by J. T. Edson
After yelling a warning to Kerry, Lord Henry gave thought to defending himself, or freeing himself from Potter’s grasp. Before he shouted, the Englishman showed that, trained under the newfangled Queensbury rules though he might be, he could take care of himself in a more basic and rule-free style of fighting. Even as Wingett sprang forward, meaning to take advantage of the Englishman’s helpless condition, Lord Henry lashed up a right-foot kick with the ease of a savate exponent. Caught in the belly by the smashing impact of a fancy, well-shone boot, Wingett reeled backward with hands clawing at his middle and a desire to get rid of his last meal and drinks filling him.
Following on the kick which setted Wingett, if only temporarily, Lord Henry saw Kerry’s danger, gave warning and set about freeing himself. Having witnessed the effective way in which the Englishman fought, Potter intended to hang on to a comparatively safe hold until further help arrived, so clamped hold tighter with his arms.
Down and back slashed Lord Henry’s right foot, its heel catching the bulky skinner’s shin bone where little flesh covered it to cushion the impact. Pain made Potter yelp and relax his grip slightly. Before it could be tightened again, Lord Henry sucked in a deep breath, expanding his chest, pressed his right hand on the left without interlacing the fingers, and forced his elbows apart. Doing so caused Potter’s arms to open and loosen their hold. Swiftly Lord Henry exhaled, lowered his arms, pivoted inside the other’s grasp and rammed an elbow into Potter’s solar plexus. A grunt left Potter’s lips and he backed off a step to catch an almost classical uppercut from Lord Henry’s right fist. Before the Englishman could cut in and finish Potter off, Wingett landed a blow to the side of his head and sprawled him into the bar.
On the brawl went, with the gandy dancers, never averse to buckling down to a fight, pitching in. Not that they took sides, but waded in at the nearest man and added a hectic quota of danger to all the original contestants. Excitement, mingled with an antipathy to the kind of woman who usually looked down on them, led the remainder of the saloon girls to join in. It might have gone badly for Calamity and Beryl had the six girls made a concerted attack, but after taking a few wild slaps, punches and kicks, they forgot their original intentions and, in some cases, revived ancient grudges, in a wild melee where one just grabbed, hit or kicked at the nearest person without regard for who she might be or what her position in life. Chairs exploded under fighting bodies, ladies overturned, glass splintered and crashed.
Attracted by the sound of the brawl, guests from the hotel and passers-by gathered at the barroom door to see what was happening. One of the first to arrive was the man who brought the cattle for sale to Corben. On the point of entering the room, he halted as he saw the fighting, threw a glance at where Calamity and two saloon girls went rolling in an all-fired tangle over a table top, grinned and remained by the door.
A gandy dancer, caught by a punch, reeled toward the door, saw Wheatley leaning with calm detachment to one side of it and rushed at him. In addition to being a mighty efficient valet, Wheatley had followed his employer into the army and held the rank of sergeant—in a day when senior ranks were chosen for their ability to enforce discipline physically if necessary, rather than for educational attainments—and possessed skills not usually found in a man following such a sedentary occupation. Without dropping the watch and coat he held. Wheatley slipped the gandy dancer’s punch, coming up inside it to drive his head forward. A solid click of bone on bone sounded, but Wheatley’s butt sent the top of his skull cracking against the other man’s nose. Dazed and agony-filled, the gandy dancer wobbled back a few steps, decided to ignore the Englishman and sought for a fresh target. His eyes focused unsteadily on the nearest of the onlookers and he made for the cattle-seller. Normally, the gandy dancer would have studied the man’s six foot three of height, enormous muscular development, and avoid antagonizing him. Dazed and wild with rage, he went for the big man and launched a punch. With almost casual ease, the big man blocked the blow and shot forward his other fist. The gandy dancer appeared to fly backward, landing on the floor and sliding under the feet of Big Win and Beryl to bring them crashing down. Maybe he might have enjoyed being underneath two furiously struggling women, their exposed legs threshing and flailing before his eyes, but was in no condition to see the attractive sight. After rolling from the man who knocked her down, Beryl found herself in trouble. She landed face down with Win kneeling astride her, twisting one arm up behind her back. Sheer instinctive self-preservation saved Beryl. Reaching over with her free hand, she tried to push the fingers from the trapped wrist and rolled on to her right side in an effort to throw the other girl off. Inclining her body to the left to counteract Beryl’s attempt, Big Win released the wrist with one hand and used it to slap at the blonde’s head. Swiftly Beryl flung herself over to the left, toppling Win from her, then piled on top of her.
