Calamity Jane 2

by J. T. Edson

  A knock at the door brought her from her reverie. Crossing the room, she opened up and found Velma Banyan standing outside. While Velma had brought more clothes than any of the other wives, none could be termed suitable for mourning. With the funeral over, she had removed the aids to decorum which had lessened disapproval against her through the ceremony.

  “Can I talk to you, Miss Canary?” the blonde asked, darting a nervous glance along the passage.

  “Come on in,” Calamity replied, wondering if the visit might produce some clue to the reason for Banyan’s murder.

  Once inside the room, with the door closed, Velma wasted no time in getting down to business.

  “Do you know that Rachel intends to contest the will?” she asked.

  “How’s that?” Calamity countered.

  “Take you into court and challenge the validity of the will,” Velma explained. “She’s sounded me and that fat old hag Joan out about going along with her on it.”

  “So?”

  “So it could cost you your chances of keeping the saloon.”

  “Sultan’s will said we got it,” Calamity pointed out.

  “Yes,” agreed the blonde. “But, like Rachel says, a court’ll be sympathetic to three poor, betrayed women like us and figure our claim’s stronger than any you’ve got.”

  Which, Calamity admitted to herself, might prove true. So she adopted the kind of worried attitude she thought Velma would expect.

  “Yeah,” she said in a low voice. “The court just might at that.”

  “There’s a way out,” Velma stated eagerly.

  “How?”

  “If Rachel and Joan can’t prove they were legally married to Sultan, that would only leave me—”

  “And Sal,” Calamity went on.

  “Her?” Velma sniffed. “She doesn’t come into it at all. No, Rachel and that Joan are the only ones you have to worry about. If they were to lose their marriage certificates, they couldn’t prove they’d ever been married to Sultan.”

  “Lose?” Calamity repeated.

  “All right, damn it!” Velma hissed. “I’ll talk straight. If you steal those two’s marriage lines and destroy them, they’ve no case in court.”

  “And you get the Harem for yourself.”

  “Me!” Velma yelped, sounding shocked. “I wouldn’t want to stop in this dead-and-alive town. All I want is half of the profits sent to me monthly.”

  Then a knock sounded at the door and alarm showed on Velma’s face. She stared around her as if looking for another way out.

  “I’ll see who it is,” Calamity remarked.

  “They mustn’t find us together,” Velma answered.

  “Get into the wardrobe there,” Calamity told her, pointing to the room’s most prominent piece of furniture.

  From the speed with which Velma obeyed the instructions, she had been involved in similar situations before. Although probably not because she found herself in a room with another woman at an inopportune moment, Calamity guessed as she opened the door of the room. She found Joan outside, exhibiting the same nervousness as shown by Velma.

  “I have to see you, Miss Canary,” the black-haired woman announced. “Only I’d sooner not talk out here.”

  “Come on in, then,” Calamity replied, stepping aside. “What’s up?”

  Leaving Joan to close the door, Calamity crossed to lean against the front of the wardrobe. As soon as the woman started to speak, Calamity felt pleased that she had taken the precaution. She wanted to hear what brought Joan to see her before allowing Velma to appear.

  “Rachel and that blonde trollop are trying to stop you inheriting the saloon, Miss Canary,” Joan said.

  Behind Calamity, the wardrobe door shook and she knew Joan’s words were reaching Velma. However, she continued to lean, asking the questions Joan expected of her and receiving much the same proposition as that put up by Velma. Deciding she would learn nothing new, Calamity commented on the disposal of the other wives’ marriage certificates leaving Joan with the only legal claim against the saloon.

  “I certainly don’t want to own it!” Joan snorted. “That’s the kind of business only a cheap tramp like Velma, or whatever she calls herse—”

  Feeling an extra hard push, Calamity sidestepped and Velma erupted from the wardrobe. For a moment the two widows stood glaring at each other.

  “You lousy old bitch!” Velma hissed, and slapped Joan’s face as hard as she could swing her arm.

