Two Miles to the Border (A J.T. Edson Western)

by J. T. Edson

  If Brady had not known the girl, he might have sworn that she was speaking the truth. Every hesitant pause had been perfect, while Sybil’s downcast eyes and lisping tones had added more credibility. However, much to his surprise, when Sybil had said that she had brought along five hundred dollars to donate to the Good Work, Elvira had declined to accept it.

  On being introduced to the other Daughters of the Lord, Sybil had met with an indifferent reception. Rosita and Bernadette had been willing to accept her as a social inferior, but Sarah had been inclined to be truculent and clearly aimed to show the newcomer who was boss.

  Nothing untoward had happened during the afternoon, nor at the evening meal. Requesting that Jeff should make a scout of the area, in case any of the gangs had decided to come early, Elvira had next offered to show Brady around her domain. The tour had been interesting, but had not revealed the forging gear.

  ‘One thing I learned about women while I was still frying-size,’ Brady answered evasively, ‘is that they’re never what they seem to be.’

  ‘Meaning me?’ Elvira asked with a grin.

  ‘Well,’ Brady drawled, trying to take the widow’s mind off the subject of Sybil. ‘You sure don’t look like no lady reformer.’

  ‘I like to dress nice when I can,’ Elvira said quietly. ‘And I don’t reckon you disapprove.’

  ‘Lady,’ Brady drawled and meant every word. ‘I sure as hell approve!’

  Having discarded her bonnet and working clothes, Elvira had come down to supper in a figure-hugging white satin gown. It left her shoulders and arms bare, with a décolleté which displayed the rich mound of her bosom to its best advantage. Jewelry glittered at her neck, wrists and ears, while her hair was piled up neatly on top of her head. As Brady had said, she looked nothing like the person seen by her audiences.

  ‘We might see some sport soon,’ the widow remarked as they crossed the entrance hall. I’ve told the girls to rough Sybil up a mite.’

  ‘Why?’ Brady asked bluntly.

  ‘Something tells me that soft little kitten’s been sired by a bobcat,’ Elvira answered. ‘I reckon she can hold her own.’

  ‘And if she can’t?’ Brady demanded.

  ‘I’ll admit I’m wrong and stop them,’ the woman promised.

  Having delivered that assurance, Elvira led the way to a set of double doors. Brady opened them and followed her into the house’s largest room. Although it was supposed to be used as a mission hall, the tables and chairs scattered about it were more reminiscent of a saloon. Only the harmonium, standing closed and silent at the left side, gave the room any semblance of a place of worship.

  Certainly the girls did not add anything to the religious aspect. They sat at one of the central tables, playing poker for what looked to be fair sums of money. Like the widow, her Daughters of the Lord had discarded their working clothes. Instead, they now had on flimsy and fancy robes over black silk stockings and the kind of underclothing girls who had ‘seen the Light’ should have been ashamed to own.

  Compared with the others, Sybil looked decorous. She had on a thicker robe over a chemise and long-legged white drawers.

  ‘Blast the luck!’ Sarah snarled as Elvira and Brady approached, scowling at Sybil who was raking in a sizeable pot. ‘Are you sure you’ve never played poker?’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ the blonde answered, oozing innocence. ‘Of course I’ve watched gentlemen play it while I was forced to work....’

  ‘Get the cards dealt and stop wasting time!’ Bernadette put in coldly.

  ‘Is it my turn to give out the cards?’ Sybil inquired, peering mildly at the stack of money.

  Elvira darted a glance, expressing surprise, at Brady. It was clear that the slender blonde had been winning heavily.

  ‘That’s just what she means,’ Rosita confirmed sourly, scowling in the direction of the blonde’s winnings.

  Gathering up the cards, Sybil gave them what looked like a clumsy, inept, but extensive overhand stacking. Brady felt Elvira nudge him gently in the ribs and, knowing what she must have seen, concealed the grin which was fighting to creep to his lips.

  ‘Let me cut them!’ Sarah snarled, as Sybil made as if to start dealing.

  ‘Ooh, did I forget?’ the slender blonde purred, sounding genuinely distressed at being so remiss, and placed the cards on the table.

