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

intend to discuss the matter. So she returned to the door and looked into the coach. Monique was perched on the seat alongside Joe and the men sat facing her. Satisfied that nothing more could be done—John had taken the Winchesters inside and placed them on the racks—Calamity climbed to the driving box.
    â€œRiding up top here, Calam?” Cultus inquired innocently.
    â€œYep.”
    â€œWant the loan of my shotgun?”
    â€œI’d sooner use a whip.”
    â€œAre you aiming to drive? ” Cultus asked in well-stimulated surprise.
    â€œI sure as hell am!” Calamity answered. “Riding behind that wored-out ole goat’s bad enough and he’s a fair driver—as Wells Fargo drivers go—but I’m not risking my dainty lil neck with you handling the ribbons.”
    Having made her point, Calamity paused and looked around her. Under the seat rested a heavily-padlocked Wells Fargo “treasure chest” with the Company’s stiff-backed official Driver’s Delivery Receipt book on its lid. A quartet of U.S. Mail sacks, also padlocked, occupied the remaining space beneath the seat.
    â€œWe’re carrying five thousand dollars for the Ratchet Creek bank,” Cultus explained, following the direction of her gaze.
    â€œIs that why the marshal’s along?”
    â€œNot that I know of. It was a last-minute arrangement sprung on us in Promontory. We didn’t even have time to fix for another messenger to ride inside.”
    Knowing that “messenger” used in such a manner meant a guard, Calamity nodded her understanding. She knew the strict precautions WellsFargo took to protect its often valuable shipments and did not doubt that the consignment for the Ratchet Creek bank had been kept a secret. One thing was for sure. She could not sit on top of the motionless stagecoach and worry about the possibility of a hold-up. So she sank down on to the seat and immediately jerked up slightly. Her right hand shot under her rump to poke at the seat’s cover.
    â€œWell dog-my-cats if the ole goat hasn’t got a feather cushion under here!”
    â€œThe hell you say!” ejaculated Cultus and reached to check her statement.
    â€œGet your cotton-picking hand off!” ordered Calamity, flicking it away. “Us drivers like our comforts.”
    With that she sat down and studied the situation. First thing to strike her was the difference in height between the stagecoach’s driving seat and the box of her wagon. She seemed to be way up in the air and wondered how it would affect her judgment.
    Although her whip once more rode in its usual place at her side, she drew Joe’s from its holder at the side of the boot. It proved to be an entirely different pattern to that developed by freight-wagon drivers and felt awkward in her hand, despite being the same overall length as her own. Gripping the six-foot long handle, she tried a couple of experimental flicks and found she could not control the lash with any degree of accuracy.
    â€œI reckon I’d best use my own,” she remarked.
    Hoping she looked a whole heap more confident than she felt, Calamity then unfastened the reins and gripped them between her fingers. She blessed the good fortune which had caused Dobe Killem to adopt the same system as Wells Fargo, instead of following the trend of having the driver ride the near wheel horse and guide the lead pair by means of a single rein. Normally Calamity was not a girl troubled by self-doubts, but she paused for a moment and sucked in a long breath before she slid free her whip and shook loose its lash.
    â€œGiddap!” she snapped and cracked the whip in the air.
    Instantly the horses moved forward, thrusting into their harness. Calamity felt life run through the reins and deftly checked any undue enthusiasm the team were inclined to show at moving off after a rest. Although the coach did not make quite the smooth start that Joe could