My Calamity Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  Her mouth twisted into a small frown. “Why don’t we use regular coins?”

  “Because—” Well, Frank wasn’t rightly sure. “Because we use chips. That’s how the game is played. Why are you playing poker, anyway?”

  “Because it’s the only way to get your attention.”

  His heart picked up its pace. She wanted his attention.

  For the job, he reminded himself.

  “She’s persistent, that one,” Bill said. “I like that in a woman.”

  “Oh, I know,” Frank said. “Your wife is maybe the most persistent woman I’ve ever met.” She had to be, to nab someone like Wild Bill Hickok.

  Miss Mosey’s mouth dropped open. “Mr. Hickok, you’re married?”

  He gave a slow nod. “For a few months now.”

  “Congratulations.” She turned to Frank. “But I’m the most persistent woman you’ve ever met.”

  Heck sighed loudly. “C’mon, Pistol Prince. Make your move. Even the women growed beards by now.”

  “Call,” Frank said, not looking away from Miss Mosey.

  “That’s a call,” the dealer said. “Turn ’em up, Heck.”

  Heck turned his cards up.

  “Two pair,” the dealer said.

  Frank flipped his hand.

  “Three of a kind. Mr. Butler wins.”

  “That’s not fair!” Heck’s nostrils flared and his cheeks darkened. “The girl was distracting me.”

  Miss Mosey frowned. “It wasn’t my intention to distract you, sir.”

  “It don’t matter what your intention was. You did distract me. I think that hand shouldn’t count.”

  “It counts,” Bill said evenly. “A good player doesn’t let himself get distracted.” He turned to Frank. “Does he, son?”

  Heck scowled. “She distracted me on purpose. I say that’s cheatin’.”

  Frank ignored him and gathered his chips. But he kept Heck’s hands in his peripheral vision, because when you wanted to stay alive at the end of a poker game, it all came down to hands. Specifically, the ability to see hands. So when Heck’s right hand twitched and then disappeared under the table, there was only one thing to know, and it was something Frank had learned from his dad: you draw or you die.

  Frank drew. We could go into more detail than those two words: how his left hand flew to his holster and his thumbnail released the leather clip and his fingers clenched around the grip while his thumb simultaneously cocked the hammer and his arm whipped the gun out and drew a bead on Heck, but an explanation of that length would not convey the speed with which Frank drew.

  In fact, as we were writing this explanation, Frank had already shot the gun out of Heck’s hand.

  “I reckon you weren’t meaning to draw your piece,” Frank said.

  Heck shook his head, in no position to argue.

  “I thought so.” Frank twirled his six-shooter around his finger and then holstered it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bill slip one of his ivory-handled pistols back into its holster as well.

  “That was an amazing draw,” Miss Mosey exclaimed. “Was that fast? I thought that was fast.”

  Frank felt a warmth in his cheeks. “Wooo,” he murmured.

  The game started up again (sans Heck this time, as he’d slunk off), and Frank soon learned that Miss Mosey, for all her boasting, was just plain terrible at poker.

  “Check,” she said.

  “You can’t check. You have to call or fold,” Frank said.

  “Oh. What if I want to raise?”

  Frank cocked his head. “That doesn’t make sense. You were about to fold.”

  “Let her raise,” Bill said, because he liked winning money.

  Frank sat back in his chair. Clearly Miss Mosey was going to do whatever Miss Mosey was going to do.

  She glanced at her cards again, blue eyes sparkling. “Do you have any twos?”

  He stifled a smile. “This isn’t Go Fish.”

  “Fine.” She tossed in some chips. “I bet . . . that many.”

  “I call,” Frank said.

  Bill folded.

  “You know what doesn’t make sense?” Miss Mosey said as the rest of the players folded. “Why you won’t take me seriously about giving me a job.”

  Frank pressed his lips together. It was time to be, ahem, frank with her. “I’m sorry, but you’re a girl, and our posse”—if air quotes had been invented at this time, he would have used them—“is not the place for ladies. It’s a hard life. We’re always on the move.”

