The Road to Ratchet Creek Read Online Free PDF Page A

apologetically.
    â€œCan’t say as it surprises me, company you’re keeping,” Joe sniffed. “That fool Calamity’d pick a fussing with her echo if there warn’t nobody else around. Still, I allus says you can’t judge a feller by the company he keeps.”
    â€œYou’d be a lonely man if folks did,” Calamity put in.
    â€œReckon I’ll ask ’em for another shotgun messenger along happen you’re riding with us, Calam,” Joe said.
    â€œYah!” Calamity scoffed. “You’re safe. I’d want somebody a whole heap younger ’n’ better looking than you was I hunting a husband.”
    â€œWhich same I’m surely pleasured that I ain’t younger ’n’ better-looking then,” Joe cackled. “Anyways, I can’t spend all day standing here whittle-whanging with you. There’s some of us has work to do.”
    â€œYou must know him real good to talk like that about his coach and hosses,” Johnny remarked as he watched the old timer walk off toward the office building.
    â€œWe’ve run across each other here and there,” admitted Calamity, also following Pizen Joe’s departure and smiling. “He’s as good as the best of ’em, Johnny boy and don’t let his looks fool you. Maybe he’s getting along in years, but his horns ain’t been sawed off by a good country mile.”
    Which meant, as John knew, that Pizen Joe still retained the means to defend his fiery nature and peppery tongue despite the advancing years. Then the boy’s eyes went to Calamity and he smiled. Between her and the old driver, unless John missed his guess, the ride to Ratchet Creek ought to be a trip to be remembered.

Chapter 3
WHEN STRUCK, TURN THE OTHER CHEEK
    D ESPITE HER FRIENDSHIP WITH P IZEN J OE AND PROFESSED faith in his ability as a driver, Calamity sat a mite tense in her seat when the stagecoach rolled out beyond Promontory’s city limits. She never felt completely at ease when riding in a vehicle that somebody else drove.
    Although the coach rocked and swayed over the uneven hooves-and wheel-rutted surface of the trail, the effective springing of its thorough-bracing saved the passengers from the spine-jarring bumps of less well-designed vehicles. There were only five other passengers making the first leg of the trip, allowing plenty of room to sit in comfort. Their baggage rode on top, or in the boot at the rear. However the Wells Fargo Company did not expect its paying guests to be separated from their weapons, so the company fitted racks above the seats to accommodate such rifles, shotguns or carbines as the passengers might have along, saving them from the necessity of sitting and holding the shoulder arms throughout the trip.
    To help ease her tension, Calamity turned her attention to the other occupants of the coach. At her right side sat John Browning, on her left a small, petite young woman. Facing them were Marshal Solly Cole and a pair of travelling salesmen, tall, heavily built men wearing check suits, darby hats, cravats with imitation diamond stickpins, their reddened faces bearing expressions of professional joviality calculated to put prospective customers at ease and in a buying mood. So far there had been little or no conversation. Cole gave no sign of knowing Calamity or John and the drummers spent their time eyeing the girls with frank interest.
    Calamity did not object to being studied and admitted that the other girl rated male interest. Unless Calamity missed her guess, being stared at by men was no novelty to the other female traveller. A dainty, impractical hat perched on piled-up black hair. With just sufficient make-up to emphasize its best points, the girl’s beautiful face had a continental appearance. Small she might be, but the figure under the elegant, if slightly risquetravelling suit appeared to be rich and full. Calamity was willing to bet that the girl had