Wanted! Belle Starr!

by J. T. Edson

  In spite of bringing up their hands clenched in a manner indicating they had a knowledge of fist fighting, the pair did not indulge in any preliminary sparring. As soon as they judged they were in range, each began to throw punches. Being so evenly matched in size, the first blows arrived almost simultaneously. Caught on the cheek as her right hand arrived against Drusilla’s left eye, Belle immediately sent her other knuckles up to the breast and received an equally solid hook to the solar plexus in return.

  For several seconds, the toe to toe slugging went on with reckless abandon. However, combined with neither being at her best, the speed with which the pair sought to deliver their punches prevented either from producing one blow capable of rendering the recipient hors de combat. However, the exchange kept them at arms’ length until a miss by Belle brought them together.

  On going into something resembling a boxer’s clinch, the combatants grappled. After giving and taking a couple of blows at close quarters, the lady outlaw learned her opponent’s ability was not restricted to fist fighting. Feeling herself being grasped in a familiar way, she was unable to avoid a throw over Drusilla’s hip. The thickness of the carpet cushioned her landing somewhat. Seeing the Englishwoman looming over her with a foot raised to stamp, she caught and twisted at it before it could descend. Sent staggering by the push she received, Drusilla was prevented from going down by colliding with the table. On turning away from it, she found Belle was already standing up.

  Coming together, the lady outlaw and the Englishwoman continued to employ tactics more usual between men. Fists flew, wrestling holds were obtained and broken, throws of various kind sent first one and then the other flying. Somewhere along the way, without any deliberate intent, the right sleeves was torn from Belle’s blouse. Later, her attempt to strangle Drusilla came to nothing when the cord of the monocle which she was using snapped. The punch which came up beneath her chin as the force she had been exerting caused her arms to open sent her stumbling backwards.

  Bending at the waist, the Englishwoman charged to ram her head into the lady outlaw’s chest. Despite the croak of pain she elicited, the attack proved less beneficial than she wished. Driven backwards and going down, Belle manage to grab and drag her assailant with her. Feeling her equilibrium being destroyed, Drusilla could not regain it. Forced to follow the other woman, the two knees which came up flipped her in a half somersault to land on her back beyond the short cropped brunette head.

  Coming to their feet more slowly than they had earlier in the struggle, the embattled pair plunged together without hesitation. After trading a couple of less effective punches, they stumbled into each other’s arms. Having struggled for a few seconds, they tripped and fell still locked in the mutually encircling limbs. Nor, despite the landing provoking gasps from both, did alighting on the carpet cause them to break away. Instead, they began to churn over and over in a tight, squirming mill.

  Although both women had relied upon not inconsiderable skill at boxing and wrestling until falling, there was nothing scientific about the conflict which ensued. A growing exhaustion mingled with primeval instincts for self preservation, caused them to forget such basically masculine tactics and the fighting became entirely feminine in what was being done.

  Hair was pulled, causing the destruction of the hitherto untouched honey blonde bun, or used as an aid to bang heads on the floor. Hands punched, slapped, grabbed, clutched or scrabbled indiscriminately at faces, shoulders, backs and bosoms. However, although attempts were made to scratch, neither had nails sufficiently long for them to break the skin. Shapely legs, stockings and tights soon ruined, flailed and intertwined incessantly. Knees were driven between thighs, or against stomachs with an equally unguided vigor. Provoked by anger and mutual suffering, squeals, grunts, gasps and garbled profanity served to punctuate the various instinctive activities.

  The thrashing about on the carpet continued unabated for several minutes, taking the furiously struggling pair under the table and from one side to the other three times. Despite each having tried repeatedly, neither had been able to retain an ascendancy gained more than briefly before having it wrested from her. Then, without either having sought consciously to do so, they came to their knees and their fingers were interlocked. Sucking in gasping breaths, they engaged in a test of strength which brought them to their feet. Practically identical in physical attributes, their powers were equally sapped by previous exertion and they were in a state of stalemate. Realizing this at the same instant, they snatched apart their hands. Then, as if acting upon a prearranged signal, each put all she had into delivering a right cross.