  With the cut made, Sybil gathered up the cards. In doing so, she contrived to knock some of her winnings from the table. The other players looked down at the falling money. When they returned their gazes to the table, the blonde was starting to deal in an awkward manner.

  ‘I’ll pick it up later,’ Sybil promised. ‘Oh dear. Is that three, or four cards I’ve given you, Sister Rosita?’

  ‘Three,’ the Mexican girl replied.

  ‘How about having a drink, Brady?’ Elvira inquired, without waiting for the deal to be completed.

  ‘I’d take that kindly,’ Brady replied.

  Crossing to a cabinet, the widow opened its cupboard. She drew aside what looked like a row of books and took out a tray holding a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Returning to the table, she found that the betting had commenced. All the players looked to have good hands, if the way they were acting was anything to go on.

  Reaching under the remainder of her money, Sybil extracted a sheet of paper. On it, she had written the various types of hands in their order of seniority and with comments about their formation.

  High Card: Five indifferent cards not of the same suit,

  One pair: 10-10-6-7-3.

  Two pairs: 10-10-6-6-4.

  Three of a kind: 10-10-10-6-7.

  Straight: 1-2-3-4-5, not of the same suit.

  Flush: Five cards of the same suit, but not in sequence.

  Full house: 10-10-10-6-6.

  Four of a kind: 10-10-10-10-6.

  Straight flush: Five cards of same suit in numerical sequence. Royal flush: Ace, King, Queen, Jack, Ten of the same suit

  All four girls stayed in and drew cards, but a shortage of money and jewelry soon forced Rosita and Bernadette to throw in their hands.

  ‘I’ll raise you a hundred,’ Sarah declared, feeling confident with a full house of three kings and two aces.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Sybil quavered. That’s rather a lot of money.’

  ‘Either you’ve got them, or you haven’t,’ Sarah sniffed, watching every move the other girl made.

  Frowning and pouting as if deeply disturbed, Sybil glanced at the list. Her right forefinger tracked down it to stop at the full house. Then, as if realizing she might be betraying herself, she snatched the finger away.

  ‘Er, your hundred,’ the blonde said, sounding frightened. ‘And two hundred raise. ... If that’s what I’m supposed to say.’

  ‘It’ll do,’ Sarah answered, starting to count her money.

  Only two hundred remained, but the red-head did not let that worry her. She had seen Sybil’s scrutiny of the list and had noted the hand which held her attention. There was no possible full house to beat that in Sarah’s hand, so she could not see how she was able to lose.

  ‘All right!’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll see you.’

  ‘Er—four of a kind, I think you call it,’ Sybil answered, exposing four threes and a queen. ‘What have you?’

  ‘Not enough!’ Sarah hissed, slamming down the cards.

  ‘Shall I get the cards ready for another game,’ Sybil asked, ‘while you girls fetch some more money.’

  ‘I don’t have any more!’ Rosita snapped, coming to her feet.

  ‘You’ve cleaned us all out!’ Bernadette went on, also rising.

  ‘Wasn’t I supposed to win?’ Sybil asked meekly as she stood up and stepped clear of the table.

  Moving around, Rosita and Bernadette confronted the blonde in a menacing fashion. Sarah watched them with a cold-eyed scowl, but said and did nothing.

  ‘I’m going to take back everything I lost!’ Rosita declared.

  ‘And me,’ seconded Bernadette.
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  ‘You never said we weren’t playing for keeps,’ Sybil protested, sounding like a good fairy whose best intentions had been abused. ‘It’s not fair.’

  Having set down the tray on a vacant table, Elvira had supplied herself and Brady with drinks. They stood holding their glasses and awaiting the next developments.

  Bowing her head, with her slender shoulders slumped in a dejected manner, Sybil looked as if she was on the verge of breaking into tears. Bernadette threw a grin at Rosita, who seemed equally amused. Their enjoyment did not continue for long.

  Suddenly Sybil crouched slightly and lunged. The top of her head rammed with some force into Rosita’s ample bust. Hurled to the rear by the impact, croaking in agony and helpless, the Mexican girl collided with and went backwards over a table.

  Coming to a halt after delivering the butt, Sybil pivoted. Bernadette was also turning; but more slowly and numbed by amazement. Around whipped the blonde’s right hand. Knotted into a fist, it cracked wickedly against the side of the brunette’s jaw. Bernadette’s head snapped sideways as she was spun around and sent reeling. Crossing the room in an uncontrolled rush, she ran up against the cabinet. Doubling over it, she slid limply to the floor.

