by J. T. Edson
“Nobody move!” yelled the center man of the cowhands, his revolver making a warning arc. “This’s between them two.”
Even as Derringer decided to take a chance, Calamity solved her own problem. Darting forward, she bent and snatched up her shirt. Then she swung and hurled it at the charging Sal. Opening out in the air, the shirt enveloped Sal’s head and she clawed at it with her left hand. Calamity followed it up, grabbing Sal’s right wrist and raising it to her mouth. A screech broke from Sal as Calamity’s teeth sank into her forearm. Involuntarily she opened her fingers and the glass fell to the floor. Tearing the shirt from her face and hurling it aside, Sal transferred the fingers of her left hand to Calamity’s scalp. To Calamity it felt as if the top of her skull was bursting into flames. She opened her mouth to screech and Sal thrust her away, staggering back when releasing the red hair.
“We’ve got to stop ’em!” Derringer muttered thickly.
At his side, flushed with excitement, Goldie turned toward him. “They’ll stop themselves soon enough.”
That seemed to be the case. Staggering on their feet, the two girls went for each other again. How it happened nobody could say for sure, but Calamity somehow managed to catch Sal around the knees. Bending so her shoulder rammed into the brunette’s mid-section, Calamity acted on sheer, blind impulse rather than conscious thought. Still holding the legs, she straightened and tipped Sal over her shoulders. Horsewoman’s instincts partially saved Sal, allowing her to lessen the force of her landing. Desperately she drove up her right leg in a kick as Calamity stumbled and seemed on the point of falling backward on to her. The toe missed, but the shin collided with Calamity’s ribs hard enough to knock her away.
Sobbing with pain, exhaustion and fear, Sal dragged herself up and headed for the bar. Calamity had prevented herself from falling by resting her hands on the top of a table. Hearing the yells of warning, she looked around and realized what Sal aimed to do. Behind the bar lay the quirt. If Sal laid hands on it, she could cut her opponent to pieces.
Fighting down the nausea and exhaustion that filled her, Calamity went after Sal. The brunette’s legs buckled, but her arms hooked on the bar and she started to drag her aching body upward. Then she felt hands grip her skirt and faintly heard the material tearing. Despite her struggles to avoid it, her feet sank back to the floor. Fingers gripped her shoulder, turning her around. A fist drove into her stomach with sickening force. She tried to scream, but no sound left her tortured lungs. Gagging in agony, she doubled forward. Still the torment did not end. Calamity caught the brunette hair, hauling Sal erect, and lashed a slap that rocked her head savagely. Four more times Calamity slapped, the sound ringing around the room and drawing gasps of sympathy from the onlookers. Sobbing, moaning, Sal collapsed down the front of the bar to lie in a beaten, crouching heap at Calamity’s feet.
As she prepared to launch another slap, Calamity became aware that it would not be needed. Slowly the red mists cleared from before her eyes and she became aware of the mass of pulsating agony that filled her body. She wanted to sink down and sob, but fought off the spasm. Sal lay beaten, but there was something more that must be done.
Bending, Calamity dug her fingers into the brunette hair, using it to haul the other girl erect. With one hand still in the hair and the other holding Sal’s waist belt, Calamity began to hustle her across the room. Stepping on the trailing remains of the divided skirt, Calamity completed its destruction and left Sal clad only in her underwear. The cowhands scattered as the women approached and Calamity used almost all her last dregs of strength to propel Sal through the door. Reeling blindly across the sidewalk, Sal ran up against a verandah support post. For a moment she clung to it, then slid forward, down from the sidewalk and landed on the street. An interested spectator had watched the fight through one of the front windows, but withdrew hurriedly as Calamity brought Sal toward the doors. Standing in the shadows at the end of the building, the onlooker saw the brunette’s eviction yet made no move to approach her, standing instead as if waiting to make sure that Calamity did not follow her out.
