Cold Deck, Hot Lead

by J. T. Edson

  Carefully lowering the hammer to rest on the safety notch between two of the cap nipples on the cylinder, she returned the Colt to its holster and looked around her. Derringer ran toward her along the top of the rim, striding out fast with his cane-gun held ready for use. Down on the trail, the big man rose from behind his horse and raised his hand in a wave of thanks. Walking around the dead animal, he approached his second victim, knelt and drew down the masking bandana. After looking at the exposed face, he straightened up and went to where the other body hung on the bushes. Lowering it to the ground, he repeated the inspection. With that done, he threw a regretful glance at his horse, and holstered his Remington.

  “Are you all right, Calam?” Derringer gasped, coming to a halt at her side and looking at her with concern.

  “Sure,” she replied.

  “I thought he’d hit you when I saw you drop the carbine.”

  “Naw. The bullet threw dirt into my face’s all. Only when I dropped that fool gun, the barrel likely got plugged and I couldn’t chance using it.”

  Further explanation being unnecessary to anybody who knew “sic ’em” about firearms, Calamity gave none. Walking forward, she picked up the carbine. By chance she was standing with her back to the man who climbed the slope as she inspected the little Winchester. Sure enough sufficient dirt had entered the muzzle to make the discharge of a bullet dangerous to the user. Without Derringer’s intervention, Calamity knew she could never have drawn and shot in time to save herself. She figured that whatever her life might be worth, she owed that much to the gambling man.

  “Damn it, Calam,” Derringer grinned. “If ole Mark wasn’t right about you licking all be-jeezus at finding trouble.”

  “I’m just talented, I reckon,” she answered.

  “Thanks, young feller,” said a deep voice from behind the girl. “You saved my hide there. Did they get you?”

  Despite the words, Calamity realized they must be directed to her. So she turned to face the speaker and grinned broadly.

  “Nary a scratch,” she assured him.

  The sight of Calamity and realizing that she was a girl brought the man to a halt. His eyes bugged out a mite as they roamed over her from head to foot, taking in her various unmasculine attributes. Then he flung back his head and let out a bellowing roar of laughter.

  “Well I’ll swan!” he said, slapping a hand against his thigh. “Folks’ll allow I’m getting old for certain sure if they hear that Sultan Banyan mistook you for a feller!”

  Calamity and Derringer exchanged glances at hearing the name, for both recalled mention of a man called Sultan Banyan. Probably each of them possessed details that the other did not.

  Having served with the Union Army during the War between the States, Derringer remembered how Banyan had achieved some fame among supporters of the North. Possibly seeking for a name to counter the fame gained by Dixie’s trio of highly successful military raiders—Turner Ashby, John Singleton Mosby and Dusty Fog—the Unionist newspapers invested the colorful Captain “Sultan” Banyan with a greater acclaim than he deserved. Sure he did well on the Kansas–Missouri battlefront, but not in comparison with any of the three Confederate officers. Derringer recalled one incident, that which brought Banyan into public prominence yet also became the center of much controversy.

  In addition to knowing the generally accepted facts of Banyan’s military career, Calamity was aware that he had been founder of the town which bore his name. According to Killem’s Tribune straw-boss, Banyan ran the best, fanciest saloon in town. The name “Sultan” came, according to legend, from his success with women. Studying Banyan’s powerful frame and handsome face, she concluded that when younger he could have been the Good Lord’s answer to what a gal dreamed about on long, cold winter nights. However, the years, plus good living and maybe dissipation, had left their marks in a slight puffiness of his features and thickening at the waist.

  Only for a moment did Banyan stand showing his surprise at learning an attractive girl rescued him. Then he went to the last body, drew down the bandana and exposed the features.

  “Know him?” Calamity asked as she and Derringer looked at the dead face.

  “Can’t say that I do, gal,” Banyan answered. “Should I?”

  “I dunno,” the girl admitted. “What do you reckon they was after?”

  “Those masks weren’t worn for trick-or-treat at Hallowe’en,” the big man grunted. “I’d say they were owlhoots fixing to rob me.”