  As had happened with the first blows struck after the discarding of the skirts, the fists arrived almost simultaneously!

  Driven across the room with no control over her movements, Belle went down by an easy chair. Propelled in the opposite direction, buckling legs carrying her without conscious guidance, Drusilla sprawled across and slid from the table. Although neither was rendered unconscious, they were too far gone in exhaustion to have any thought of resuming the fight.

  Some ten minutes went by before Belle was able to give any consideration to her position. With a return of cogent thought, she glanced over her shoulder while using the arm and seat of the chair to help her rise. Although the blood from her nose had dried up, she ached from head to toe. However, she realized her condition might have been far worse. It was obvious why the Englishwoman had not come to finish her off. With her hair resembling a well-soaked mop, left cheek discolored by a bruise and the remnants of her ruined blouse flapping about her torso, Drusilla was only just hauling herself painfully from the floor with the arm of the chair she had occupied while playing poker.

  “W—Wait!” the honey blonde gasped, seeing the lady outlaw turning towards her.

  “H—Had enough?” Belle inquired, just as breathlessly, hoping the answer would be in the affirmative.

  “From the way you look and I feel,” Drusilla estimated, but there was no longer any trace in her voice of the arrogant bombast which had so annoyed the lady outlaw ever since their first meeting. “We both have had enough.”

  “You could be right at that,” Belle conceded, subsiding in a tired slump on to the easy chair. “I’ll admit I’ve felt more lively in my time.”

  “You know, old thing, now you mention it, so have I,” seconded the honey blonde, also sitting down. “Blast it, I must be getting old.”

  “If you are, honey,” the lady outlaw drawled, feeling no concern over her former antagonist, being so close to the Manhattan Navy revolver in her reticule. “I’d hate to have tangled with you when you were young and spry.”

  “But I must be!” Drusilla insisted. “I really believed you were one of those dreadful women—women who’re infesting the hotel. You were acting so obnoxiously, I thought you deserved to have your corns trimmed.”

  “You didn’t do so badly in that yourself,” Belle confessed. “I had you figured along those lines myself.”

  “I can’t remember you making a single slip that might have warned me off,” the Englishwoman asserted with sincerity. “It wasn’t until I felt my head starting to go woozy and guessed you’d slipped something nasty into the port that I realized something might be wrong.”

  “Seeing the room starting to spin around was what started me to get just a teensy mite suspicious about you,” the lady outlaw admitted, deciding the honey blonde had a sense of humor much like her own. “Until then, you hadn’t done a thing to make me change my mind about you. I just kept right on thinking you were an unpleasant Limey soft-shell, but you knew too much about cards for me to chance cheating. So, when you seemed to be starting to wonder why the rest of the players hadn’t shown up, I decided to slip you a mickey and get it over.”

  “Which just goes to prove mater was right when she said, ‘Great minds think alike’,” Drusilla asserted, as if imparting information of great importance and, despite showing signs of exhaustion, her beautiful features were made pleasant b
y a warm smile. “I’d been thinking much the same about you and, as I too doubted whether I could get away with cheating, I settled upon taking what you had brought with you and going on my merry way before the rest of your motley crew arrived.” Touching her bruised cheek gingerly with a finger, she went on,” It never occurred to me that we might be birds of a feather.”

  “Or me,” Belle seconded, removing the ruined blouse and, tossing it to the floor, indicating the knees which showed through her torn tights. “We could have saved losing some of our feathers if we’d told each other our real names in the first place. The one you’re using ought to have warned me off. I know it sounds ‘teddibly British, don’t you know’, but nobody could really have a name like ‘the Honorable Drusilla St. John-Bellweather’.”

  “I’ll have to tell the Honorable Drusilla that the next time we take tea together,” the honey blonde commented. “She’ll be rather miffed.”