  “Calamity Jane’s a lady,” Miss Mosey said.

  They both turned toward the bar, where Jane was in the middle of a belching contest with a large man. She was winning.

  “Sure,” Frank said. At least Jane looked like she was feeling better.

  Miss Mosey threw her cards into the muck. (In other words, she folded.) “I am the best sharpshooter you’ve ever seen.”

  “That can’t be true, because I see myself in the mirror every day.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Mr. Butler, I assure you that I’m good at anything I set my mind to.”

  “Says the girl who just mucked her cards after she raised,” Frank said.

  “Your poker rules don’t mean anything to me. But it doesn’t change the facts. I was born to be a sharpshooter.”

  “You should listen to her,” said Mr. Frost. “That girl sitting next to you can shoot the wings off a fly. She’s a local heroine.”

  Miss Mosey sat up straighter, if that were possible.

  “That’s great, but we’ve got a full posse right now,” Frank said.

  Miss Mosey studied her new hand, shifting her cards one by one as if she were alphabetizing them. Everyone at the table looked at her quizzically. But Frank smiled.

  The dealer asked, “Cards?”

  Without flinching, Miss Mosey said, “None. Thank you for asking.”

  The quizzical looks intensified.

  “I mean,” Miss Mosey said, “I don’t think I need any.”

  Frank immediately bet, and everyone at the table called, including Miss Mosey, who raised. And when she did, she tightened the bow in her hair.

  That was when Frank realized he could not read this girl.

  He arched an eyebrow at her, but she held steady in her resolve.

  He narrowed his eyes, and she had the nerve to wink.

  “Uh . . . I fold?” Frank said, but it sounded like a question.

  One by one, every other man at the table folded.

  Miss Mosey turned up her cards. She had nothing.

  “Beginner’s luck,” Bill said. “Even a blind squirrel gets a nut sometimes.”

  Frank couldn’t believe it, the nerve.

  “I’m a betting man.” Mr. Frost leaned forward. “I’m willing to give one hundred dollars to the winner of a shooting match between the Pistol Prince and Miss Mosey.”

  Miss Mosey clapped, then seemed to think better about it and put her hands in her lap. “I could be interested in a competition,” she said demurely.

  A hundred dollars. (A quick note from your narrators: $100 is quite a bit of money now, but back in 1876, it was even more. When you consider inflation, $100 was equivalent to about $2,400.)

  This girl might be smart and charming and pretty—some might even say distractingly so—but she had another think coming if she thought she could best Frank Butler. He never referred to himself in the third person, but this was a special occasion. His reputation was on the line. Plus, Frank simply could not ignore a hundred dollars.

  “I’m in,” he said, although it would be a shame to take Mr. Frost’s money. It felt like taking advantage. Frank wasn’t being conceited about that, either. He’d just never met anyone who could shoot as well as he could. Especially not a girl.

  Jane wandered over. “Did I hear something about a bet?”

  “I propose a match this Saturday,” Mr. Frost said.

  Bill whistled. “I’m beginning to think you might be eating that hundred dollars.”


  “Why would he eat a hunnerd dollars?” Jane asked.

  Miss Mosey leaned toward him. She tapped the collar of his jacket. “Come Saturday, I will shoot the buttons off your shirt, and I’ll be a hundred dollars richer. And if I win, I get to join your posse.”

  Frank glanced over at Bill, hoping for some help, but his dad gave him the old familiar “handle it yourself” look.

  “No one actually agreed to those terms,” Frank said, but Miss Mosey was already gone.

  Bill coughed. “She’s a spitfire, that one, and if it were only for the show, I’d say you should consider her. But as it is . . .”

  “I know,” Frank murmured, staring after her.

  TWELVE

  Annie

  Annie liked winning.

  She liked it a little too much, people might say, but as far as Annie was concerned, no one got anywhere without some kind of ambition. And see, this wasn’t the first contest Annie had gotten herself into. She had a very long history—for a girl of sixteen years—of entering contests and winning. The local turkey shoot had finally asked her not to come back, on account of all that winning; they simply gave her the turkey every year and held the contest for second place, with her first place assumed.

