by J. T. Edson
“I’ve looked ‘em over, General,” Killem replied. “They’re in good shape. I reckon we’ll still have some alive when we reach St. Jo.”
“They’d better be, or I’ll be coming to you for employment,” grinned General Furlong. “This idea is costing money and Congress hates spending that on the Army in times of peace.”
“Reckon those muck-ponies’ll do what you want?” asked Calamity.
“I hope so. The main idea came from Sheridan, I believe. If the ponies can take the cold, they might help us hit at the Indians during winter.”
“May we see my new horse, papa?” Aileen Furlong asked.
“That’s what we’re here for,” the General replied.
Although nobody asked her, Calamity accompanied Furlong’s party to one of the other pens. Hooking a foot on to the bottom rail, Calamity studied the fifteen hand black gelding inside. She liked what she saw and to her way of thinking there stood a tolerable piece of horse-flesh, dainty, shapely, proud and spirited. The kind of animal one would pick as a go-to-town horse, yet capable of doing a hard day’s work.
“He’s a beauty, papa,” Aileen gasped. “May I try him?”
“You’re hardly dressed for riding, dear,” her mother put in.
“And the horse is too much for a woman yet, Aileen,” Bristow went on. “It needs gentling before you use it.”
“Nonsense!” Aileen snorted. “I’ve been riding—.”
“I’d rather see the horse ridden before we make any decisions,” interrupted Furlong. “I’d ask you if you weren’t in uniform, Douglas. How about it, Dobe?”
At which point Calamity put her bill in. While not setting up as a militant feminist who believed she could do anything a man could and better, Calamity took a dim view of Furlong and Bristow’s display of arrogant male superiority. And with Miss Martha Jane Canary to take a dim view of anything was to act in an attempt to clear her vision.
“Hell, Dobe totes too much lard to ride a hoss that size,” she said. “I’ll go in and ‘three-saddle’ it for you.”
All eyes turned to the girl and grins creased the faces of the two older men, although Bristow clearly did not approve of Calamity’s free and easy attitude. Having been on the Great Plains with her husband, Mrs. Furlong had lost any snobbish ideas of class-distinction she once possessed, so she smiled at the Western girl’s speech. Aileen was young enough to regard Calamity as daring, modern and unconventional—in which she did Calamity an injustice—so must also be someone to respect.
“I could have one of the regimental horse-masters take it in hand, sir,” Bristow suggested.
“And they’d spoil it for the gal,” Calamity sniffed. “They’re all right for busting a hoss so some lead-butted recruit can sit it, but that black wants gentler handling.”
While General Furlong would not openly admit it, he knew army trainers were of necessity often heavy-handed in their training methods and tended to break rather than gentle a horse. Such treatment would ruin the black for his daughter’s use. Anyway, it might be fun to see if Calamity Jane stacked up as high as Dobe Killem claimed for her.
“Do you have a saddle here?” he asked.
“The boys rode down this morning, their rigs are hanging on the rail at the big pen,” answered Calamity. “Happen Mr. Killem’ll act like a lil gentleman and fetch one over for me, I’ll go catch me a hoss.”
“I’ll tend to it,” grinned Killem.
Swinging into the pen, Calamity walked across the hard-packed ground towards the horse. However, the black did not wish to be caught and had room in which to manoeuvre. Showing a neat use of speed and the ability to turn on a dime, the horse refused to be caught for a time. This made Calamity use some choice language not often heard on the lips of a young lady and caused Aileen to jerk up her fan to hide her smile. A small crowd of loafers, the kind of men who gathered everywhere when given a chance of watching other people work, stood around the pen and sniggers sounded.
“All right!” Calamity snorted, coming to a halt and eyeing the horse. “If that’s how want it.”
Drawing her bull whip free, she shook out the lash then sent it snaking through the air to coil around the black’s neck. Outside the pen Aileen gave a little shriek of dismay, while Bristow gave an angry snort aimed to let folks know his lack of faith in Calamity had been justified. General Furlong, a man with some knowledge of horses, noted that the black did not scream or show any sign of pain as the whip landed.
