Trouble Trail by J. T. Edson

their full share in making sure of that. By the end of the evening Eileen had worked up quite a hate for both Molly and Calamity.
    Long before the evening ended Calamity had troubles of her own.
    ‘Hey, Calamity!’ whooped a voice as she and Resin walked back to their own section of the camp circle. ‘Come on, gal, ‘tis time we started dancing again.’
    Walking up, Muldoon laid hold of Calamity’s right arm in an insulting and proprietary manner. Before he could make a move to lead the girl anywhere, a cold Southern drawl cut in.
    ‘Just take your hands off her, Muldoon,’ Beau Resin ordered.
    ‘So that’s the way of it?’ asked Muldoon, shoving Calamity gently to one side and facing the big scout. ‘All right, bucko, ‘tis time you civilians learned respect for us who’re making this country safe for the likes of yez.’
    ‘Start trying to teach me,’ Resin replied and countered the soldier’s claim with an old scout’s insult. ‘You’ll find me a mite harder than tangling with a village full of squaws and kids.’
    Silence dropped over the area. Cold chilling silence as everybody stared at the two big fighting men facing each other. As if drawn by magnets Killem’s men arrived to move in behind Resin and Muldoon’s cronies appeared to form a half circle behind the big sergeant. Other soldiers and civilians showed interest in the affair and there was the makings of a good old-fashioned riot in the air. To one side, in a position which offered him a clear line of retreat, Hack watched his plan approach fulfilment. Once the fighting started, it would ruin the dance and the wagon train’s women were going to look for somebody to blame. The blame would fall smack on Calamity’s curly red head.
    Hack knew that—and so did Calamity.
    Although attending a range-country ball, Calamity was, in Western terms, dressed. Her Navy Colt rode its holster and her long whip hung coiled at the left side of her waist belt. Reaching down, Calamity jerked the whip free and measured the distance between herself and her two suitors with a practised eye. Resin and Muldoon were moving towards each other, crouching slightly in a manner which offered good defensive and offensive potential but did tend to stick out their butt-ends in a manner which looked mighty promising to providence and Calamity Jane.
    Drawing back her right arm, Calamity shot it forward and the whip’s lash curled out. Beau Resin let out a yelp of pain and leapt almost three foot into the air as the lash’s tip caught him. Before Muldoon or any of the other men could make out just what happened, Calamity struck again. Once more the lash hissed out and not even Muldoon’s saddle-toughened butt could resist the impact of what felt like a king-sized bee-sting.
    With the two main protagonists handled, Calamity proceeded to damp down the ardour of any other mean-minded cuss who aimed to stir up a fight. Her whip’s lash hissed and cracked like gun-shots between the men.
    ‘I’ll take the legs from under the first one to start anything!’ she warned. ‘Anybody’s wants a busted ankle step right out and get one from Calamity Jane’s dispensary.’
    And she could do it, too. Every man in the two groups knew it for sure, or guessed it with enough accuracy to believe her. Yet Calamity knew she must settle the issue in a more permanent manner and her eyes flickered around. In one glance she saw the way—and a possible reason for the trouble, taken with certain things she remembered from earlier.
    Hack saw his chances of revenge on Calamity fading away and decided to follow their example. Once Muldoon quietened down, he was going to start thinking; although thinking had never been the burly three-bar’s strongest suit. While Muldoon might not be a mathematical genius, he could add up two and two and make the answer come out four. Hack had never been noted for generosity or mingling with the lower elements of society and Muldoon might suspect a nigger with a