  Maybe Velma expected that one slap to end the matter. If so, she received a rapid and painful disillusionment. Gasping with pain, Joan rocked on her heels. Then she whipped her right arm up, slashing the back of her hand into the blonde’s mouth. Staggering from the blow, Velma raised a hand to her face. She stared at the red smear of blood on it and let out a screech of rage. Neither woman moved for almost five seconds. Then, as if at a signal, they lunged at each other. Hands dug into hair, tugging and pulling as they spun around with squeals of mingled pain and rage. Tripping, they crashed to the floor still locked together like a pair of bob-cats fighting for a mate.

  At first Calamity contented herself with standing and watching the fight. For two women who probably had never been entangled in a hair-yanking brawl, they set about it with considerable gusto. Whatever they did to each other, Calamity figured they deserved it. Then Joan straddled Velma’s body, kneeling astride her despite the other’s feeble bucking efforts to escape. Gripping the blonde hair, Joan raised and crashed Velma’s head against the floor. Desperately Velma raked at the other woman with her fingernails, leaving a bloody scratch down her cheek. Once again Joan crashed the blonde head on to the floor.

  “H-Help me, Canary!” Velma croaked.

  Suddenly Calamity felt revulsion at the entire affair. No stickler for some conventions, she held firm views on how a wife should behave after becoming a widow. Those two squalling bitches had recently lost their husband and Calamity figured Sultan Banyan rated better than they, or the other two wives, accorded his memory. From all she could see, Calamity concluded that Banyan had seen to his wives’ welfare even though separated from them. Yet, with his body only that morning laid in its grave, all at least two of his widows could think about was laying hands on more than their share of his money and cat-clawing each other.

  Moving forward, Calamity sank her fingers into Joan’s tangled hair. With a heave, she swung the woman upward and pitched her across the room. Sobbing, dazed, but with murder glaring in her eyes, Velma rose.

  “Let’s tear her eyes out!” she gasped and started toward Joan.

  Around lashed Calamity’s arm in a slap that knocked Velma spinning on to the bed. Joan thrust herself away from the wall, rushing forward with hands raised like the talons of a striking hawk. Jumping forward, Calamity drove a punch into Joan’s belly. Breath burst from Joan and she collapsed, holding her middle.

  “Get up!” Calamity snapped, glaring at the two women.

  Sobbing, Velma forced herself up from the bed. She turned and looked at Calamity, mouth opening to speak. Then she saw the expression on the girl’s face. With a scared croak, the blonde staggered to the door, opened it and fled. Slower to obey, Joan dragged her frame erect. She also realized that discretion was the better part of valor, assuming she could think logically at that moment. Clutching at her middle, she reeled sobbing out of the room.

  Standing glaring after the departed women, Calamity waited until the worst of her anger was subsided. Then she stamped across to the door and slammed it. Leaning her back against the wall, she shook her head.

  “What’s a bunch!” she breathed. “I don’t blame ole Sultan for leaving any or all of ’em.”

  With that she returned to the bed, flung herself down on it and lay thinking about the latest turn of events. All she had learned from the visit was that Rachel intended to fight for the saloon and had tried to recruit two more of the wives in her scheme. Apparently Sal had not been included. When Turnbull asked her, in Calamity’s hearing at the fune
ral, if she would attend the wake, Sal declined and claimed that she intended to ride back to her ranch that same afternoon.

  Deciding to tell Derringer of the visits when they met at the Big Herd that evening, Calamity stayed on the bed. A late night and the events of the day added to make her drift off to sleep. When she woke, night had fallen and she knew the time had come for her to attend the wake.

  “Miss Canary!” called a voice as she walked toward the Big Herd Saloon.

  Turning at the sound of her name, Calamity saw a small, skinny, sly-looking man approaching. He wore town clothes of inexpensive cut and grinned in an ingratiating manner as he stopped before her.

  “Howdy,” Calamity said, wondering why he had called to her.

  “Are you still looking for that place for Mr. Killem?”

  “Sure. If I can get what I want.”

  “You don’t know about Sultan Banyan’s house, then?”