  “Not that one,” Derringer objected, wondering what prompted the girl’s question. “Leastways, the last time I saw him, he was taking pay as one of the guns in a railroad right-of-way fuss.”

  “A hired gun, huh?” Calamity put in, sounding interested and as if that helped explain matters.

  “So?” Banyan demanded. “That kind’d rob their own mothers was they short of cash.”

  “Have you seen what he’s carrying in his pockets?” Calamity asked.

  Wondering what lay behind the girl’s comments, Derringer moved forward and searched the man. While a deputy in Mulrooney, the gambler had learned where to look for hidden money. He extracted only a few dollars in change from the man’s pockets, but a hidden pouch inside the gunbelt yielded a wad of bills.

  “A hundred bucks,” he told the others after counting his find. “What’s up, Calam?”

  “Way I saw it, those three aimed to kill this gent as he rode up.”

  “Anybody’d know the only way they could rob Sultan Banyan’d be after I was good and dead,” Banyan stated, yet a slight furrow crept on to his brow.

  Something about the big man made Calamity’s back hair rise. In addition to addressing her with an air of condescension, he gave the impression that he expected her to wet her pants through sheer delight at being in his presence. So she determined to force her point.

  “And nobody’d want you dead bad enough to hire it done?” she asked.

  “Not me, gal,” Banyan boomed, still in that irritating manner. “I get on real well with everybody. Not even any of my four wives’d want to see me dead.”

  Despite her annoyance, Calamity could not hold back the question which sprang to her lips.

  “You’ve had four wives?”

  “Had ’em?” Banyan answered, letting out that same bellow of laughter. “I’ve still got ’em. Why do you think they call me ‘Sultan’?”

  Noticing how Calamity was glaring at Banyan, Derringer decided that he must intervene. At any moment the girl’s volatile temper might boil over, caused by the big man’s attitude of masculine superiority. Although not a feminist in the accepted form of the word, she figured that her capabilities entitled her to be treated as an equal and to have her views on the matter in hand respected.

  “Did you search the other two, mister?” the gambler asked.

  “I looked at ’em and didn’t know ’em,” Banyan answered.

  “Did you search them?” Derringer repeated.

  “There wasn’t any need that I could see.”

  “How about taking a look?”

  “Why?” Banyan asked.

  “Happen they’ve got as much money on ’em as this jasper, I’d say they fixed to do more than just rob you,” Derringer explained. “Like I said, he’s a hired gun. Not top-grade, but good enough to find enough work to stay off the owlhoot.”

  “Maybe,” Banyan said, then looked at the cane-gun in Derringer’s hand and Colt at his side. “Say, that wasn’t a bad piece of shooting you did, dropping this jasper from back there with a hand-gun.

  Having been fully occupied in dealing with the third attacker, Banyan had failed to see how the girl had handled the second. When he looked around him after killing the escaping man, Banyan saw Derringer running along the rim. Finding that Calamity was a girl, he concluded the gambler must have shot the second ambusher from long distance to save her.

  “I didn’t get him,” Derringer corrected. “Calam here dropped him as he come for her.”

  “Calam�
�—?” Banyan said, looking from Derringer to the girl.

  “It’s short for Martha Jane Canary, mister,” she informed him coldly. “Which same’s long for what folks mostly call me—Calamity Jane.”

  “And let’s see you grin now, you smug son-of-a-bitch!” she thought after completing the introduction.

  Much to the girl’s satisfaction, the air of superiority and condescension left Banyan’s face. Up to that point he had regarded her as no more than a naïve country girl dressed in male clothing to avoid attracting attention—possibly because she was eloping with the gambling man and feared pursuit by her parents. So he had discounted her comments as being an attempt to appear worldly-wise.

  In view of the name she gave, he dropped his eyes to her gunbelt, having overlooked it earlier in favor of studying the more interesting aspects of her appearance. His eyes took in the contoured, well-designed lines of the holster and how the belt hung just right. Nor did the girl exhibit any self-consciousness in wearing the rig, or give the impression that it was a mere decoration to aid the deception of the clothes.

