The Floating Outfit 19

by J. T. Edson

  “That’s funny,” replied Madam Bulldog calmly. “I did get them.”

  She turned her cards face up and Calamity stared at four threes and a four. It came as a real shock to Calamity who had been betting high, wide and handsome, assuming that Madam Bulldog drew a flush which her hand would beat.

  Thinking of the game later Mark decided the earlier run of luck clouded Calamity’s judgment. There had been turns when she had pulled a last card miracle at stud during those earlier hands. Then, as almost always happens, the cards swung their favor the other way completely. From being able to do everything right Calamity made the complete circle and all went wrong.

  Now Madam Bulldog started to needle Calamity in the same way the girl worked on her while winning and Calamity, while knowing she was being needled, rose to the bait like a hungry rainbow trout after a floating fly.

  Having found Calamity’s weaker game to be stud, Madam dealt it every time and mocked the girl for changing to draw. Against her better judgment, Calamity tossed out the first cards face down, then turned the second over to bet on instead of all five face down for draw.

  The taunting and goading were all accepted as completely fair and honest tactics in the rough-and-tumble of no limit poker and a player who was not a past-master, or mistress, of the art of applying the needle, had no right to be playing.

  “Oh hum!” sighed Madam Bulldog, tossing a straight flush face down on the table, into the dead-wood, acting as if she had bluffed Calamity on a seven high, no-nothing hand. “I always reckon you should have the guts to call them when you bet on them. Lucky for me you didn’t though.”

  Calamity let out an annoyed grunt, not sure whether she could have beaten Madam’s unseen hand and wishing she had paid to see. She would not sink to the depths of trying to look at the hand without paying for the privilege.

  So Calamity sat back and the next time she felt Madam to be bluffing, she called the bet.

  “I’ve what it looked like,” replied Madam, contemptuously exposing a ten high flush. “You never called on that hoss-droppings you held, did you?”

  The game went on. Calamity’s temper crackled, but she knew to allow it to burst would be certain proof that she had met a better poker player and worse in her eyes, would brand her as a poor loser.

  At eleven o’clock Mark rose from the table, leaving the saloon to make his rounds of the town. He walked the silent streets and kept his ears and eyes open. He knew Wardle and Schanz would never have the guts to stack against him on even terms, but they might chance a shot from some dark alley. So Mark stayed alert, using the caution he gained while serving as a deputy under Dusty Fog in Quiet Town.

  He gave little thought to the big game at the Bull’s Head. The meeting had so far come off much more peaceably than he expected. It also had not gone the way he would have bet on it going, for so far Calamity had been licked at cussing and it looked like Madam could lick her at poker, for Mark admitted the saloonkeeper had been the better player of the two, with the wisdom of extra years to back her. That there would be a head-on physical clash Mark did not doubt, but he also doubted if it would come until Calamity lost out at drinking and cards. It might even not come off until after the Cousins bunch arrived, depending on how Calamity felt at losing.

  Mark did not hurry his rounds, nor did he waste time in worrying about possible dangers. He called into the jail house, lit the lamp, checked the place, filled the desk log and left. Doc Connel’s house lay in darkness and Mark doubted if the good doctor would take kindly to being wakened at this hour to answer pointless questions about Tune Counter’s health.

  So after almost an hour Mark returned to the Bull’s Head. Passing the hotel he came on Viola carrying something he recognized as Calamity’s war bag and bedroll. From the look of this, and the fact that customers streamed out of the batwing doors, Mark judged the game to be over and that Calamity had come off second best.

  In the saloon the waiters harried the last of the customers through the door, driving out the indomitable few who stayed to the bitter end of the game. Madam Bulldog always insisted that the workers cleared everything up before they left at night, that all bottles and glasses be removed from the tables and all be left ready for the swampers to do their cleaning in the morning. Behind the bar Sam had the cash drawer open and counted the night’s take. It was heavier than usual for the spectators of the clash spent well as they watched.