  Sarah’s chair flew backwards as she sprang to her feet. Having seen the way in which the apparently naive, innocent girl had handled her companions, she realized that the other probably had considerably more knowledge of poker-playing than was admitted. Furious at the thought of having been taken for a sucker, the red-head darted around the table. Discarding her robe as she went, she lashed a slap to Sybil’s left cheek.

  Although she winced in sympathy, Elvira made no attempt to intervene. Before Brady could decide what he ought to do, Sybil had taken matters into her own hands.

  Rocking on her heels, the blonde girl let out a hiss of fury. Then her arms moved. Left. Right. Left. Right. Sybil’s flat palms made reddened marks on Sarah’s face. Fast though the blows had been delivered, they still packed enough force to jolt the red-head back and forward and made their recipient reel a few steps to the rear.

  Catching her balance, Sarah flung a look at Elvira. Deciding that the widow did not intend to interfere, she rushed towards the slender blonde. Out stabbed Sybil’s left fist, delivering a jab to Sarah’s nose with the precision of a male pugilist. Blood started to flow from the red-head’s nostrils, but she closed into grabbing distance and her left hand dug deeply into the blonde’s hair. Even as Sarah’s right knuckles thrust hard into Sybil’s mid-section, the blonde’s fingers entangled themselves in her fiery locks.

  Clinging to each other’s hair one-handed, slapping, pulling and grabbing with their disengaged fingers, the girls staggered back and forth. Cat-like squeaks burst from their lips, mingling with shrieks, curses of fury and yelps of pain.

  ‘What’re we going to do?’ Brady inquired of Elvira as the girls went into a tight clinch, tripped and toppled to the floor.

  ‘We could go up to my room, if you’re so minded, but I’d rather stay and watch the fun,’ the widow replied, without taking her gaze from the battling pair. They can settle things between them without us billing in.’

  Oblivious of everything except each other, the girls went rolling and thrashing across the floor. They overturned chairs, passed under tables, all the time ripping, pulling, flailing wildly with legs and arms. Somehow Sybil lost her robe and both their upper undergarments disintegrated under the impetus of clutching fingers. Struggling to their knees, still clinging to each other, they rose and fought on.

  Moaning curses in Spanish and rubbing her bust, Rosita dragged herself to her feet. For a moment, she stood swaying and glaring about her. When her gaze came to rest on the tussling pair, she spat out a savage sound and advanced. Stepping away from Brady, Elvira caught Rosita’s arm and prevented her from reaching Sybil. The Mexican girl tried to shake herself free and turned furiously on the widow.

  ‘You don’t look too good, Rosey,’ Elvira said, almost kindly, and brought off a stylish uppercut to the girl’s jaw. ‘Why don’t you lie down and rest?’

  Although Rosita obeyed, collapsing as if she had been boned, it was not by any conscious desire to please her employer.

  For two more minutes, without a pause, Sybil and Sarah continued to fight like furies. Fists, feet, knees, elbows, foreheads were used indiscriminately. Attracted by the commotion, the stocky, white-haired old timer and his big, fat wife had come in. Like Elvira, they appeared to be content to watch the girls and made no attempt to intervene.

  Pushed away by Sarah, Sybil retaliated by the kind of butt which had felled Rosita. It sent the red-head sprawling to land on her rump almost at Elvira’s feet. To Brady, it seemed that the fight was over. Gasping for breath, Sybil stumbled to and leaned on a table, watching her rival. Looking even more distressed, Sarah sat cradling her naked bosom and croaking in pain. Then she turned her dirty, bruised, bloody and tear-smeared face to Elvira as if in search of sympathy.

  ‘You’re doing real good, Sarah-gal,’ the widow mocked.

  Letting out a furious squeak, Sarah forced herself to her feet. She grabbed hold of the back of the nearest chair. Before she could lift it to be used as a weapon, Sybil had rushed up and tackled her around the waist. Splintering the chair under them, they went down and resumed their wild, rolling mill on the floor.