  Which meant she was likely talking the truth about her identity. What was more, he knew that Calamity Jane probably possessed enough knowledge to draw accurate conclusions from what she saw. So he would be advised to at least investigate the matter further. Being Sultan Banyan, he could not bring himself to an outright admission that he might be wrong.

  “Well I’ll swan!” he said admiringly, eyeing the girl with fresh interest. “And I thought——So you’re Calamity Jane.”

  “There’s only the one,” she replied modestly.

  “Some folks I’ve met’ve been known to say that’s at least three too many,” Derringer remarked. “How about it, do we search them?”

  “Let’s go take a look.” Banyan agreed. “If somebody’s trying to get me killed, I’d like to know who.”

  “Most folks would,” Calamity said, starting to walk down the slope.

  “Just how’d you come to be on hand so helpful, Calam?” Banyan inquired, dropping the over-familiar “gal,” as he followed on the girl’s heels.

  “We’ve camped back there and I’d come out to see if I could shoot me a whitetail. Then I found three hosses and figured to see why they’d been left. Soon as I saw them jaspers’ masks and you riding up, I allowed I’d best take cards.”

  “Which I’m right pleased you did,” the big man said, then turned his eyes toward Derringer with a question in them.

  “I wanted the buck, not him,” Calamity stated, before the gambler could tell why he had remained in camp and left the hunting to her. “This here’s Frank Derringer, mister.”

  “Call me ‘Sultan,’ Calam,” boomed Banyan, and once more gave the gambler his attention. “Frank Derringer, huh?” Clearly he considered Calamity’s explanation satisfactory. “Are you still wearing a badge for Dusty Fog?”

  “Not anymore. Dusty’s finished his work in Mulrooney and’s headed back home to Texas.”

  Banyan regarded Derringer in a more friendly and charitable light on learning his identity. In addition to bearing a reputation as a straight and capable gambler, Derringer had served as a deputy under Dusty Fog. Any man who wore a badge for the Rio Hondo gun-wizard packed sand to burn and could be relied on, in range terms, to take no sass but “sasparilla” from his fellows.

  “If you’re looking for work in Banyan——” the big man began.

  “I’m not, unless I go broke,” Derringer interrupted. “All I want’s to find a game and lose my pay.”

  “That you’ll find easy enough,” Banyan promised. “You can find any sort of game you crave in my town.”

  Further conversation was prevented by their arrival at the bush where the second body lay. While Banyan searched the pockets, Derringer studied the face.

  “Well?” asked the big man.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever seen him,” Derringer admitted, and nodded to the wad of money Banyan found. “But he’s carrying around as much as the other.”

  Going to the last body, Banyan started to check it over. Once again he brought to light a similar amount of money. To Derringer, keen student of human emotions, it seemed that the big man looked less certain in the face of the proof. Yet Banyan still hesitated to accept the possibility that somebody might want to have him killed.

  “So they’re carrying money,” Banyan said. “Maybe they’re greedy and wanted some more.”

  “Could be,” Derringer answered. “Only this jasper fought in that right-of-way war. I’d say whoever hired ’em gave ’em travelling money in case anything went wrong and they’d get the rest when they brought proof they’d earned it.”

  “Why the masks if they aimed to kill me?”

  “This here’s a well-used trail,” Calamity pointed out. “If anybody saw ’em while they were shooting or getting away, it’d look like they was only owlhoots.”

  “And they’d sure as hell not want you to know their faces happen anything went wrong,” Derringer continued, making an argument he felt sure would appeal to Banyan’s ego.

  It worked. The big man gave a nod of agreement and said, “That’s for sure. They’d know there’d be no living on this earth with Sultan Banyan riled and hunting for their scalps.”

  “Now we’ve got ’round to figuring they was after your scalp,” Calamity said dryly. “I’d reckon we ought to start asking who wants it.”

  “Hell, Calam,” objected Banyan. “Everybody gets on with me.”

