“Not a whole heap,” the sheriff admitted. “She’s had a sawmill built in the hills on the Loup. It’s in the county, but I’ve never had call to go out there.”
“You don’t like her,” the Kid guessed.
“I won’t play poker with you,” Leckenby grinned. “Nope, I can’t say’s I’m took with her. There’s an owning-look in her eyes, like anything she don’t own, she intends to eventual. Could be my imagination.”
“Corey-Mae telled me that Eastfield wants to buy the Rafter C,” Calamity told the peace officer. “And, afore you ask, she don’t know I’m who I am.”
“That was my idea,” the Kid went on. “Those two hombres was bringing Calam’s papers to somebody up here and I figured it’d be safer not to say who she is until we knowed for sure who was sat where in the game.”
“Nobody can blame you for that,” Leckenby replied. “What’re you figuring on doing now, Calam?”
“Do you want for us to do something special?” the girl asked.
“Stay around town until morning,” the sheriff replied. “I believe you, but I aim to telegraph Marshal Beauregard and ask about it. My star’s one of the things Miss Eastfield’s got her owning look on and I don’t aim to give her any chance to get it by reckoning I’m not handling my work right.”
“We’ll play it your way,” the Kid stated and Calamity nodded agreement. “We can go and see Lawyer Endicott tonight and save time, Calam.”
“Spend the night at my house, if you like,” the sheriff offered. “Millie ’n’ me like company. You can put up your hosses at my barn.”
“That’s good of you,” Calamity smiled.
“Smart, too,” grinned Leckenby. “Then I can say, if anybody asks, I’m holding on to you until I’ve checked out what you’ve told me about the two hosses you found straying.”
Coming to his feet, Leckenby led the way to the door. He opened it and let the other two out ahead of him. On the sidewalk, the Kid came to a halt and looked across the street.
“That’s Miss Eastfield,” the sheriff said, following the direction of the Kid’s gaze.
“Figures,” the Texan answered, swinging up his Winchester to rest its barrel on his right shoulder, “company she’s keeping.”
Calamity studied the woman who was walking across the street followed by the four men. About thirty-five years of age, she had a buxom, medium-sized figure that looked firm and hard, not fat. Two bunches of blonde hair showed from under the Stetson on her head. Her face was good-looking, if not beautiful, but had a hard set to its features. She wore a white shirt-waist, black bolero jacket, doeskin divided skirt and calf-long riding boots.
“Mr. Vandor tells me that you’re Miss Canary,” the blonde said, coming to a halt without mounting the sidewalk. “You don’t look like an Eastern girl.”
“Other folks’ve maybe made the same mistake,” Calamity answered.
“I’m Florence Eastfield. Can we talk?”
“I’ve heard you and I know I can. Go to it.”
“In private,” Florence suggested. “Perhaps in my buggy, over there?”
“Here’s private enough for me,” Calamity answered, glancing at the buggy and the four horses from out front of the Clipper saloon at the other side of the street. “Unless you’d like to come ’round some time tomorrow.”
“I have to go back to my sawmill tonight,” Florence gritted. Clearly she was not used to having people go against her wishes. “And my business with you is confidential.”
“Meaning I’d spread it around, Miss Eastfield?” Leckenby inquired mildly.
“Put any meaning you want to it, Sheriff,” Florence answered, darting a glance in the Kid’s direction. Her eyes were cold, hard, warning that she was used to having her own way.
“Maybe I’m not thinking of selling the Rafter C,” Calamity said.
“I can up any offer Tr—you’re made for it,” Florence answered, jerking her gaze back to the girl.
“Happen I want to sell, I’ll keep it in mind,” Calamity promised.
“Miss Canary!” Florence barked as the girl started to turn away. “I always get anything I set my heart on.”
“That’s a good habit,” Calamity answered. “I’m near on the same. I don’t let anybody take something that I want.”
“You want for me to stop her disrespecting you, Flo?” rumbled Olaf.
“Keep him back!” Leckenby ordered.
“Or?” Florence challenged.
Like a flash the Kid’s rifle swung its barrel downward and the foregrip slapped into the palm of his left hand. Held waist high, it pointed its muzzle directly at the giant’s head.
“If the sheriff don’t stop him, I will,” the dark young Texan promised.
“Stand still, Olaf,” Florence said and the man halted as if he had walked into a wall. “Are you standing for this, Sheriff?”
“Nope,” Leckenby replied. “That’s why I told you to keep him back.”
“This makes five times you’ve taken sides against me, Leckenby!” Florence hissed. “I’m getting tired of it.”
“You call it taking sides. I say I’m stopping your men making trouble,” the sheriff corrected, right hand pointing toward the Remington’s butt. “And it’ll be six, happen Torp don’t quick move his hand.”
Giving a guilty start, the smallest of the gunslingers let fall away the hand that had been creeping toward his gun.
“That’s better,” the Kid drawled. “You near on got a rifle ball in the head, hombre, ’n’ should thank the sheriff polite for saving you.”
“So, Miss Canary,” Florence purred. “You’ve brought in a hired gun to help you hang on to your property.”
“You want my ranch bad?” Calamity asked, facing the woman.
“I intend to have it!”
“All right, then. I’ll go get the deeds from the law-wrangler right now. Then you ’n’ me’ll go around to the Wells Fargo corral. Just us. Not my hired gun, nor your’n. And you can have them deeds—if you can take ’em offen me.”
A small crowd had gathered, hovering in the background and taking in every word. Calamity’s suggestion brought a muted, but still audible rumble of excited and anticipatory comment from the audience. For a moment Calamity thought that Florence aimed to take up the challenge. Clenching her fists, the blonde studied Calamity with hate-filled eyes. Then, slowly, Florence let her hands drop to her sides.
“I’m a businesswoman, not some cat-house tail-peddler,” the blonde sniffed. “I’ll give you——”
“I’ve told you the price for my ranch,” Calamity cut in flatly. “That you, just you, take it off me.”
Again talk welled up among the onlookers. Swinging around, Florence glared at the assembled people. When she swung back toward the trio on the sidewalk, her face showed rage and determination.
“You’ve had my last offer, Canary,” the blonde declared. “And you, Leckenby, this county’s not big enough to hold me and anybody who’s against me.”
“Was that what you sent Otón ’n’ Job to tell me?” Calamity inquired.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Florence spat and spun on her heel. “Let’s go, men.”
“I’m right sorry to’ve brought fuss on you, Sheriff,” Calamity said, watching Florence board the buggy and drive off accompanied by the four men.
“It’d’ve come sooner or later,” Leckenby replied, holding his voice down so that the words would not reach the crowd. “When she says I’m again’ her, she’s close to being right.”
“A man like you’d have to have a better reason than just friendship for taking sides,” the Kid commented.
“I figure I’ve got ’em,” Leckenby answered, pleasure at the compliment mingling with the sober gravity on his face. “Soon after they got here, I met up with the boss of the crew’s built the sawmill. He was a drinking man’s liked to talk; which I’ve allus been a good listener, especially when it’s something’s affects my county. He told me’s how the Eastfield family’d got a real big contract to cut timber and deliver it to Burwell.”