  ‘Yes, sir, Brady,’ Elvira remarked, as Sybil straddled the wildly writhing and back-arching Sarah. ‘A real bobcat.’

  Mad with fright, Sarah threw all she had into a final despairing effort. With a surging heave, she pitched the blonde from her. Falling, Sybil rolled on to her back. Croaking in exhaustion, bosoms heaving, the girls lay supine with arms outflung.

  ‘It’s a draw!’ Brady breathed.

  ‘I reckon not,’ answered Elvira, filling a glass with whiskey.

  Strolling forward, the widow tipped half of the glass’s contents on to each girl’s upturned face. The bite of the raw spirits, catching their cut lips, made them cough, gag and sit up.

  ‘What the hell’re you doing?’ Brady snarled as the woman returned to his side.

  ‘I want a winner,’ Elvira answered. ‘That’s the only way there’ll be peace between them.’

  Slowly, shaking their heads and trying to drag fresh air into their tortured lungs, the girls stood up. Sarah had clearly had enough. Moaning out what were intended to be words, she turned to flee. Flinging herself forward, Sybil locked her arms about the tottering red-head. As they hit the floor, with the blonde on top, Sybil rolled Sarah on to her back. Writhing over the other’s weakly struggling body, the blonde trapped her arms and knelt on them. With Sarah held helpless, except for her feebly waving legs, Sybil rained slaps and punches at her face. For a few seconds, Sarah shrieked—as best she could in her winded, exhausted state—and sobbed for mercy. None was forthcoming and she went limp, lapsing into unconsciousness.

  ‘All right, Sybil,’ Elvira said, advancing to hook her hands under the still flailing blonde’s arm-pits and lifting. ‘I couldn’t have licked her better myself, but she’s all through.’

  On the verge of collapse through sheer exhaustion, Sybil was still in a fighting rage. She could not understand the words which came vaguely to her ears. All she knew was that somebody had taken hold of her from behind and might be contemplating an attack. Shrugging off the widow’s hands, she turned ready to fight back.

  Having expected some such reaction, Elvira threw a right cross. It clipped the blonde girl’s jaw and she crumpled across the unmoving red-head.

  ‘Like I said,’ Elvira remarked to Brady, surveying the motionless bodies of her Daughters of the Lord. ‘I wanted a winner. You go for a walk outside with Alf, Brady. Winnie and I’ll tend to their needings.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Brady replied hoarsely. ‘I never argue with a lady. Especially one who can hit like you.’

  ‘That was one helluva fight, young feller,’ Alf Ludlaw enthused, as he and Brady left the room. ‘Nigh on as good as the last time young
Sarah locked horns with Elvira.’

  ‘Was, huh?’ Brady grunted.

  ‘Yep,’ the old timer confirmed. ‘Times in that one, I thought Elvira’d get whipped, but she didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t, huh?’

  ‘Not Elvira. There’s one tough gal. Say! I’ve got me a bottle of whiskey in my room. I’ll go and fetch it, so’s we can drink the new blonde gal’s health.’

  ‘Bueno,’ Brady drawled, wondering if liquor would loosen the old man’s tongue enough for him to learn where the forging plates were hidden. ‘I’ll wait for you on the porch.’

  Leaving the building alone, Brady stood on the porch. Like Alf had said, that was one hell of a fight and it had been quite something to watch. Yet he was pleased, considering how young Jeff felt about Sybil Cravern, that his nephew had not been present.

  Hearing hoof-beats, Brady assumed that Jeff was returning. So he strolled across the open ground to the front gate. As soon as he received his first look at the approaching rider, he knew that it was not his nephew. In a few seconds, he identified the man as Staff Brolley.

  ‘Now that’s what I call obliging, Anchor,’ the burly owl-hoot remarked, halting some fifty yards away and nursing a Winchester on the crook of his arm. ‘I was just coming to see you.’

  ‘Something I can do for you?’ Brady inquired.

  ‘Sure. Get me that widow-woman’s forging gear and all the money she’s made,’ Brolley replied, bringing the rifle into a position of greater readiness.

  ‘I don’t know ...’ Brady began.

  ‘You know all right,’ Brolley interrupted. ‘And you’ll do it. See, we’ve got your nephew a prisoner and he’ll be getting awful dead if you don’t do what I just told you.’