  “What house?” Calamity asked.

  “I could lose my job telling you this—” the man hinted.

  “Will five simoleons make it easier for you?” she sniffed, taking the money from her buckskin jacket’s inside pocket.

  “Sure—” he agreed, reaching out a hand.

  “When I’ve heard what I’m paying for,” Calamity told him.

  “Sultan’s got a house on the south-bound trail, half a mile out of town. It’d be just what you want, got a well already dug and all. Trouble is that one of them mine-owner’s coming to look it over. The deed to the place’s in Mrs. Rachel’s name and she’s fixing to sell out to him.”

  “How’d you know all this?”

  “I get around,” the man answered, glancing about him as if wishing to avoid being seen with the girl. “If the place’s what you want, you might get her to sell to you.”

  “I might at that,” Calamity admitted. “Thanks. Here’s the five.”

  Snatching the money, the man shot into an alley and disappeared. Calamity watched him go, frowning a little and wondering what she should do for the best. Wherever he had picked up the information, one point made it worth investigating. If Sultan owned the house, the Russians’ jewelry might be hidden in its well. The thing being, what to do?

  If she went to the Big Herd and left it accompanied by Derringer, interest and maybe even suspicion might be aroused. The possibility of somebody else hunting for Banyan’s treasure had not escaped Calamity, and could be the reason for his murder. In which case, the less folks suspected the safer for herself during the check on the well. So she decided to go alone.

  That brought up another point. Attending the wake did not call for the wearing of weapons. Not openly at any rate. So she had left the whip in her room, along with her gunbelt. However, she carried her Navy Colt in her waistband, hidden by the jacket. The revolver ought to be enough of a weapon in case of an emergency. There would be no need for her to return to the hotel and she did not wish to be too late arriving at the wake in case her absence should arouse comment.

  Despite wanting to hurry, Calamity refused to let the need for speed override caution. The idea that she might be walking into a trap had come to her shortly after she had paid for the information. So she kept her hand close to the Colt, while ears and eyes remained constantly alert to warn of lurking enemies.

  Nothing happened as she walked along the southern trail. The country bordering it offered scant cover, but as she went farther from town an uneasy feeling grew more intense. Always a fair judge of distance, she realized that at least half a mile lay between her and the town. Yet there was no sign of a house. Any property built by Sultan Banyan would be of imposing size, or she judged his character wrong. Which meant she should be seeing at least some sign of it by that time. At least a quarter of a mile farther on, she came to a halt.

  “Damn it!” she breathed. “There’s no son-of-a-bitching house out here.”

  Three possibilities sprang to her mind: first, somebody had lured her out of town to kill or run her off; second, the informant had heard of her supposed search for a property and grabbed a chance of making some easy money by pretending to know of a suitable place; third, it was a practical joke. Of all, she cared for the third least of all. It seemed unlikely that anybody would play a joke at such a time. Yet the lack of attempts seemed to rule out the first choice. Which left the second and Calamity disliked thinking of that.

  “Could be he slickered me,” she muttered, turning and heading back the way she came. “I’m sure pleased I didn’t tell ole Derry about it.”

  Still fuming and promising herself what she would do when she laid hands on the man, Calamity walked toward the Big Herd Saloon. Considerable noise rose from inside, it having been decided that Sultan Banyan would not want a quiet, tearful send-off. However, Calamity did not reach the batwing doors. The gangling shape of Deputy Sheriff Rigg stepped from a side alley and blocked her path.

  “Howdy, Like-His,” she greeted. “Going inside?”

  “No, ma’am. Just hold it up here for a minute, will you?”

  “What’s up?” she asked, coming to a halt.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  Calamity did not want to admit to Rigg that she might have fallen for an old false-information trick, or go into explanations. Then she noticed how he stood; left hand behind his back, right negligently—too negligently—trailing by his low-hanging Colt. That was the stance of a man expecting trouble and ready to counter it.

  “Around,” she replied.

  “Down to the hotel?”

  “No. Just strolling around to check on my hosses.”

