by J. T. Edson
While Derringer approved of the rule, he made no comment. They stood behind the dude in a position where they could see his cards. From all appearances he knew the game and took all the basic precautions. Raising his hole card slightly, he peeked at it while preventing the chance of a kibitzer learning what he held and then accidentally or purposely giving its value away. Only by looking carefully did Derringer manage to see the card. A ten, with a second of them face up. Only one of the other players held an up-card to beat the dude’s; the king of clubs lay before an obvious drummer. After a round of betting, the second cards fell and the dude caught his third ten, although the drummer did not improve his hand. Despite holding by far the most powerful hand on the board, and in contrast to his previous play, the dude bet small. Under the circumstances he ought to have bet high, building up the pot or driving out weak hands that might improve. While the betting went its round, the dude sat back peering as if half blind across the table at the cutter.
Although one player folded, the drummer and the miner, who held two cards to a high flush, stayed with the dude and the third round of up-cards arrived. Six of hearts for the dude, king to the drummer and another suit card to the miner’s flush. Immediately, though not so quick as to arouse suspicion, the drummer made a good bet. The dude sat for a moment staring vacantly, then he shook his head and folded the cards without allowing the ten in the hole to be seen.
“I’m in,” he said.
A slight frown came to Derringer’s face. Once more the man seemed to be breaking the rules of sensible play. Three tens in his hand beat the two kings held by the drummer and enough of the miner’s suit had been in play to lessen his chances of making the flush. Yet the card due to the drummer, when it went to the next man, showed he had made a lucky guess as it would not have improved his holdings. Receiving the card ruined the miner’s hopes and he threw in his hand, bringing an anguished complaint from the drummer.
“Damn it!” he wailed, turning his hole card and showing it to be a third king. “When I get ’em, nobody stays in to bet.”
Signalling to his companions, Derringer drew back from the table and said, “How good’s that cutter, Buck?”
“Good enough to handle a game that high,” Gitsen replied.
Which meant, as Derringer knew, that the cutter should be able to spot any known method of marking cards during the progress of the game. For all that, Derringer looked around the table. He saw nothing suspicious: no bandaged finger that might conceal a thumb-tack for use in pegging—making tiny lumps on the cards to identify their value—or tell-tale discoloration of a thumb or forefinger that meant the man daubed marks on the cards. There were other methods: “nailing,” making tiny scratches with a fingernail; “waving,” bending the cards to make identifying curves. However, any cutter skilled enough to handle a high-stake game would be able to detect such moves.
“Something up?” Gitsen demanded, the honor of his department at stake.
“That jasper may just be lucky,” Derringer answered. “But I’d like you to hang around and watch his play for a spell. Let me know what you think.”
“I’ll do just that,” the boss dealer promised.
Moving on together, Derringer and Sharp watched the operation of a chuck-a-luck game. From appearances, news of Banyan’s death and will must have leaked out to the staff. Interested glances darted from Derringer to where Calamity and Goldie walked among the customers. Catching the gambler’s eye, Calamity started to stroll across the room in his direction. Before she reached Derringer a girl stopped Goldie, and Calamity paused to listen to the conversation.
“Gilbert didn’t stop long,” Derringer remarked, for the lawyer had left as soon as the introductions ended.
“He’ll be in for the big game tomorrow night,” Sharp replied. “Will you be sitting in? The boss allus did.”
“I’ll think on it,” Derringer answered, glancing toward a black jack table.
Apparently the dealer had put in a call for his relief. Removing his green eye-shield, the man dropped it on to the table. Then he stacked all the money in front of him neatly. Closing his right hand, he dipped it into his pocket to bring out a plug of chewing tobacco which he transferred to his mouth.
“Dealers come on with empty pockets and’re searched by Buck if they leave for anything, or at the end of the shift,” Sharp commented, following the direction of Derringer’s gaze. “Most of ’em’ve been with us a fair spell, but it pays to watch the new ’n’s.”
Cheek bulging with the tobacco, the dealer came toward where Derringer and Sharp were standing on his way to the rear exit.