“Ooh!” gasped Aileen. “Did you see that?”
“It’s—,” her father began.
Before the General could say more, Calamity raised her voice in a lady-like plea for assistance.
“Dobe! You and that shavetail shove your tired butt-ends over here and lend me a hand to toss leather on this fool critter!”
“Be right there, gal,” Killem chorused back and held the saddle he carried in Bristow’s direction. “Here, bring this in. I’ll toss a rope on that black.”
From the quiet manner in which the horse stood after feeling the whip’s lash coil around its neck, Calamity decided it had been rope-broke at least. However, her whip could not hope to equal a sixty foot length of hard-plaited manila rope when it came to holding a horse, so she raised no objections when Killem joined her and dabbed a loop on the black’s neck. Calamity shook free, coiled and belted the whip. Clearly the horse did not intend to stand mildly and have the saddle fixed on it. In fact the black kicked up quite a commotion and attracted more loafers to see the fun.
“We’ll have to ear him down,” Kiilem stated, bracing himself against the pull of the horse and watching Calamity and Bristow’s tries at getting the saddle in position.
“I’ll tend to it!” whooped Calamity.
Watching her chance, the girl darted forward and grabbed to catch the rearing black by one ear. Making her catch, she reached around, took hold of the other ear and used her weight to get the black on to all four feet again. Calamity felt the horse strain against her grasp and as a further inducement to good behaviour took hold of the tip of the nearest ear between her teeth. Apparently the horse knew what Calamity’s action meant, for it stopped struggling and avoided taking further pain. For all his smart and pompous manner, Bristow moved fast. Although he was more used to the Army’s McClennan saddle, he wasted no time in swinging the range rig into place and securing it on the black.
While this went on, Tophet Tombes had returned from checking on the flatboats in which the horses would be transported north. He was on the opposite side of the corral to Furlong’s party, but leaned on the rail among the loafers to watch the fun. A trio of burly, hard-looking men stood close by him. Brutal and coarse though they looked, all wore better clothing than the crowd around them. The tallest of the party had a livid weal running from the right temple across to below the lobe of his left ear. Nor were his friends clean of face, for one sported a swollen, cut lip and black eye, while the other’s nose looked enlarged from some recent damage. Tombes noticed none of this, being more interested in watching the saddling of the black and awaiting Calamity showing those city folks a thing or two about the art of horse-handling Western style.
Never one to disappoint an audience, Calamity fixed herself to give the onlookers a good show. First she checked that the horse’s saddle sat just as she wanted it, then fitted the bridle in place and cast off Killem’s rope. Gripping the saddlehorn and reins, Calamity went afork the horse in a lithe bound.
“Yeeagh!” she yelled and rammed both heels into the horse’s ribs, causing Killem and Bristow to make hurried dives towards the pen’s rails.
It took but three bucking jumps to tell Calamity that the horse had already been ‘three-saddled’, ridden by a buster the three times which were all considered necessary out West for the horse to be ready to hand on to its regular owner. However, the black proved to be a show bucker, tucking its nose between its front legs, arching its back and going high but straight forward. While such a style looked highly spectacular, e
specially to an audience who saw few such sights, it was not difficult for a skilled rider to handle. Calamity knew that as long as she did not fall asleep, she could stay afork the black and would not wind up eating pen-dirt without stooping for it.
Not that Calamity was content merely to take the conceit and bed-springs out of the black’s belly in solid chunks. To whet the appetites of the crowd, she pretended to be losing her seat, waving as if off balance. A yell of applause rose as she fought her way back into control.
“Dang that Calamity,” grinned Killem. “She’ll bust her fool neck one of these fine days.”
“I’ve never seen such a splendid rider,” Aileen breathed back.
“Likely,” grunted the big freighter, for he knew a show bucker when he saw one. “Stay with it, Calam gal!”
