Calamity Jane 6: The Hide and Horn Saloon (A Calamity Jane Western)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Is that so?’ asked the blonde, conveying an impression of being distressed by the discovery. ‘Then all the gambling gear in here belongs to you, huh?’

  ‘Ye—!’ Wallace began, then realized the claim could be disproved. ‘Well, no!’

  ‘So you don’t own any of it?’ Madam asked.

  ‘The faro table’s mine,’ Wallace declared and, wanting to establish the fact that he had brought sufficient equipment to justify the kind of arrangement he claimed existed between himself and the former owner, he went on hurriedly, ‘So’s the cards, dice ‘n’ dice cups!’

  ‘And the dealing boxes over to the faro layout?’

  ‘Of course they’re mine!’

  ‘Then this must be yours,’ the blonde suggested, in a seemingly mild and innocuous fashion, bringing her right hand into view.

  ‘Yea—!’ the gambler began, staring at the object exposed to his gaze. ‘What the hell happened to it?’

  ‘It got busted when I dropped it and stepped on it,’ Madam explained, in something which might have passed as an apologetic tone. ‘That’s one trouble with second dealer boxes. They’re a whole heap more fragile than “straights”.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Wallace snarled, concluding from the use of the terms, “second dealer” and “straights” that the woman knew the purpose of each type of box and the destruction had not been accidental. Making a motion with his head, he continued, ‘All right, you—!’

  While the conversation had been taking place, the two men summoned by Wallace had been moving inwards. Big and burly, their attire was similar to his; albeit of a cheaper quality. However, as everybody present knew, their purpose was to act as bodyguards rather than workers at the gambling tables. Knowing there was likely to be trouble from the new owner, who did not appear to have heard of the arrangement between their employer and Mrs. Higgins, they were ready to help him protect his lucrative interests.

  Right thumb hooked into his gunbelt close to the » walnut butt of its Colt 1860 Army Model revolver, Barry Norman, the taller of the pair, was confronting Turner with a prohibitive scowl on his face. Herbert Lang had halted close behind the blonde. Having received the awaited signal from his employer, he was opening his arms and preparing to encircle hers.

  The shorter hard-case discovered his presence was far from unexpected. Things were not as he had assumed!

  Allowing the ruined second dealer box to slip from her grasp, Madam suddenly thrust her bent arm to the rear. Before Lang was able to complete the incapacitating hold from behind, the elbow rammed into his solar plexus with considerable force. Letting out a startled and pain filled gasping obscenity, he reeled backwards a few steps. Nor, although he was not affected directly, was this the only result of the unanticipated attack.

  Hearing the thud, and the profanity croaked in a masculine voice, which suggested the victim was not a woman, Norman could not prevent an involuntary impulse to look around!

  Similarly, finding one of his bodyguards had run into an unexpected difficulty, Wallace felt there was a need to take some form of action himself!

  Neither met with any success!

  Having surmised his new employer might be far less oblivious of the danger than was apparent, a belief increased by watching how she was treating Wallace, the floor manager was ready to back whatever play she made. Without having aroused any protest from Norman, who was engrossed in looking at his companion, he had returned his right hand to his pocket and was once more grasping the sap.

  Immediately the gaze of the hard-case was turned from him, Turner brought out the weapon. Instead of aiming at the top of the skull, which was adequately protected by the broad brimmed hat, he swung the sap across and upwards. Gaining power from the whiplike action of the spring in the handle, the lead loaded head met the jaw of the man as his gaze was returning to the front. Being stunned, his hand missed the butt of the Colt for which he was reaching and he went down in a sprawling heap.

  Although Wallace too had commenced his draw, before he could even touch the glossy white handle, he learned that there was a serious disadvantage to carrying the short barreled Colt in such a fashion. As soon as she had struck the man behind her, relying upon Turner to protect her from the other hard-case, Madam Bulldog thrust forward her right hand and beat the gambler to grasping the butt of his weapon. A tug brought it from the cross draw holster and she spun swiftly upon her heel. Just as the man she had struck was coming to a halt and preparing to resume his efforts, he once again found himself circumvented.

  ‘I can copper that bet, too!’ the blonde warned, thumb cocking the revolver.

  Finding he was suddenly looking into the muzzle of the Colt, which seemed far larger than its .36 caliber under the circumstances, the hard-case froze the movement of his right hand well clear of his weapon. Every instinct warned him that the new owner of the Hide and Horn Saloon was far from being inexperienced at handling a revolver. Nor did he doubt she would “copper that bet”, too, although much more dangerously than when the term was employed in the game of faro, if he tried to take further action against her.

  Stumbling backwards a few steps in fright, as he felt himself being relieved of his weapon, Wallace halted beyond the reach of the saloon’s new owner. While he would have been willing enough to have drawn and used the Colt if granted an opportunity, undeterred by his intended victim being a woman, he was far from courageous. Therefore, despite her back being to him, he had no intention of tackling her personally until he had satisfied himself with regards to how much support he could count upon from elsewhere in the barroom.

  Looking around, the gambler discovered there would be little or no help available. He concluded his lucrative occupancy of the premises was to be suspended, or—unless his half-sister could find a legal loophole in their favor—permanently ended.

  At the far table, the Fletcher brothers were starting to rise. Guessing there was something more than an accident behind the wrecking of the box and the insistence that it should be replaced by a different kind, a supposition increased by seeing Madam presenting it to Wallace, the players realized there was more to the new owner than they had at first thought. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, the dealer and the case-keeper sank back on to their chairs.