For almost fifteen minutes the fight raged and it would long be discussed around Otley Creek, compared favorably with other battles of a similar nature. From the damage done around the barroom, it seemed that Corben’s plan was working; even though the desire to see Kerry beaten to a pulp fell far short of expectation, due to the intervention of Lord Henry Farnes-Grable and Dobe Killem. If it came to a point, Kerry took more than his fair share in preventing the proposed beating once given a chance to handle a single adversary at a time.
A table flew through one of the front windows, followed by a gandy dancer, who walked into Dobe Killem’s hard right hand. Sent staggering by a kick to the rump from Calamity, a saloon girl walked into a haymaker thrown by Beryl and went out after the man. Then Beryl and Calamity returned to the business of handling the two girls who started the fuss.
At the door the big Texas cattleman caught a chair which hurled in his direction and crashed it into the chest of the thrower, Wingett, as the skinner rushed after it. Wingett reeled under the impact and a disinterested gandy dancer pushed him headlong across the room to where Kerry was engaged in altering the unlovely contours of Potter’s face. Seeing another enemy approaching, Kerry pivoted into a kick which caught Wingett under the jaw, lifted him erect, spun him around and draped him unconscious across a couple of exhausted, weakly tussling girls.
Somebody crashed into the big Texan’s back, bringing a frown to his face. Seeing a marshal’s badge on the jacket of the man who cannoned into him while hurrying into the room, the Texan held down his annoyance. At such a moment a lawman going about his business had more on his mind than the social courtesies and could be excused for not apologizing when he bumped into a bystander.
Skidding to a halt, Berkmyer stared around him. While he expected some damage, he never foresaw a wholesale battle requiring his handling. Not that it would take much handling at that stage of the proceedings. Several men and girls lay sprawled out and most of the others looked ready to tucker off at any second. The sight of Dobe Killem sinking a punch into Sharpie’s belly and dropping the deputy to his knees did not worry Berkmyer, for he and his assistant merely tolerated each other at the best of times. What dug into the marshal was seeing Kerry Barran still on his feet and, although marked up some, not battered into a wreck.
Exhausted, aching and sore, Kerry smashed a right across Potter’s jaw and knocked the man flying, then the hunter slipped and went to his hands and knees. Gasping for breath, Kerry stayed down and shook his head to clear it. He heard a snarl of rage and looked up to see Berkmyer looming above him. Out lashed the marshal’s foot, driving viciously at Kerry. Desperately the big hunter tried to avoid the kick. He only partially succeeded. Throwing his body aside, he moved too slowly in his exhausted state and, although saving his head, took the boot under the shoulder. Pain knifed through him and he went rolling helplessly on the floor.
Seeing the unprovoked attack, Lord Henry did not hesitate. He had just dropped Schmidt with an uppercut that threatened to stretch the German’s bull neck and sprang forward. Profiting from his experience with Sharpie, Lord Henry did not allow the marshal’s badge
to influence him. Out shot his right in a punch which caught Berkmyer full in the center of the face, throwing him backward. Berkmyer landed rump first on the floor in the doorway. Snarling with rage, he reached for his gun.
“Leave it,” ordered a drawling Texas voice, its authoritative hardness checked by the click of a cocking Colt.
Turning his head Berkmyer glared through eyes blurred with tears of pain at the speaker. First he saw high-heeled, fancy-stitched boots with good spurs on the heels; then levis pants, hanging outside the boots and with the cuffs turned back. The pants legs stretched a long way before a good quality gun-belt crossed them, an ivory-handled Army Colt in the left holster, its mate lined on the marshal with practiced ease. Above the levis a narrow waist widened to a great spread of shoulders clothed in made-to-measure costly shirt and real silk bandana. Golden blond hair framed an almost classically handsome face, while an expensive white Stetson hung back on its storm-strap. While the interfering Texan looked something of a dandy, that did not fool Berkmyer, who knew the man’s name and reputation.