“Been here long, feller?” Derringer asked.
“Two-three days,” the dealer replied, continuing to walk forward. “I’ve got to go out back, Mr. Sharp, something cruel.”
Bracing himself on his good leg, Derringer brought up his cane. Pain bit into him, but he thrust the cane’s ferrule hard into the dealer’s stomach. Taken by surprise, the man let out a gasp which expelled the tobacco from his mouth. Not only the tobacco! Crumpled, somewhat wet, but still identifiable, a ball of money followed the tobacco and bounced almost to Sharp’s feet.
Shock and rage twisted at the dealer’s face. Then his right hand dropped in the direction of his holstered revolver and he started to lunge forward. Sharp stood as if rooted to the spot, everything happening so fast that he failed to grasp the implications and react. Or it could be that he wanted to see how his new employer handled such a situation.
Which put Derringer in one hell of a tight spot. Just in time he dropped the cane’s ferrule to the floor and supported his weight. If he raised the cane to make use of its secondary function, he stood a chance of his injured leg buckling under the strain. The same applied should he open his right hand, let the cane fall and reach for his Colt. At that moment Derringer wished that he wore his gun with the butt turned forward so as to be accessible to either hand. Only wishing would not save his life.
Even as Derringer prepared to stake his chance on raising and firing the cane-gun, the matter was taken from his hands.
After helping solve the girl’s problem, Calamity had moved once more in Derringer’s direction. Seeing the start of the trouble, she realized the risk Derringer had taken. Mentally promising to whomp some sense into his fool head if he bust open his wound, she also prepared to lend him a hand. And with Miss Canary that amounted to a powerful piece of help.
Calamity’s instincts warned her that using a gun was not the answer. So close, using a full 3/4-drachm powder charge, even a .36 Navy Colt might drive its bullet clear through the dealer and retain sufficient power to injure somebody beyond him. That let the gun out and she must rely on other means. Her whip offered a more satisfactory solution to the problem. Always inclined to grandstand a mite, Calamity knew that the whip would be more dramatic; a major point in her decision.
Long before all the thoughts finished, Calamity’s right hand closed on and slipped free her whip. Time did not permit anything really fancy, but she figured what she planned would suffice. Back, then around and out snaked the lash, curling about the dealer’s neck from behind even as his gun cleared leather. It came so suddenly, and in silence, that he did not realize his danger until it clamped tight on his throat and chopped off his breath.
Heaving back on the handle, Calamity jerked the dealer to a halt and his revolver clattered to the floor. Given that much of a pause, Derringer limped to a table, sat on it and drew his Colt.
“Just stand there, feller,” he ordered.
A piece of unnecessary advice under the circumstances. Half strangled, all coherent thought driven from him by the unexpected assault from the rear, the dealer stood like a statue. Gitsen and two of the bouncers moved forward, the latter closing on the dealer as Calamity freed her whip.
“Now maybe somebody’ll tell me what the hell’s coming off here,” she said, walking forward as she coiled the whip’s lash.
“His chewing-tobacco’s a mite rich,” Derr
inger replied.
Bending, Sharp picked up the crumpled ball of money. On smoothing it out, he showed two ten-dollar bills to Gitsen and the girl. Anger came to the boss dealer’s face and he swung to glare at the man who stood sullenly rubbing his throat.
“You started early,” Gitsen growled, and turned to Derringer. “He’s not been here long and this’s the first night he’s worked solo at a table.”
“See to him, Buck,” Derringer replied. “You’d’ve caught him at it had you been where I stood. Only he’d likely not have tried it was you on hand.”
Accepting the compliment, Gitsen realized that Derringer did not hold him responsible for the dishonesty of the dealer. So he gave orders to the bouncers and they hauled the man toward the rear exit.
“We’ll see he’s on tomorrow’s stage out, Boss,” Gitsen said. “Copping from the house that way’s a new one on me.”
“And me,” Derringer admitted. “I saw him palm the money and wondered how he planned to get it by the search. When I saw him stick the chaw into his mouth, I knew. How about that dude in the stud game?”