  “I’d be more than rather miffed if I’d been saddled with a name like that,” the lady outlaw stated. “Although some folks might say the same about mine. Disappointing as it must be, happen you’ve heard tell of me, I’m Belle Starr.”

  “I’d say you made me see stars, old thing, but you’ve probably heard something like it so many times before,” the Englishwoman replied. “Yes, I do believe I may have heard of you. But, if you think ‘Drusilla St. John-Bellweather’ sounds too British to be true, my full name is Amelia Penelope Diana Benkinsop. It’s far too much of a mouthful, though, so my friends call me ‘Benkers’.”

  “Hi, Benkers,” Belle greeted and, rising from the easy chair as the honey blonde stood up, they walked forward to shake hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Three – I’ve Never Pulled a Jail Break

  “Gracious, Florence,” Belle Starr ejaculated, needing only one glance to realize something of a very disturbing and serious nature must be responsible for the hurried arrival of her visitor. Rising from the dressing-table at which she had been writing a letter, she went on, “Whatever’s wrong?”

  “It’s Miss Benkers!” the newcomer replied in a voice which, although devoid of any discernible regional accent, established her origins as being British working class.

  Five foot four inches in height, close to buxom, with tightly curled yellowish-red hair taken up in a neat pile on top of her head, Florence Drakefield was in her late twenties. Her normally cheerful attractive features were redolent of distress. Cut in a style calculated to enhance her curvaceous ‘hour glass’ figure, the colorful dress she had on gave no indication that she was the maid who “Drusilla St. John-Bellweather’ had implied was not deserving of trust. While this was the capacity in which she was employed, the lady outlaw was neither surprised nor puzzled by the obvious concern she was displaying.

  “What’s happened to her?” Belle demanded.

  “S—She’s been done to rights,” Florence gasped, the heaving of her imposing bosom caused as much by deep emotion as the exertion of hurrying to deliver the news.

  “Done to rights?” Belle repeated, the term being new to her.

  “She’s had her collar felt and not a chance to take stoppo!” the maid explained. Then, seeing no sign of comprehension, she realized the British criminal jargon she was using in her perturbation was not understood, she continued, “She’s been arrested.”

  “The hell you say!” the lady outlaw snapped. “When did it happen?”

  “About half an hour ago!” the maid replied, looking close to tears. “I—I—!”

  “Come and sit down, honey,” Belle suggested, crossing to take the distressed red head by the arm and leading her gently towards the bed. “Then take your time and tell me how it happened.”

  Four days had elapsed since the lady outlaw had learned the true identity of the beautiful honey blonde Englishwoman she had selected as, by her standards, deserving to be fleeced!

  Not only had Belle heard of Amelia Penelope Diana ‘Benkers’ Benkinsop, but European criminals she had met gave the Englishwoman credit for having acquired a fame on their side of the Atlantic Ocean which equaled her own. Nevertheless, the discovery had come as a surprise. Usually news passed quickly through the criminal element. In fact, even though she had stayed east of the Mississippi River, word of the last visit paid by Benkers to the United States had reached the lady outlaw. On this occasion, there had not been so much as a rumor of her presence from the gathering places for outlaws in Kansas or on the way to Austin.

  Now they had met, considering the events of the evening, Belle had been willing to agree that the comparison between the Englishwomen and herself was justified!

  Furthermore, in spite of the means by which they had become acquainted, a warm friendship had developed between the two far from law-abiding beauties! xxv

  After shaking hands, Benkers had offered to help tidy up the sitting room of the mansion. Learning she was correct in her assumption of how Belle had obtained access to such a location, the obvious respectability of which was calculated to lessen suspicion, she had insisted upon sharing the cost of hiring it, pointing out they could recoup the money by working together, using the premises to lure genuine victims into a game of poker. The offer had been accepted without hesitation. In addition of having taken a liking to the Englishwoman and feeling sure the association would prove profitable, the lady outlaw had not been averse to having an opportunity to show her skill and see how well the honey blonde could manipulate cards for the purposes of cheating.