  But this contest was different. One. Hundred. Dollars. That was a whole lot of money, and when she sent the winnings to her family, along with a letter saying that she’d gotten the job (obviously she planned to win and get the job), Mama and Grandpap Shaw wouldn’t be able to deny that she was worth more as a sharpshooter than a wife.

  In the hotel Saturday morning, Annie dressed up special for the occasion: a pink gingham dress that fell just below her knees, her hair in a single braid down her back, the end tied off with a pink ribbon. She’d sewn the dress herself and was quite proud of the work. Some people might think it too girly, too ladylike for a sharpshooter, but Annie looked how she wanted to look.

  When Mrs. Frost knocked on her door, Annie got her gun and followed the woman downstairs where Mr. Frost, Mr. Butler, and the rest of the Wild West company were getting ready to go to the fairgrounds.

  “Good morning, George,” Annie said, bending to pet the poodle’s head. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

  George grinned, his tongue lolling out as he looked at Mr. Butler, and Mr. Butler sighed and shook his head. He looked as handsome today as he had before, in a fine wool coat, shiny black boots up to his calves, and even a bow tie.

  “I don’t like my dog betting against me,” he said.

  Annie greeted everyone else, and then the entire party took the hotel carriages to the fairgrounds, where they came upon a huge crowd of people in high spirits, bakers selling slices of pie, and balloons of all colors. Excitement rumbled through the audience as the contestants started toward the stage.

  Calamity Jane slapped Frank on the shoulder. “Don’t get yourself beat by a girl now.” She gave Annie a crooked smile. “My money’s on you, miss. Good luck.”

  She was a strange sort of person, that Calamity Jane, but Annie rather liked her.

  “Are you ready to meet your match, Mr. Butler?” Annie asked as they reached the side of the stage. (It was really just a tall platform big enough for people to stand on, but Annie preferred to think of it as a stage, because these people were about to get the show of a lifetime.)

  “I think I’m ready to win a hundred dollars.” Mr. Butler grinned, making butterflies swarm through Annie’s stomach. He really did have a nice smile.

  Stop, she ordered herself. Stop noticing his nice smile.

  “Welcome, welcome!” A man in a top hat was making his way across the stage, waving at the crowd. “We’ll get started once everyone settles down.”

  The crowd settled down.

  The man reached the center of the stage. “I’m George W. C. Johnston, the mayor, for those of you who don’t already know me. And now that we’re all friends, I hope you’ll remember to vote for me next November.”

  Annie sighed. Next November was more than a year away. If he was spending this much time campaigning, when was he actually politician-ing?

  But the crowd cheered.

  “In the meantime, I’m happy to welcome you to this event. Thanks to Mr. Frost at the Bevis House, we have a high-stakes sharpshooting competition, and the winner will receive one hundred dollars!”

  The crowd went wild.

  Annie stared at the mayor intently as he began to introduce Mr. Butler. Sure, lots of people wore top hats, even during the summer, but ever since the factory, she hadn’t trusted that particular sort of headgear. Top hats, Annie was coming to believe, were the ultimate way to disguise bad behavior. After all, who suspected a man in a top hat?

  But she was sure the mayor was a fine man. Hat notwithstanding.

  “You all know this young man from Wild Bill’s Wild West, performing this week at the Coliseum Theater,” the mayor was saying. “Associate of Wild Bill Hickok—”

  “And Calamity Jane!” called a voice that sounded suspiciously like Calamity Jane’s.

  “And Calamity Jane!” The mayor tipped his hat. “Allow me to introduce the Pistol Prince, Frank Butler!”

  More cheering. And in the front row, a group of young women fanned themselves and gazed up at Mr. Butler as he walked onto the stage, George the Poodle at his heel.

  “And challenging, we have Miss”—the mayor checked his notes—“Phoebe Ann Mosey, from Darke County.”

  A few people cheered, including the Frosts and a handful of folks who were clearly trying to be polite, but a large portion of the crowd stared at her like they’d never seen a girl with a gun.

  Well, she’d show them.