Calamity had no intention of doing so. Knowing Sal to be licked, she stood on spread-apart legs and looked defiantly at the brunette’s men. Hair like a wet, dirty wool mop, face streaked with dirt, sweat and nose trickling blood, she showed signs of the exhaustion welling up over her. Yet she kept her feet, oblivious of the fact that her undershirt had ripped down the front and concealed nothing. Her breasts rose and fell as she dragged air into raw lungs. It was a sight calculated to turn even a confirmed woman-hater from his ways; and the cowhands could not be classed as that. Already their revolvers began to sag and their eyes bugged out as they stared their fascination.
“All right!” she said, dragging each word out with an effort. “Put up the guns. Then either go spend some money at the bar or get the hell out of here.”
“Just like the lady says, gents!” called a voice from the right side of the balcony.
Looking up, the cowhands saw a deputy sheriff presenting them with a real effective argument in favor of obeying. Tall, gangling, lean as a beanpole and freckled as a turkey egg, with a small chin over a prominent Adam’s apple, the deputy did not look an imposing specimen—except for what he held. The twin tubes of a ten-gauge shotgun slanted down at the cowhands, handled with a certain competence which proved appearances to be deceptive. At that range, the shotgun’s charge could be counted on to spread and sweep the whole group. So the cowhands knew they had no other choice. More so when guns came into the hands of various saloon employees to back Calamity’s demand.
“All right, boys,” said the cowhand who had acted as their spokesman during the fight. “Leather ’em and let’s go get the boss to Doc Fir.”
“You licked her fair ’n’ square, ma’am,” a second told Calamity, and dropped his gun into leather.
On that note the cowhands turned and walked from the room. Silence held for a moment, then Goldie and several of the girls swarmed forward around Calamity. That broke the spell and cheers welled up.
“It’d be best to call for drinks on the house, Frank,” Sharp suggested.
“See to it,” Derringer replied, and went toward the door as the announcement caused a rush to the bar.
“She’s all right, Frank,” Goldie said as he thrust through the girls. “I’ll get her up to the ‘guest’ room. She’s a mite too tuckered out to make it to the hotel tonight.”
Which might have been regarded as an understatement, considering that only being supported by two of the jubilant girls kept Calamity erect. Derringer knew that he could do nothing to help and so, wisely, stood back to let more capable hands care for the exhausted victor.
“Help her upstairs, you pair,” Goldie ordered, and swept the others with a glance. “Go mingle with the trade. Let’s keep ’em moving and earn some money.”
Prodded into action by their leader, the girls headed toward the crowd at the bar. Music rose, all but smothered by the excited customers’ chatter. Half carried by the two girls and followed by Goldie, Calamity disappeared up the stairs and into a room next-but-one to Banyan’s private office.
“This here’s Like-His Rigg, Frank,” Sharp said, coming up with the deputy.
“Tha—” Derringer began automatically, then realized what Sharp had said. “Like-His?”
“Danged fool name,” grinned the deputy, obviously used to such a comment. “War baptized ‘Orville.’ Only when I come West to take this deputy chore folks kept saying, ‘He ain’t much like his uncle.’ You may be noticed I don’t feature Uncle Oscar even a lil bit.”
“It don’t show much,” admitted Derringer.
“Well, folks got around to calling me ‘Like-His’ and it stuck. Anyways, it’s better’n Orville—Comes to a point, anything’s better’n Orville.”
Studying Rigg, Derringer decided there was more to him than met the eye. Behind that gangling, slack-jawed exterior lay a real capable peace officer. That had showed in the way he handled
the situation; which raised another point.
“How’d you come to be on hand and in the right place, Like-His?”
“Was making the rounds, Uncle Oscar not being back yet. When I heard the ruckus, I just natural looked in through the window to see what I was getting into. Saw enough to figure walking through the door’d get me no place and went round back. Slipped up the stairs and in through Sultan’s office—”
“The boss handed keys to the door out to a few friends,” Sharp explained.
“Which I’m one of ’em,” Rigg went on. “Time I got out there, I saw the gals looked ready to tucker out and waited until they got through afore I billed in.”
To attempt anything otherwise would have resulted in shooting most likely. That he had refrained showed further proof that Like-His Rigg knew how to handle a peace officer’s work correctly.