  With the room returned to the condition in which they had found it, Belle and Benkers had done what they could to repair the ravages caused to their appearances during the fight. Washing and tidying their hair had made passable improvements in that direction, although nothing could be done about the bruise on the Englishwoman’s cheek. Nor, while the discarded skirts had served to conceal the holes in tights and stockings, was there any way in which the ruined blouses could be made to pass unnoticed in public. However, the lady outlaw had claimed these would not prove an insurmountable obstacle. Explaining why this was, she and the honey blonde had retrieved their money and left the mansion.

  Having intended to walk back to the hotel from which she and Benkers had come, Belle had not arranged for the cab to collect them and the return journey was made on foot. Selecting a route which avoided lighted areas where the discrepancies of their attire might have attracted unwanted attention, she had taken her companion to the boarding house owned by her aunt. While on the way, remarking she had the means to protect them against molestation if the need should arise, she had learned the honey blonde too was armed. Benkers had also disclosed that, since commencing her present visit to the United States, she had been taught by members of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit to draw and fire from a Western style gunbelt and holster the Webley Royal Irish Constabulary revolver she was carrying in her reticule. Having explained how she had made their acquaintance, she had confirmed Belle’s supposition that it was she who had swindled Owen O’Brien in Dallas. Reaching the lady outlaw’s room without incident, the loan of a blouse and make up to cover the bruise had made it possible for the Englishwoman to return to the hotel without anything untowards being noticeable about her appearance.

  Meeting in the suite occupied by Benkers the following morning, Belle had been introduced to Florence Drakefield and learned that, far from being untrustworthy, she was a loyal and devoted employee. This had been a contradiction of the conclusion drawn previously by the lady outlaw regarding their relationship. In keeping with the role she was playing, the honey blonde had treated her maid with harsh severity in public and, when not required for her duties, Florence was staying in more humble accommodation elsewhere.

  Having discovered they had much in common, particularly in their outlook on life, the more Belle and Benkers had seen of each other, the stronger had grown the bond between them. They had also found their association lucrative.

  Approached with the proposition, the butler had been amenable and the pair had held two more pok
er games at the mansion. On each occasion, such was their individual and combined expertise, the victims had gone away without suspecting the losses sustained had resulted from anything other than an unfortunate run of the cards. Concluding it would be inadvisable to use the premises again, but enjoying their happy and profitable partnership too much to want to bring it to an end so soon, they had elected to work a confidence trick upon a wealthy, less than scrupulous, businessman who had come to their attention.

  “Did some of the women we took in the poker games have it done?” Belle asked, feeling sure that Benkers would not have risked jeopardizing their latest proposition by indulging in a private criminal activity and falling foul of the law as a result.

  “No!” Florence denied vehemently, having sat on the bed and made a visible effort to regain some control of her emotions. Then her expressive face registered indignation and, starting to rise, she went on, “You needn’t worry, even if they had, Miss Benkers would never split on where to find you!”

  “I never for a moment thought she would,” Belle drawled, her manner reassuring. “But I can’t start figuring out how I can help her until I know what’s happened.”

  “Sorry, Miss Starr,” the maid apologized, sinking back on to the quilt with an air of being mollified, “It’s just that—!”

  “I know, honey,” the lady outlaw said gently, as the explanation was brought to an inconclusive end. “Tell me everything you know.”

  “You wouldn’t think there could be such lousy luck!” Florence commenced, her tone bitter. “A bloody Pink-Eye recognized her from the last time she was over here and knew she’s still wanted for a job she pulled in New York. So he brought the marshal and had her arrested to be held until he can arrange for her to be taken back.”

  “There has to be more to it than that,” Belle asserted. “From what I know of him, with the kind of reputation she’s made for herself and the company she’s been keeping, the marshal would want something a whole heap stronger than just a Pink-Eye’s word before he’d chance taking in tthe Honorable Drusilla St. John-Bellweather’.”