  “A coin toss, to see who goes first.” Mayor Johnston fished a silver dollar out of his pocket and nodded to Annie as he flipped. “Call.”

  “Heads.”

  He caught the coin and slapped it on the back of his other hand. “Tails. Mr. Butler goes first. Now, please take your places.”

  Annie hated losing, even a coin toss.

  Both contestants moved to opposite ends of the stage, and Annie stuffed down her nerves. In spite of all the contests she’d done, she’d never shot traps before, although she knew the basics: when she shouted pull, someone would fire a clay pigeon into the air, and she’d shoot it.

  Mr. Butler wasted no time. He called, “Pull!” and shot the red clay pigeon that spiraled into the air.

  Red clay dust scattered.

  Everyone whooped and clapped, shouting Mr. Butler’s name.

  Then all eyes went to Annie.

  “Very good, Mr. Butler.” She grinned, knowing it would unsettle him. Then, with the unloaded rifle butt-down on the stage, she simply said, “Pull.”

  Everyone gasped, but Annie knew she had this. See, Annie had seen Mr. Butler shoot at the theater, and then again in the saloon that night. She knew what he could do. But he had no idea what she could do.

  As the clay pigeon flew into the air, Annie loaded.

  It was a simple process: just carefully measure black powder, pour it into the muzzle, add the greased patch, add the lead shot, shove them deep into the barrel with the ramrod, prime the touch hole with yet more gunpowder, cover the flash pan with the steel-faced frazzle, and bam. A shootable weapon.

  Annie had the load, cock, and fire down to under twenty seconds.

  Just as the clay pigeon reached its peak of flight and was starting to descend, Annie lifted her rifle and fired.

  Only red dust fell.

  An immense roar filled the shooting grounds, all shock and disbelief.

  On the far side of the stage, Mr. Butler stared at her as though suddenly seeing her for the first time, all warm and appraising and somewhat overwhelmed.

  Something shifted inside Annie, too. There, below the stage, was that gaggle of young ladies all trying for Mr. Butler’s attention, but he was looking at her in a way he hadn’t looked at any of them. Every part of her felt tingly . . . and then she reminded herself (in a very stern thou
ght-voice) about why she’d come here, and getting a man—even one as handsome as Mr. Butler—to look at her like that (internal swooning!) was not the reason.

  She was here for a job.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy herself. She put on her sweetest smile. “Anything you can do, Mr. Butler,” she said, “I can do better.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  He grinned, and when the crowd quieted down for his turn, he performed the same trick.

  She did it twice more, but she wouldn’t beat him with such simple stunts. She needed to escalate if she wanted to win. So for the next round, she turned her back to the audience and shot the target using only a mirror to sight.

  But then so did Mr. Butler.

  Then she shot without the mirror.

  Mr. Butler did, too.

  She escalated again, this time standing one-footed on a rail.

  He did it, too.

  She did a spin.

  So did he.

  Annie swore under her breath. “Well, drat.”

  From that point, it was Mr. Butler doing the escalating. First, he shot while jumping over his dog. Annie shot while jumping over a child who’d crawled onto the stage.

  He shot with one hand.

  Annie considered shooting with no hands, but quickly realized that wouldn’t work without more preparation. So she shot with one hand.

  They went back and forth, each round growing more and more ridiculous, until the twenty-fifth and final round. That was when Mr. Butler missed.

  Stunned silence fell over the crowd.

  Mr. Butler looked shocked, too. He stared at the sky where the clay pigeon had fallen without a piece of hot lead inside it. Then, he examined his gun like there must be something wrong.

  Annie said, “Pull,” and shot the final target without any showmanship whatsoever. No need to humiliate the man further.

  You could have heard a pin drop in the moments before the mayor said, “The winner is Miss Phoebe Ann Mosey!”

  The crowd exploded with cheers and screams and people calling Annie’s name. A girl—a country girl—had beaten the famed Pistol Prince.

  She went to the center of the stage. The mayor shook her hand, and Mr. Frost gave her the hundred-dollar bill. It was more money than she’d ever seen in her life.