  “Hi Mark!” called Calamity, taking the bedroll and war bag from Viola and looking to where the big Texan stood at the door of the saloon. “You need a deputy?”

  “I thought you didn’t need work, Calam gal,” Mark replied.

  “I do now,” she answered with a grin, then turned to Madam Bulldog. “I’ll change into my old gear and leave the rest in there.”

  After Calamity left the room Madam Bulldog sighed. “That girl’s good. I would hate to play her in another ten years’ time.”

  “She lost heavy?”

  “Heavy enough. Have a beer, unless you fancy something a mite stronger.”

  “Beer’ll do.”

  When Calamity stepped from the saloonkeeper’s office she wore a battered cavalry kepi, an old shirt, patched old pants and worn boots. Her old walnut gripped Navy Colt stuck in her waistband and she carried all her belongings, including the new gunbelt and holster with her. However, for all of losing her fancy duds, the new gunbelt and ivory butted Colt and her buckskin horse, Calamity had not offered to wager the most important of all her belongings, her saddle, carbine, whip and hand-gun. The rest she had lost meant nothing to her. She could always work and earn money to buy new clothes and a new horse. But without a saddle she could not work and without her firearms she could not protect herself while working. The whip too was a part of her stock-in-trade and she clung to it.

  “Have a drink, Calamity,” Madam said as the girl handed over her belongings. “If you want broke money it’s yours.”

  “Thanks,” grinned Calamity, holding out a hand. “You play a mean hand at poker and you licked me fair and square. I’ll take that drink though.”

  “What’ll it be, Calam?” asked Sam from behind the bar.

  “Whisky. You drinking with me, Madam?”

  Once more Madam Bulldog read the open challenge and did not try to avoid it. She hated drinking in public and would never have a better chance than right now, to show Calamity how well she could handle a bottle.

  Sam read the answer to his unasked question and poured four fingers of the house’s best whisky into each woman’s glass. Calamity took hers up, turned it between her fingers and looked at it.

  “This is ten year old stock,” Madam remarked calmly.

  “It’s not very big for its age, is it?” Calamity countered.

  There was a raw challenge in the words which Madam met head on and without a thought of avoiding it. She waved a hand towards the two pint glasses mostly used for beer.

  “Fill them up, Sam,” she said.

  Sam threw a startled look at his boss, but knew better than raise any objections. So he poured out the whisky, emptying one bottle and starting another to fill the glasses. He threw a look at Mark, hoping for guidance, but Mark stood back and let things go.

  “You’re not drinking Mark,” said Madam Bulldog.

  “I’ve had all I want for one night,” he replied.

  “So be it. Don’t let moss grow in the glass, girlie.”

  Saying that, Madam Bulldog raised her glass in a cheery salute to Calamity and started to drink. Not to be outdone, Calamity also raised her glass and began to let the whisky flow down her throat. She bit down a gagging cough as the liquor hit her, for Madam calmly held her own glass and drank at it without showing a sign.

  Not until the glasses were both empty did Calamity and Madam Bulldog set them down. Then they looked at each other quizzically. The whisky had not taken its effect yet and they stood erect, watching the other for any sign of weakening. On seeing none Madam nodded to Sam and ordered him to re
fill the glasses.

  “Here’s to you,” said Calamity, gripping her glass by the handle and lifting it from the bar-top.

  Then the whisky hit her, landing with the kick of a Missouri mule. Calamity gave a gasp, her eyes glazed over, the glass fell from her hand, her knees buckled and she went to the floor in a heap.

  For a moment Madam stood swaying over the girl, then raised her own glass and took a long swallow. She set the glass on the bar, turned to Mark and said in a cold sober tone:

  “Don’t reckon she could take her likker after all.”

  And then Madam Bulldog’s legs folded under her and she piled in a limp heap on to Calamity Jane.

  Dawn’s cold grey light crept through the window of Calamity Jane’s room at the hotel. The girl lay where Mark Counter left her, for he carried her home the previous night. Apart from removing her kepi and boots Mark had not troubled to undress her, but rolled her under the blankets of the bed while she still wore her shirt and pants.