“Calamity didn’t start the fight, Like-His,” Sharp said. “But she sure as hell finished it.”
“Sure looked that way,” the deputy agreed. “Well, I’d best mosey along and ask them cowhands what their intendings might be.”
“If you need any help—” Derringer offered.
“Reckon they’ll show more respect for the law happen they don’t figure it’s tied in with this place,” Rigg interrupted. “You’ll be Mr. Derringer, I’d say. Doc Fir told me about you. Waal, I’ll just say ‘Hallo and see you around.’”
“Don’t let his looks fool you, Frank,” Sharp warned as the gangling deputy ambled from the room. “He’s real smart and no slouch with a gun.”
“That figures,” Derringer answered. “Lord, Sultan sure picked a mixture for his wives.”
With the free drinks dispensed, the saloon staff set to work making sure that the night’s profits increased to cover the expenditure. Following Goldie’s orders, the girls were already mingling with the customers. At a signal from Gitsen, the various operators returned to their games. Catching the eye of the poker game’s cutter, Derringer gave a quick inclination of his head.
“Howdy, Mr. Derringer,” the man said, sauntering over in a casual manner. “That dude with the blinker’s got me worried same as you. I reckon I know every way of marking cards in the game and I’d swear he’s not using any of ’em.”
“Know anything about him?” Derringer asked.
Often a house man learned a few details about the players in his game from scraps of conversation made between hands. So Derringer did not feel surprised when the cutter nodded.
“He allows to’ve come into money back East and headed out here to be clear of his borrowing kinfolk. Flashed a fair-sized wad of money when he started and it wasn’t from Michigan.”
“How’s he play?”
“That’s what gets me, Mr. Derringer. He handles his cards good enough to have played plenty. Most times he bets the same way. Then he goes and pulls something you’d expect from a raw greenie. Raises when he should be seeing at most and folding for best; or tosses in a hand that looks good enough to put money on. Only every time he does it, he comes out right.”
“Are the others noticing it?”
“None of ’em’s spoke about it if they are,” the cutter admitted. “Mind you, they’re not the best players I’ve come across.”
Glancing toward the bar, Derringer saw the four players setting down their glasses ready to return to their game.
“Find some excuse to change decks,” he ordered, and turned away from the cutter before the dude had chance to see them talking together.
All too well Derringer knew the delicate nature of the situation. Nothing could ruin a saloon’s business quicker than falsely accusing customers of cheating. Yet he must learn if the dude was winning by pure chance, or through marking the cards during the play. Let one cheat get away with his games and word would spread, bringing in others to try their luck.
On joining the players at the table, the cutter asked if they wished to continue using the same cards. As he hoped, the losers suggested a change. If the dude had taken the trouble to mark the deck, he showed no annoyance to see his work would be wasted.
“I’ll go along with the majority,” he said. “Maybe it’ll change my luck. I’m getting tired of winning anyway.”
Twelve
Frank Derringer felt puzzled as he finished dressing in Sultan Banyan’s living quarters above the saloon. Looking to where a deck of cards lay on the table, he frowned and picked them up.
After the exchange of decks the previous night, the poker game had gone on as before. Although Gitsen had brought the cards used in the earlier part of the game, Derringer had found no time to slip away and examine them. First one thing then another had claimed his attention. Customers wanted to discuss the fight, comparing it with other noted female brawls. Derringer had often noticed the number of people who claimed to have witnessed any event of note. Two of the crowd declared the fight equaled that between three townswomen and several dance-hall girls in Bearcat Annie’s Quiet Town saloon. Having been present in the town at the time. Derringer admitted the two fights came close to equal in ferocity; yet could not remember either of the men being on hand to see the other. Several of the crowd appeared to know of Banyan’s death—the fight had prevented it from becoming general knowledge sooner—and requested details. All showed genuine sorrow at the killing and none gave a hint of being actively interested in it.