“I dunno,” Gitsen frankly admitted. “He’s good and either lucky or——I just don’t know. Tony, the cutter’s good and I trust him. He’d’ve spotted it if the dude was marking the cards.”
An interruption came before Derringer could offer any comments or suggestions. The batwing doors swung open to admit a woman followed by six men. With neat precision the men formed a half circle behind the woman and drew their guns. At a sign from her, one of the six fired a shot into the air. That brought every eye to them.
“Everybody stay put!” she ordered. “That way nobody’ll get hurt!”
“Damn it to hell!” Sharp hissed, hand freezing clear of his Colt’s butt. “There’s nobody upstairs to prime the grenades.”
Chapter 11
DESPITE SHARP’S GLOOMY COMMENT, DERRINGER did not believe the newcomers planned a hold-up. All the men wore the clothes of working cowhands, looked tough, salty and capable. The fact that none wore masks made it doubtful that robbery was their motive. Nor did Derringer believe mere cowhand horse-play lay behind their actions. Sure cowhands played irresponsible tricks when freshly arrived in town, but not such a foolish stunt as entering a saloon in that manner.
And most certainly not when accompanied—led might be a better term—by a “good” woman.
Tall, clad in a blue shirt waist, divided skirt and riding boots, the woman was clearly no saloon worker. Shortish, curly brunette hair clustered about a very pretty face tanned by the elements in a way no saloon-girl ever attained. Yet her rich full figure, shown off to good advantage by the clothes, equalled any woman’s in the room.
Complete silence, brought about by Derringer confronting the crooked dealer, and utter lack of movement continued after the warning. Glancing around in a satisfied manner, the woman advanced to the center of the room. She stood for a moment looking around, the heavy riding quirt in her right hand tapping against her thigh. Then she spoke, her voice a deep contralto.
“I’m Sal Banyan,” she announced, and waited until the rumble of surprised talk died down. “Seems like my husband got himself killed. From what I hear, he let some tail-peddler sucker him into willing her the place. Well, I’m here to take it back. So if she’s down here, that son-of-a-bitching whore’d better run; or I’ll drag her out by the hair.”
Hot indignation flushed Goldie’s face at the insult to her boss’ memory and that a “good” woman would have the audacity to come into the saloon. So she started to move forward. Before she could complete a step, a hand clamped on her arm. Turning, she met Calamity’s cold-eyed gaze.
“It’s me she wants to see,” the red-head said quietly, and unbuckled her gunbelt. “Hold this, Goldie.”
Having seen that Sal Banyan did not wear a gun, Calamity knew that kind of show-down was out. Never one to ignore a challenge, especially when put in such a manner, she advanced until she stood clear of the crowd.
“I’m her. So get to dragging.”
A low hiss broke from Sal’s lips and she tensed, her right hand raising. Made from the penis of a buffalo bull dried to pliant hardness, the quirt she held formed a deadly weapon capable of ripping bone-deep through flesh—only Calamity carried the means to copper its threat. With deft ease, the whip’s lash curled back ready to strike. Seeing it, Sal stopped her movement. Long before she could reach the other girl and use the quirt, the bull whip’s lash would be biting at her.
“That’s how it is, huh?” Sal hissed.
“Throw your quirt over the bar and my whip goes after it,” Calamity answered. “Either that or I’ll take your legs from under you.”
“How do I know you’ll get rid of the whip after I’ve thrown it?”
“Those six yahoos behind you’ll see to that. Come on, big mouth, make your play. Throw the quirt over the bar and then we’ll see who gets hauled out by the hair.”
Maybe hot temper had caused Calamity’s original acceptance of the challenge, but already controlled thought had returned. The six cowhands behind Sal could only be removed by gun-play the way things stood. If something happened to take their attention and hold it for a spell, Derringer could likely think up a notion to turn the tables on them. Calamity reckoned she ought to be able to supply the diversion, if Sal took the counter challenge.
“What’ll we do, Frank?” Sharp breathed.
“Let Calamity make her play,” Derringer replied. “Those cowhands’d stop us doing anything else.”