  Calamity stirred, groaned, opened her eyes, clutched at her forehead and hurriedly closed her eyes again. She gave a moan, her mouth felt like she had been licking up skunk droppings and her head throbbed fit to burst. For a moment she lay on the bed, then her stomach started to turn somersaults, or so it seemed to her.

  With a low moan, Calamity rolled from her bed and staggered to the door of the room, opened it and made a hurried dash down the back stairs, out into the cold chill air of the morning, racing for the backhouse and hoping she would make it in time to prevent disgracing herself.

  A very sick and angry Calamity came from the backhouse. She felt mean, ornery on top of the sickness, the sort of condition when she had to have a drink, or go and bust something. So it was unfortunate that at that moment she saw the old swamper open the Bull’s Head Saloon’s side door ready to start his morning’s cleaning.

  Calamity, who had been in her present condition on several previous occasions, decided that the only sure cure would be a hair of the dog which bit her. Also she decided that her condition stemmed from the liquor at Madam Bulldog’s place and it must be Madam Bulldog who served the hair. So, with that thought in her mind, she headed for the saloon.

  On reaching the building she shoved open the side door and walked into the empty, almost deserted barroom. Calamity groaned a little as she looked at the bar and remembered the previous evening. She saw the glass of whisky left by Madame Bulldog, at least, it was a glass half full with whisky and would be just what she needed to satisfy her restless stomach.

  The old swamper turned. He also had an eye on the whisky, for only on very rare occasions did he see such a windfall left behind. Sam would have removed the glass the previous night, but had been more than occupied in getting Madam Bulldog to bed, so it lay where she set it down on the bar top.

  “Wha’ you wan’, gal?” asked the swamper, casting avaricious glances at the inviting glass of whisky and licking his lips. “Ain’t open yet.”

  “You soon will be,” Calamity replied and stepped forward.

  “Cain’t come in here!” wailed the man, stepping before her.

  “Don’t rile me pappy!” growled Calamity: “Or I’ll ram you feet first and head deep into the wall so we can use your ears for a hat rack.”

  With that she pushed by him and headed for the bar. He stood staring at her, then let out a moan of annoyance as he saw the girl take up the glass and raise it to her lips. The threat did not worry him, but this drinking of what he regarded as his private property hurt his tenderest feelings. His sense of duty was outraged and his stumpy, bowed old legs headed him across the room, then upstairs where he would find people to help him attend to the matter.

  Calamity held the glass in a shaking hand. The raw smell of the whisky came up to hit her, causing her to gag and her stomach to make a violent heave. She fought down the nausea with an effort, knowing that the whisky would still her troubled insides. She drank and felt a shudder run through her, then set the glass down on the bar top again. After standing for a few hours the whisky had a bitter bite to it and she felt she could use a cold beer to balance its effects.

  Raising her hand Calamity banged it down hard on the bar top. The sudden noise jarred her head and she let out a moan. The whisky might have settled her stomach but it did nothing to improve her temper. The pain in her head caused her to bang again and left her voice in a yell.

  “Hey! About getting this lousy joint open?”

  “We’re closed!” answered a sleepy but annoyed female voice from upstairs.

  That did not make Calamity feel any better. She pounded on the bar top once more and repeated her yelled demand for service. A sound from the head of the stairs brought her attention to where Viola and two more girls, tousle-haired, sleep eyed, with housecoats dragged over their night wear, stood glaring down at her with hostile gaze.

  “Why don’t you go where you came from?” asked Viola, never at her best or most friendly when wakened from her sleep in the small hours of the morning.

  “Why don’t you come down and try to make me?” Calamity answered truculently.

  An angry curse came from Viola’s lips. She studied Calamity and weighed up her chances of a single-handed tangle with the girl, then discarded the idea as being out of the question. However, her two friends also felt riled at having their beauty sleep despoiled and ruined. Between the three of them they ought to be able to hand even Calamity Jane her needings.