  The glance Calamity directed at the body between them spoke louder than any words. Not wanting Banyan to retreat into the original robbery theory, Derringer offered a possible type of suspect.

  “How about the other saloon-keepers in town?”

  “There’s only Edgar Turnbull’s Big Herd that comes close to the Harem and enough trade for all of us.”

  “Maybe this Turnbull’s a hawg,” suggested Calamity.

  For a moment thought lines furrowed Banyan’s brows, but he kept whatever struck him to himself. Yet Derringer formed the impression that the big man had suddenly recalled somebody who might be willing to pay for his death.

  “You got a saddle hoss along that I could borrow, Calam?” Banyan asked.

  “Nope——”

  “You allowed there were three belonging to this bunch up there.”

  “The shooting spooked ’em so they broke and run,” the girl explained. “I can take you in on the wagon, but it’ll be tomorrow noon at the earliest afore we hit town.”

  “Thanks, I’ll come. If we’re lucky somebody might come along with a hoss I can borrow. Anyways, if I show up later than expected, somebody may let something slip. All I want’s a start and I’ll do the rest.”

  “Best get your gear off your hoss,” Calamity said. “Then we’ll haul it off the trail.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Banyan. “Damn it. When I learn who hired these three I’ll break every bone in his lousy body. That was a real good hoss.”

  “How about the bodies?” asked Derringer.

  “There’s room in the back of the wagon,” Calamity replied, showing no great eagerness.

  “Naw,” Banyan growled. “We’ll leave ’em out here and Tyler Kitson can come collect them. He’s town undertaker and can use the trade.”

  Knowing how the bodies would start to stink, neither Calamity nor Derringer raised any objections. There were goods on the wagon which could be spoiled by the stench of death seeping into them. So, while the girl fetched up two of her team and harness, the men moved the bodies from the trail. A covering of branches, with the bandanas which served for masks tied on and left flapping in the breeze, would serve to keep away coyotes, turkey vultures or other scavengers until the Banyan undertaker and local law could collect them.

  With all the removals made, Calamity and the two men returned to the wagon and made ready to move on. Sitting on the box, Banyan dominated the conversation and seemed determined to impress the girl. He proved to be an interesting travelling companion, although hi
s main topic appeared to be Sultan Banyan. For all that he spoke mainly of his achievements, Banyan contrived to avoid being as boring or offensive as most people sound when discussing themselves.

  After describing his adventures during the War and since, including how he had watched the town bearing his name grow and prosper, Banyan turned and grinned at the girl.

  “I tell you though, Calam,” he said. “This’s the first time I’ve ever been saved by a gal. Mostly it’s the other way around.”

  “You save them—or they have to be saved from you?” Calamity grinned.

  “A bit of both, only most times they’d as soon not be saved from me,” chuckled the big man. “One time I even rescued a genuine Russian countess.”

  “In Russia?” asked the girl.

  “Nope, I’ve not been out of these United States yet; although I’m fixing on taking a vacation in Europe real soon. It was back on the Missouri border in the War. She’d come out with her husband, fixing to see what went on. Only a bunch of reb Bushwhackers jumped ’em, killed all their army escort and carried them off. My outfit found the bodies and we took up the trail. We found the Bushwhackers’ camp and I snuck in that night, settled their guards and stood by them Russians until my boys attacked and run the rebs off.”

  While the story had been true enough, Derringer noticed that Banyan had omitted to mention one puzzling aspect of it. When captured, the Russian military observer Count Kotchubez and his wife had in their possession a box containing their considerable travelling expenses and a quantity of very valuable jewellery. Although the couple were saved, the box had never been recovered. According to Banyan’s story, as Derringer recalled it, the outnumbered rescuers found time only to free the prisoners before being driven off by the main body of the Bushwhackers. Later a strong force of Union cavalry trapped the Bushwhackers, killing many and taking the remainder captive. Rigorous questioning of the survivors failed to produce the Russians’ treasure. Nor could the Count and Countess shed light on the matter, for the box had been taken from them by the Bushwhackers’ leader. Despite protracted searching of the camp area, the money and jewellery never did come to light.