So did at least one other person in the room.
Shirt torn, nose bloody, bruised and sweat-soaked, hair even more wildly tangled than usual, Calamity expended some of her last energy in a wobbly right to the black-haired girl’s chin and toppled her to the floor. Then, while turning to look for a fresh antagonist, she saw the Texan.
“M-Mark!” she croaked, the best she could manage in her present condition.
The action proved her undoing. An equally exhausted, tattered Win swung a wild punch at and missed Beryl but caught Calamity at the side of the jaw. Down went Calamity, landing on top of Potter, and a moment later Win crashed on top of her, knocked there by the last blow Beryl could manage. After delivering what proved to be the last punch of the fight, Beryl suddenly realized where she was, what she had been doing, and guessed how she must look, her coat gone, blouse and skirt torn and stockings in tatters. However, she had not the strength to flee from the room and sank to her knees, sobbing in exhaustion.
Chapter 6
A DISTURBED NIGHT FOR MISS CANARY
SLOWLY LORD HENRY LOWERED HIS FISTS AND stood gasping for breath, yet alert for more trouble. His eyes roamed around the room, seeing Killem and Kerry alone remained on their feet, then his attention went to where his sister knelt by the unconscious shapes of Calamity and Big Win.
“See to Lady Beryl, Wheatley,” he said as the valet came forward. “I’ll take my coat.”
The hotel manager appeared, a mild little man who showed distress at the damage to his barroom, but even more so at the sight of his most distinguished guest standing with vest torn open, shirt ripped and face marked up some as a result of the fight. Spluttering his apologies, the manager came toward Lord Henry, saw Beryl and began to gobble incoherently.
“Send for a doctor, my good chap,” Lord Henry interrupted. “And have one of your maids attend to my sister.”
“Yes, sir, I mean your Lordship,” the manager answered. “I’ll have every one of those sluts jailed and run out of town for attacking——”
“I’d wait until you hear what Lady Beryl wants first,” smiled Lord Henry, and looked to where Killem knelt at Calamity’s side. “Is Calam all right?”
“I’ve seen her look better,” grinned the freighter, his examination showing that no permanent damage was likely to result from the brawl. Hooking an arm under the girl, he raised her to her feet and carried her to one of the few tables left standing. “Hey, bartender, fetch me a bottle of pain killer here!”
“Sure thing, Dobe,” called the man.
Before settling about the business of clearing up the fight damage, Lord Henry glared across the room in the town marshal’s direction. Still seated on the floor and covered by the blond giant’s Colt, Berkmyer tried to assert his authority.
“I’ll jail the lot of you!” he blustered.
“You wouldn’t want to bet on that?” asked the Texan, secure behind his lined revolver.
“I’ll do it if I have to deputize every man in town!” Berkmyer insisted.
“Put up your gun, sir,” said Lord Henry briskly, coming forward. “There will be no further need for it.”
“You could be right at that,” drawled the Texan and slid the Colt away.
Shoving himself to his feet and making sure he kept his hands well clear of his holstered gun, Berkmyer tried, without success, to meet the Englishman’s cold gaze. Reaching inside his jacket, Lord Henry extracted a large, official-looking envelope and removed a stiff sheet of paper from it.
“I suppose you can read, my man,” he said coldly, ripping open the paper and holding it toward Berkmyer.
“Sure I can read!” snorted the marshal, accepting the paper and glancing down at it. “So what’s th——”
The indignation died off as he stared down at the printed heading of the paper and began to read its message. After reading only three lines, his eyes bulged out, sweat trickled down his face and he realized that he might as well forget any plans for vengeance through the law.
“I—I——” he began, then sought for a scapegoat. “If that damned hunter caused you any——”
“He did not!” barked Lord Henry. “Mr. Barran was set about by a bunch of ruffians, after trying to avoid trouble. If anybody is to blame, they are, although I think they’ve been punished enough.”