However, the horse decided to call it a day. Having been ‘three-saddled’, the black horse knew better than fight against the inevitable, and its snuffy nature sprang more from not being worked recently than out of a bad spirit. So, finding its rider clearly intended to stay afork, the black stopped fighting. Calamity fanned the horse’s ears with her hat and jabbed moccasined heels into its ribs, but to no avail. Never one to punish a horse for showing a little spirit, she rode the black to the side of the pen and dropped from the saddle.
“There you are,” she said to Aileen. “You’ve got a good hoss here, gal.”
“I’ll walk him until he cools, Aileen,” Bristow put in and swung into the pen to take the black’s reins from Calamity.
“Thank you for riding the horse, Miss—,” Aileen began.
“Never been one for ‘Missing’, unless I don’t like the other gal,” Calamity interrupted. “Call me Calam.”
“Thank you, Calamity,” smiled Aileen. “I thought when you used the whip—.”
Aileen’s words trailed off again, for she did not know how to express her fears and wondered if Calamity might take offence at criticism.
Standing at Aileen’s side, Killem let out a bellow of laughter. “The hoss wouldn’t get hurt, unless Calam meant it to.”
“But how could she—?” Mrs. Furlong put in.
Seeing that Aileen also appeared to have doubts about her ability to handle the whip, Calamity decided to demonstrate and prove her employer’s words. The fact that a good-sized crowd also stood watching did not worry Calamity in the least, for she had never been a blushing violet seeking to hide her talents.
“Toss me my whip, Dobe,” she said.
A grin creased Killem’s face as he complied with his employee’s request. Being a member of the bull-whip breed himself, Killem liked to see an expert at the art in action; and despite her age and sex Calamity was about as expert as one could be in the handling of a long lashed bull whip.
Catching the whip Killem tossed to her, Calamity shook out its coils and prepared to show the watching crowd how a Western freighter handled his, or her, most valued possession. The whip she held had been specially made for her by Tophet Tombes, who had a reputation for being something of an authority on such matters. Made of finest leather, the twenty foot lash was lighter than usual, yet that made the whip no less effective, handy—and deadly—in Calamity’s skilled hands.
While knowing she was attracting considerable attention to herself and her unusual—for a female—talents, Calamity did not guess just what result her forthcoming demonstration of the ancient art of whip-popping would have.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Miss Canary Renews An Acquaintance
As a starter to her display Calamity worked the whip back and forward in the air so its tip gave out a series of cracks like a volley of gun shots. This in itself was not a particularly difficult trick, but always made an impressive commencement to a demonstration of the whip-wielder’s art. While cracking the whip, Calamity pondered on which of her extensive repertoire would be best to use as opener to her show. She wanted something spectacular, yet which could be topped by a climax at her completion of the demonstration.
General Furlong remembering a trick performed by an Army wagon master and whip expert, took the matter of selection from Calamity’s hands. Taking a silver dollar from his pants pocket, Furlong tossed the coin so it landed at Calamity’s feet. Calamity grinned, guessed at the trick required by Furlong and accepted the challenge. Stepping over the coin, she advanced seven paces towards the centre of the pen and the crowd watched in silence, wondering what she planned to do. Calamity turned, sending the whip’s lash snaking out the moment she faced where the coin lay. An explosive crack sounded, a spurt of dust rose from the hard-packed ground, and the coin spun high into the air. Having duplicated the Army expert’s trick, Calamity next proceeded to improve on it. Striding forward, she caught the coin as it fell and flipped it back to its owner.
Never one to miss being in on any fun going. Tophet Tombes finished rolling a cigarette. Gripping the top rail of the pen, he swung himself up and sat astride the pole.
“Got a light, Calam?” he yelled and thrust the cigarette between his teeth.
Turning to face the speaker, Calamity saw an opening for a more spectacular trick. Without ever having been on a stage, or in a business that required a study of human nature, Calamity knew instinctively that her next trick would go down better if she showed folks just how dangerous it could be.
Instead of striking at the cigarette jutting from Tombes’ mouth, Calamity aimed slightly ahead of the scout and let her lash coil around the rail on which he sat. Excited and unbelieving comments rose as the nearest of the audience saw the groove Calamity’s whip carved in the stout timber. Having duly impressed her audience, Calamity went ahead with the trick.