Tense expectancy filled the air as all eyes remained on the two young women in the center of the room. Most of the people present did not know what might be happening, but all figured the following events ought to prove worth watching.
Sensing that all the crowd were eagerly awaiting her decision, Sal made it. In the face of Calamity’s counter-challenge, she could not back down even if she wished to do so. Not that the thought of backing down entered her head. Like Calamity, Sal had gained something of a reputation as a fighter and knew she could never face her ranch crew if she gave way. Nor could she pretend that throwing away the quirt left her unarmed against Calamity’s whip. The six men at her back would make sure that the other girl kept her word. So Sal hurled her whip across the bar. Glass shattered as it struck a bottle.
“All right!” Sal said. “Now you.”
Without hesitation Calamity tossed her whip to Goldie who started to coil its lash. Hardly had the whip left Calamity’s hand than Sal flung herself forward. A flat-handed slap caught Calamity’s cheek, sending her staggering and giving warning of the other’s strength. Hurling after her, Sal drove fingers into red hair and bore Calamity back on to a table. An instant later Sal’s Stetson sailed into the air and Calamity’s hands dug into her brunette curls. Pain and sheer instinct made Sal force herself upward, landing on Calamity’s body.
To the accompaniment of excited yells from the crowd, the two girls rolled across the table. It collapsed under their weight, dumping them on to the floor where they churned over and over in a tangle of flailing arms and thrashing legs. Still clinging to each other, they made their feet and reeled around. They tore at hair, lashed slaps and punches, hacked wild kicks at shins, squealing, cursing, gasping.
There was nothing scientific about the fight, just enraged women’s tactics pure and simple. Most of the customers had seen hair-clawing tangles between saloon-girls at one time and another. Yet Calamity and Sal put on a brawl that made such spats fade into insignificance. The average saloon-girl’s way of life did not keep her fit or allow for prolonged exertions before lack of breath caused her to quit. Not so the two women battling in the Harem. From the start Calamity felt the power of Sal’s muscles, the hard firmness of her gorgeous body and knew she had met somebody almost as strong and tough as herself.
For five minutes without a pause the girls went at it, first on their feet, then thrashing around on the floor. Neither gained any advantage that could be held. Each made the top for a ti
me, only to be rolled over, pinned down until she again reversed the position.
Through it all, the crowd gave wild encouragement. Games were forgotten, discussions left unfinished, drinks ignored. At any other time a woman in Sal’s position, left recently widowed and trying to regain her husband’s property, might have gained the crowd’s sympathy; but her speech on arrival had robbed her of it. So only the six men at the door yelled for her, keeping their positions covering the room, and the support for Calamity almost drowned them out. On other occasions when she had tangled in a saloon, Calamity’s opponent had always been one of the girls. So, if she could have heard it, the vociferous acclaim and advice from the female employees might have amused her.
“Snatch her bald-headed, Calamity!”
“Kick her teeth in, red-head!”
“Rip her apples off!”
Oblivious of the suggestions, although at various times she seemed to be following all three, Calamity fought on. Somewhere along the line Sal lost most of her shirt waist, the remains trailing from her waistband. Then she rose, standing in front of Calamity, lashing kicks at the red-head’s shins. Pain caused Calamity to draw back her feet, but Sal clung hold of the back of her shirt and dragged it from the pants. Feeling her arms becoming entangled, Calamity wriggled back out of the shirt and staggered clear. The sleeveless undershirt she wore left little to be imagined of what it covered. Not that she gave a thought to her appearance. Leaping forward, she gave Sal a push which sent the brunette reeling. Unable to stop herself, Sal dropped the shirt and sprawled face forward across a table. Forcing herself up, blood splashing from her nose on to the green baize, she caught hold of a whiskey bottle by the neck. As Calamity came at her, Sal smashed the bottle on the table-top and lunged.
Wild with fighting-rage Calamity might be, but she could still think well enough to realize the danger. Twisting aside, she missed the jagged edges of the bottle as they sought for her face. Out drove her fist, catching Sal in the cheek hard enough to send her sprawling away but she retained her hold on the broken bottle.