trying to remove the bullet. So she contented herself with making sure no more blood flowed and then bandaged Joe’s torso.
    â€œThat’s about all I can do for him right now,” she told Cole. “Let’s get him someplace where a doctor can take a look at it.”
    â€œI’d say go on to Coon Hollow way station,” Cole suggested. “We can send a telegraph message to Promontory and have a doctor ride out.”
    â€œIt’ll be quicker that way,” Calamity admitted. “’Sides which, those Arapahoes might be on the trail back that ways.”
    â€œI’ll ask for an escort to side the doctor,” Cole promised. “Let’s get the others in and see about loading Joe aboard.”
    â€œSure,” Calamity replied. “I want to be moving.”
    â€œWhen you go, sister,” Cole told her. “Let your driving be like that of Jehu, son of Nimshi, for he went like a bat out of hell.”
    Calamity eyed the sober face, with its twinkling eyes and grinned. “Some of your pards have real fancy names.”
    On hearing Cole’s shout, the lookouts returned, Conway and Thorbold showing considerable relief at being recalled with their scalps intact. Under Calamity’s profane guidance, the men lifted Joe and carried him to the coach. They placed the old timer on the forward seat and Cultus produced some straps which could be used to hold Joe in position. Leaving the coach, Calamity saw Cole at the rear boot. On joining him, she found that he stood placing the whiskey jug in his capacious travelling bag.
    â€œYou wanting it for evidence?” she asked.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œIt looks just like any other whiskey jug to me.”
    â€œLooks that way to most folks,” Cole said cryptically. “Let’s go.”
    Something in the marshal’s attitude warned Calamity that he did not