  “Let’s go down and toss her out, Viola,” suggested the chubby brunette at her right.

  “Yeah,” agreed the slim blonde at her left. “Hell, it’s only after seven and we were late getting to bed.”

  The three girls started down the stairs and Calamity saw that she would have to defend herself. She put down the glass which she had taken to sip at, clenched her fists and moved to face the stair head. Taking on these three girls would whet her appetite and prepare her for dealing with Madam Bulldog when the time came.

  “Hold it, Viola!”

  Madam Bulldog’s voice cracked out from the top of the stairs, just as her boss girl tensed ready to throw herself bodily at Calamity. The voice held the torment of the damned in it and told that, like Calamity, its owner suffered from the effects of a previous night’s drinking.

  Looking up the stairs Calamity focused her eyes on the owner of the Bull’s Head saloon. Madam Bulldog did not look her usual cool, friendly and immaculate self on this early morning. Like Calamity, she had gone to bed fully dressed except for her headdress and shoes; Sam, being a man of moral standing, had done no more than get his boss to her room and left her on the bed. Now she stood at the head of the stairs, bleary eyed, make-up smeared, hair hanging straggly and uncombed, not looking at all her usual self. Nor did she feel her usual self and one thing she did not want was to have her sleep shattered at this hour. The swamper had woke her by pounding on her door, he delivered an incoherent burble about some tough dame breaking into the saloon and drinking all the stock, so Madam came to investigate and found her girls already on the way down to deal with the invader.

  “Come on down here, you fat old cow!” Calamity bellowed. “Can’t a gal get a drink of your rotgut whisky without having to knock herself out trying to get some service?”

  “You get out of here,” replied Madam Bulldog, no less heatedly. “And when we open, come with a civil tongue in your head, or don’t come at all.”

  Up until that moment Calamity had been firmly determined to leave her fight with Madam Bulldog until after she helped side Mark Counter against the Cousin’s bunch. Only having a hangover always tended to make her temper as touchy as a teased rattlesnake, or even touchier.

  Which was unfortunate, for having a hangover had roughly the same effect on Madam Bulldog and at the moment she, too, suffered from a hangover.

  Any way one looked at it things were rapidly building up to a brawl.

  “Keep out of it, you three!” growled Madam Bulldog as she started down the stairs and passed her girls. �
�I’ve got my guts full of her and her yapping. It’s time we found out who’s the better woman.”

  Silence fell on the room as Madam Bulldog carried on down the stairs to where Calamity waited with clenched fists and a mocking grin. Calamity stood ready, her eyes on the other woman’s face and a feeling of eager anticipation in her heart, for this was the thing she came to Tennyson to do.

  Suddenly, as Madam Bulldog came towards her, without giving any hint of what she meant to do, Calamity lashed her right fist around. The knuckles cracked against Madam Bulldog’s cheek, snapping her head around and sending her staggering back into the banister at the bottom of the stair. Calamity let her breath out in a hiss, for that had been a beautiful blow.

  Eagerly Calamity moved forward, ready and willing to finish off the other woman as quickly as possible. Too late she saw Madam push her plump frame from the support of the banister and shoot out a punch. Calamity walked full into it, catching the hard fist full in the face and the next instant she went reeling back, feeling and tasting the hot salty touch of blood from her lips even as she went down between two tables. She shook her head and gasped a little, for she had never before run across a woman with such a powerful punch. It looked like once more Madam Bulldog would prove to be a tougher nut to crack than she airily imagined as she rode south to try conclusions with the other woman.

  Calamity came up with a bound and rushed in, fists flying. It was a tactic which carried her victorious through more than one rough-and-tumble brawl with a tough dancehall girl or cavalry camp-follower. Only this time she was up against a woman who knew more than a little about the fighting game herself. At the last moment Madam Bulldog side-stepped, rammed her left fist into Calamity’s middle, then clipped her across the ear with the right as she doubled over. Calamity went down again, landing at the foot of the stairs.

  “Stomp her, Madam!” howled Viola. “Hand her her needings.”