Taking sight carefully, for a wrong move could be deadly, Calamity struck again. Crack! The whip made its noise and the cigarette in Tombes’ mouth burst into a ruined cloud of paper and shreds of tobacco. Mutters and chatter rose as the watching crowd realised that Calamity had shattered the cigarette without also carving a sizeable divot out of the scout’s face.
“I still think that whip hurt my horse!” Aileen stated as Calamity began another series of whip cracks.
“Do, huh?” grunted Killem. “Watch this.”
Swinging up on the pen’s rail, Killem rolled back his shirt’s left sleeve and extended a brawny, bare arm shoulder high. Calamity nodded and moved closer. Once more she sent the whip licking out, its tip kicking a chip of wood from the rail and hacking a gouge in the timber. Drawing back her arm again, Calamity took careful sight and estimated the distance. Out coiled the long lash, headed straight at Dobe Killem’s bared arm.
Aileen gasped and tried to look away. Even the river loafers, men with little or no interest in anything other than themselves, held their breath as the whip’s lash, which had carved a groove in solid timber, curled itself around Killem’s flesh. Yet Killem gave no sign of pain, his grin never flickered for an instant; and when the lash fell away Aileen could see no damage to the freighter’s skin.
“But—But—!” she gasped.
“It’s all in how you strike,” Furlong told his daughter. “Used one way that whip would strip the flesh from a man’s bones—.”
“Charles!” yelped his wife.
“D—Don’t, papa!” Aileen went on with a shudder.
“All right, honey. But used the other, and I doubt if Calamity would tell you how it’s done, the whip just coils around and doesn’t hurt.”
Across the pen, Calamity’s skin was attracting just as much attention, but for a different reason. The burly man with the livid weal on his face ran his forefinger along the groove left by the whip, then touched the ridge on his face. Twisting his face into what might be passed as a friendly grin, the man turned to Tombes.
“Who’s that gal?”
“That’s Calamity Jane, friend,” Tombes replied, a touch of pride in his voice.
“Reckon you must know her real well, letting her take that cigarette out of your mouth,” the man went on. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to chance it.”<
br />
“There’s no danger with a gal like Calamity handling the whip,” Tombes answered.
“She’s good with one, huh?” put in a second of the trio, fingering his side.
“As good as they come,” Tombes stated.
The interest shown by the men did not strike Tombes as being strange. He knew that few city folks ever saw a member of the bull whip breed in action. Nor did the scout give a thought to the mark across the biggest man’s cheek.
“I’d sure hate her to take into me with that damned thing,” remarked the third man. “Don’t reckon she would though.”
“Wouldn’t, huh?” grinned Tombes. “There’s a bunch in town who don’t reckon so.”
“How’s that?” asked the biggest man.
“Night we arrived ole Calam run across a bunch jumping a young feller and cut in to help him. Turned—.”
“Hey, Tophet!” Calamity called. “Come on over and let’s see what else we can show ‘em.”
“Why sure,” Tombes replied and jumped down from the fence to walk over to where Calamity stood.
“Reckon it’s her, Jules?” the second man asked, watching Tombes slouch away.
“She’d be the right size, and that damned thing sounded just like when whoever it was jumped us. Let’s go tell Max about this.”
“Danged lil show-off,” grinned Tombes as he joined Calamity.
“Was just showing them how the other half live,” she replied. “Anyways, I didn’t want that gal thinking I’d hurt her hoss.”
“Some fellers over that way was some took by you, gal,” the scout remarked.
“Where they at?”
“Over there—Nope, that’s them just walking away. Fact being, one of ‘em looked like he might’ve tangled with a whip his-self.”
Calamity stopped coiling her whip and looked in the direction indicated by the scout. Even as she looked, a fourth man joined the trio. A low hiss left Calamity’s lips as she saw that the newcomer’s right arm hung in a sling. The quartet stood for a moment, then began to walk away towards the waterfront.