Free Trouble Trail by J. T. Edson Page A

though,’ Calamity answered.
    Once more the possibility of burying the hatchet went flying by. Calamity’s joke had been harmlessly meant, but it was Eileen’s coffee—and well-brewed at that. Giving an angry snort, Eileen doused the fire by up-ending the coffeepot and pouring out a good three mugs full, one at least of which Calamity had hoped for and looked forward to drinking.
    In angry silence the two girls prepared to travel and neither spoke as the wagon rolled. Molly had not joined them that morning, finding the situation on the wagon too disconcerting and, having taken a liking to Eileen, wished to avoid antagonising either of her friends.
    Each morning the order of travel changed so that the same people did not spend all their days eating the dust at the rear of the column. On this day Calamity found herself in second position behind the wagonmaster’s vehicle which always took the lead. Before they had gone a mile, dust was not the thing the travellers needed bother about.
    Suddenly the blackened skies split with a flash of lightning and rain began to gush down, coming in slanting sheets that drove towards the wagons. There was no chance to take precautions and almost everybody on the train found themselves soaked to the skin.
    ‘If you’d any sense you’d get in there and put your slicker on,’ Calamity told Eileen, hunching miserably on the box and sending her whip’s lash flickering out to keep the idle centre near-side horse doing its share.
    ‘When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it!’
    ‘So soak and the hell with you then! Easy there, you stab-gutted, spavined crow-bait. You’re not on. Boston High Street.’
    For fifteen minutes the two girls sat side by side, soaked to the skin and both too damned hog-stubborn to give in. At last Eileen decided to call it quits and turned to slip through the dawn-down canopy into the lurching wagon. Although her oilskin coat and hat hung ready for use, she doubted if she could change while the wagon rolled, jerked and pitched. Donning the coat, she was about to climb back on to the box when she saw Calamity’s wet-weather clothing lying on the battered box.
    Picking up the Stetson hat and yellow oilskin slicker, she opened the flap and climbed out.
    ‘Here!’ she said.
    It was on the tip of Calamity’s tongue to tell her to go to hell, then sit out the storm unprotected, but she changed her mind.
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘I’d have done it for a dog,’ Eileen sniffed. ‘Let me take the reins and you get dressed.’
    ‘You?’
    ‘You’ve been boasting about how good your team is, so I should be able to manage them—if they’re that good.’
    ‘Don’t you insult my horses!’ Calamity squealed. but handed over the reins and donned her protective clothing.
    Suffering a mutual discomfort might have brought peace to the two girls. but the fates decreed that before they could forget their differences a fresh cause of strife would arise.
    Beau Resin came galloping through the rain towards the wagonmaster and Bigelow as they rode at the head of the column. The rain had been slashing down for over an hour and the ground under foot grew soggy and uncertain.
    ‘We got trouble. Sam,’ Resin drawled, water trickling from his Stetson brim in a steady stream.
    ‘When did you ever come back like that and not have trouble?’ asked the wagonmaster calmly.
    ‘That’s what you pay me for, to bring you bad news.’
    ‘What is it?’ Bigelow asked, slightly irritated even after a week at the way Resin failed to respect his rank and position.
    ‘A damned great valley, Cap’n. Come on ahead and take a look at it.’
    On riding some three miles ahead with the two civilians, Bigelow saw the cause of the trouble. A wide valley stretched ahead of them, its left slope sheer, the right, on which they sat, fairly gentle and the bottom along which the train planned to move turned into a roaring torrent by a storm-flooded stream.
    ‘That’ll be hell to get by,’ remarked