  “Funny, that’s the first place I looked for you,” Rigg said.

  “Now why’d you coming looking for me?” she asked.

  “Somebody knocked Mrs. Velma Banyan cold at the hotel. Done stole her and Mrs. Rachel’s marriage lines.”

  “And you reckon I did it?” Calamity snorted. “Hell, that Joan—”

  “Yeah, that Joan,” Rigg interrupted and brought his hand from behind him. “You recognize these, Miss Calamity?”

  “Sure,” Calamity answered, looking at the whip and hat he held. “They’re mine. I left ’em at the hotel when I come out.”

  “That’s where I found ’em,” Rigg said quietly. “The hat was lying by Mrs. Joan’s body—and the whip was round her neck.”

  Fifteen

  Shock numbed Calamity as the implications of the words sank into her head. Tense and alert, Rigg watched her, then went on:

  “Woman at the hotel allowed she saw somebody running from Mrs. Joan’s room. A gal, wearing man’s clothes—buckskin jacket, bandana around her neck, pants, riding boots.”

  He might have been cataloguing Calamity’s wardrobe and she knew it.

  “Y-You think that I killed her?” she asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

  “You’ll have to tell me where you’ve been so I’ll know one way or the other,” Rigg replied. “Hand over your gun, ma’am.”

  Despite the shock, Calamity knew better than to disobey. Slowly, using her left hand and avoiding gripping the butt, she took out the Colt.

  “Like I said, I was walking,” she stated, handing the weapon to Rigg.

  “Did anybody see you?”

  “Not while I was walking. Only—only the feller who got me to go out of town. He’d know.”

  “Who was he?” asked the deputy, after Calamity had explained how she had gone on false information to see a possible site for Killem’s freight yard.

  While Calamity realized just how thin the story sounded, her instincts warned that to tell the real reason for going out of town would be far worse. If she found the jewelry and it could not be returned to its rightful owners, the wives would have claim to it. Which offered a mighty good motive for stealing the marriage certificates, or killing one of the claimants.

  “A runty cuss with a weasel’s face!” she said. “Looked like a clerk, or some such.”

  “Could be any one of a dozen fellers around here,” Rigg grunted.
“I’ll see if I can find him, after I’ve put you in a cell.”

  “In a ce—!” Calamity gasped.

  “Listen, gal!” Rigg said. “I don’t know whether you killed Mrs. Joan or not. But one thing I’m certain sure of. When word gets out, folks’re going to figure you’d a reason for doing it. So I want to say I’ve got you locked up safe until we find out for sure. That way nobody’ll start acting foolish or shouting ‘hang-rope.’”

  Possibly for the first time in her life Calamity knew real fear. All too well she knew the temper of western folk where “good” women were concerned. The evidence against Calamity, though circumstantial, would appear damning. Folks would remember that she and Derringer had shared an inheritance that should, in part at least, belong to the dead woman. So false, but dangerous, conclusions might be drawn.

  Briefly Calamity considered flight, but cold logic saved her from the blunder. Rigg would do his duty by stopping the attempt; and even if she made it, running would be regarded as a sign of guilt. More than that: a heated mob might assume Derringer shared her guilt and, if she escaped, vent their fury on him.

  One thing more persuaded Calamity to stand her ground. Despite his appearance, Rigg was a smart peace officer, honest and willing to search for the truth. So she went along with him to the jail.

  On entering the office through the front door, Calamity looked around. Although little different from any other such place seen in her travels, the office had a grimmer aspect to the eyes of a prisoner. A door opened into the alley on either side of the office, giving a choice of three exits from the room. Beyond the desk were the two cells Banyan City found satisfactory for their limited needs.

  Taking the key-ring from the desk, Rigg indicated a cell and, after Calamity had entered, locked the door. Then he returned the keys to the top of the desk and locked her weapons in the side cupboard, the key of which went into his pocket.

  “Anything I can do for you?” he asked, walking toward the door.

  “Sure. Tell Derringer what’s happened,” she replied. “I didn’t kill her, Like-His.”