Despite the change of decks, the dude had continued to play in his erratic, yet successful, manner. Even before he could possibly have marked sufficient cards to gain information, he threw in one hand that looked like a winner and called a bluff against all tenets of sensible play.
Still curious, Derringer asked Gitsen to trail the dude after he left. Eager to clean the possible stain against his department, Gitsen agreed with the suggestion. However, the dude went straight to the hotel and to his room without seeing or speaking to anybody.
As he reached for the cards, Derringer remembered Calamity. From faint sounds filtering through the party door, he concluded the girl was awake. So he put off the examination and crossed the room.
Lying naked on the bed in the small room next to Banyan’s living quarters, Calamity groaned and cursed.
“Am I hurting you?” Goldie asked, gently rubbing the oily liquid given to her by Calamity on to the bruised body.
“No worse’n getting tromped on by a hoss!” Calamity gritted. “Only I’ll feel better when you’re through.”
After attending to the battered Sal, carried to his office by the cowhands, Fir had hurried to the saloon. Despite Calamity’s protests, he had examined her and stated that she suffered only superficial injuries. With the coming of morning, a stiff, sore and aching Calamity had asked Goldie to help her.
The application of the oil, supplied to her by an Indian medicine woman, made Calamity feel somewhat better. Wincing a little, she sat up and reached for her clothes. A knock sounded at the door leading into Banyan’s room as she donned a pair of Indian moccasins.
“Come in!” she called and Goldie left by the other door.
“Hey there,” Derringer greeted, entering. “How is it?”
“I never felt better,” Calamity answered with a wry grin. “That was one tough gal. Where’s she at?”
“The deputy dropped by to say her crew took her along when they left town. Say, Harve Cromer allows that’s the best night’s business the bar’s done in a coon’s age. He wants to know if you and her’ll tangle every night.”
“You can tell him to go stick his bung-starter up his butt, blunt end first!” Calamity growled, touching her discolored left eye gently. “I tell you, I don’t even want to tangle with her once a month. Say, is she for real another of ole Sultan’s wives?”
“Fir allows she is. Says him and Wendley met her while they were hunting up north of here with Sultan. He married her after only two days, stopped off up there for a spell, then came down without her.”
“Why?”
“Sultan never said and they didn’t ask,” Derringer
replied. “Where in hell do you reckon you’re going?”
“Down to the hotel, then to see to my team,” Calamity answered. “Reckon I’ll stick with my room down there for a spell, Derry.”
“Don’t you trust me?” he inquired.
“With that leg of your’n, what’s to trust?” she countered. “Nope, I reckon to stay down there and keep an eye on them three wives. I can’t see that Rachel, for one of ’em, just sitting back and letting us take something she figures to be her’n from her.”
Walking a mite slowly and with a limp, Calamity left the room. She wished to avoid attracting attention and so kept to the rear of the buildings. At the hotel she started along the alley to the front entrance. Approaching a partially open window, the sound of voices brought her to a halt. Normally she would have ignored a private conversation, but the first words to reach her ears warned that the one inside the room must not be missed.
“You’re sure Derringer didn’t catch on?” asked one speaker.
“Naw,” replied another confidently; both being male voices. “He watched me for a spell, then went off. Most likely the fight made him forget it. Anyways, to make sure I acted agreeable when they wanted to change decks. Not that changing ’em made any difference, heh, Ted?”
“It sure as hell wouldn’t,” replied the first speaker, and Calamity could sense a self-satisfied grin playing on his face.
“How about that gal?” asked the second man. “Do you reckon she remembers us from Tribune?”
“I don’t reckon so. Hey! Shut the damned window. Somebody might hear us.”
“I can’t sleep with it “closed”—All right, so I’m not asleep now. I’ll close it.”
Ignoring the twinges of pain sudden movements caused, Calamity backed hurriedly and silently along the alley. She could guess at the identity of the speakers and did not wish them to know she had overheard their conversation. In fact, for them to become aware of her presence might prove dangerous in view of what she had heard. Just as she reached and started to turn the corner she saw a head poke out of the window. Fortunately it faced toward the front of the building and before it turned she had passed out of sight.