“Sure,” grunted Berkmyer.
“And I may say I’m not satisfied with your ideas of doing your duty,” the Englishman continued. “Instead of trying to level unsupported accusations, you would be better employed in organizing aid for the fighters and learning how much damage has been done with a view to obtaining payment for it.
“I’ll do that,” Berkmyer promised and slouched away.
Family ties and financial support were all very well; but that tall dude carried a letter requesting that all Army officers, Federal and town marshals, county sheriffs and other local authorities give him every assistance and full cooperation. Being signed by the President of the United States himself, the letter carried weight. Berkmyer did not intend bucking a man with influence going that high in the land.
Swinging away from the cold, demanding eyes, Berkmyer started to call in help to deal with the victims of the fight. Lord Henry watched the proceedings for a moment, then turned to the blond giant.
“Thank you for your timely help, sir. Of course, I doubt if the marshal meant to use his gun.”
“I’d hate like hell to count on that,” replied the Texan. “Best go and see how Calam’s doing.”
Half an hour later the Texan sat with Lord Henry, Killem and Kerry Barran in the hotel’s dining room. All the men had received such medication as their injuries required and the doctor still patched up other participants in the brawl. Beryl and Calamity had been taken to the blonde’s room to be patched up and even as the Texan spoke he saw Calamity enter.
Limping to the table, Calamity grinned all around and waved the men into their chairs again. On taking her seat she winced and hitched her rump up from the chair.
“Whooee!” she said. “I’d sure like to know who bit me there.” She looked across the table. “How’s it feel, Hank?”
“Huh?” grunted Lord Henry. “Oh, passing fair, Calam. And you?”
“Great. Apart from being all bruises except where I’m lumps. Say, that sister of yours is some gal. She’s up there now telling the manager that he’d best not fire any of the gals, and she expects them to be kept off work at full pay until they’re well again.”
“Trust Beryl to do the right thing,” smiled Lord Henry. “By the way, do you know Mark Counter?”
“I sure do,” Calamity answered, eyeing the blond giant with warmth. “Just my lousy luck. All stove-up and feeble, and Mark Counter in town.”
“It’ll be more peaceable for me, Calam,” Mark told her.
Calamity had met Mark on two previous occasions and enjoyed each meeting to the full.* Nor did her enjoyment stem from just that fact
that Mark rode as a member of Ole Devil Harding’s legendary floating outfit and was right bower to the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, as well as being very rich in his own right and a top-grade fighting man to boot.†
“Will you do a poor gal a favor, Mark?” the girl asked.
“Anything,” he replied.
“Well, Dobe’s busy right now and you know a gal daren’t walk the streets after dark without a big strong man to protect her.”
“So?”
“So walk me down to my wagon. I want to get my medicine bag out. That city doctor doesn’t know sic ’em about curing aches got in a brawl.”
“If you’ll excuse me, gents,” grinned Mark, shoving back his chair.
“Won’t you stay and eat first, Calamity?” asked Lord Henry.
“Reckon I might manage a bit,” she agreed. “A gal needs to keep up her strength for—walking to her wagon.”
“I always find a good fight gives me an appetite,” Lord Henry admitted.
“You should be good and hungry right now,” grinned Killem. “Say, Mark, why didn’t you cut in?”
“I didn’t want to spoil your fun,” Mark answered. “And I’ve got to be in one piece when I go down trail in the morning. Fact being Dusty told me I’d best come back that way.”
“It pays to keep Cap’n Fog happy,” chuckled Killem, and the talk drifted to stories which circulated about the exploits of the Rio Hondo gun wizard.
Food came, to be eaten with gusto; although more than one face showed signs of strain when sinking teeth into something a mite harder than a sore jaw cared to accommodate. Conversation flashed around the table and Kerry Barran found himself joining in more and more. Never since his boyhood days on the farm in Missouri had he found such enjoyable company and he made the most of it. Knowing something of the hunter’s silent nature, Killem threw interested glances at Kerry and marvelled at the change.