  Not far away, another gambler was standing up. As he was about to leave the table, he found himself confronted by the five cowhands from the Leaning J ranch. They were no longer looking amiable and he too concluded it would be advisable to mind his own business.

  Yet a fourth gambler quit his seat. As he was starting to cross the room, he was tripped by Viola Grant. A fifth had a tray of drinks tipped into his lap by a waiter as he was coming to his feet. At the wheel of fortune, the operator changed his intentions on being eyed malevolently by the two elderly swampers. Although neither Joshua Gilmore nor his cronies were showing signs of being prepared to intervene, the dealer at the vingt-un table also elected to remain passive. Nor were the remainder of the men brought to Tennyson by Wallace willing, or able, to intercede in the face of the open hostility displayed towards them by various other members of the saloon’s work force.

  ‘Go and stand by your boss!’ Madam ordered the bodyguard she was covering. Without allowing the revolver to waver, she contrived to gaze about her and was delighted to discover she had won over so many of her employees, and some customers. ‘Move it!’

  ‘S –Sure!’ Lang replied and obeyed with alacrity.

  ‘Well, now, Mr. Wallace,’ the blonde said, turning to direct a cold gaze upon the gambler. ‘Happen you don’t reckon I can handle this hogleg any better than I can play poker?’

  Concluding the question, Madam dipped and fired the Colt in a rapid motion. Splinters erupted from the floor just in front of the gambler’s right boot, causing him to make an involuntary bound away. As soon as he landed, the alignment of the short barrel having been altered, a second bullet was sent equally close to his other foot. Twice more, on alighting from a frightened leap, he w
as induced to take off again by lead splattering his feet with more slivers of wood.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Madam challenged, lifting the smoking weapon until its muzzle was directed at the center of Wallace’s narrow chest.

  ‘Y–Yes!’ the gambler confirmed, his sallow face even paler. The quivering was no longer rage, but terror.

  ‘And you’re just as satisfied I’m telling the truth about winning this place from Maxie fair and square?’ the blonde demanded.

  ‘S – Sure you did!’ Wallace conceded, staring as if mesmerized at his own Colt.

  ‘I’m right pleased to hear it,’ Madam said dryly. ‘Well now, I don’t know what kind of deal your sister made Maxie give you, but I’ll honor it—providing you can prove to Counselor Scrope’s satisfaction that it’s still legally binding now I own the place. There’s only one thing, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Wallace asked sullenly and without hope, remembering the document he was given by his half-sister stated his control of the gambling only lasted while Maxwell Higgins was owner of the saloon.

  ‘That Marshal Collier and I go over every piece of gambling equipment together,’ the blonde explained, lowering the Colt and deftly flicking the percussion caps from the two chambers of the cylinder which were still loaded. ‘Happen we find they’re all right, you can go on running things.’

  ‘I’ll have all my gear moved out comes morning!’ the gambler stated, being all too aware of what the result of the examination by the clearly knowledgeable woman would be. ‘Come on, Herb!’

  ‘Take your other bully-boy with you,’ Madam ordered, indicating the hard-case felled by Turner. Then, tossing the Colt to its owner, her right hand whisked under the jacket of her traveling costume. Before he had caught the weapon, it reappeared grasping the butt of a British made Webley Bulldog revolver which had been in a carefully designed shoulder holster she was wearing. [17] Not needing to cock the hammer manually, the mechanism being ‘double action’, she pointed the stubby barrel at him and continued, ‘Here, I’m toting my own and can shoot even better with it.’

  ‘Looks like we ain’t going to be needed after all, Tune,’ commented Deputy Town Marshal Herman ‘Pockets’ Hoscroft, from where he and his superior were standing just beyond the batwing doors of the front entrance to the saloon.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Town Marshal Tune Collier agreed, having considered it advisable to be close by on hearing Wallace had returned earlier than anticipated from the county seat. He had been correct in his assumption that the new owner would be unwilling to go along with the arrangement he believed had been forced upon her predecessor. Furthermore, it seemed—even though he had failed to catch those responsible—his suspicion that there were dishonest methods being employed in some, if not all, the games was correct. Feeling certain the situation would be changed for the better, he ran his gaze appreciatively over the attractive and competent blonde, continuing, ‘She’s quite a woman, Pockets!’

  ‘You’ve just said a Texas sized mouthful, amigo,’ enthused the deputy. ‘One way and another, I reckon she’s going to make a whole heap of changes in that ole saloon.’

  ‘And in the town, likely,’ Collier assessed. ‘Come on. Let’s back off a ways. I want to have a few words with Wallace when he comes out to let him know how things stand.’

  While withdrawing, neither peace officer envisaged just what an effect upon their lives and the town of Tennyson as a whole the woman calling herself Madam Bulldog was going to have!

  Eight – I’ll Blow Your God-damned Head Off

  ‘Well now, gents, I’m obliged for you having stayed over so’s we can talk things out,’ Madam Bulldog asserted, lounging comfortably against the mahogany counter as if she had done the same for years. Looking from one to another of the ten operators of the gambling games assembled for her by Joseph Turner, she continued in the same amiable tone, ‘I know you were all brought here by Leo Wallace and, although I might be doing you an injustice, I reckon I’ve a pretty fair notion why you were picked. That’s none of my never-mind. He’s gone and he won’t be coming back.’

  The buxom and attractive blonde looked completely relaxed, at peace with the world and satisfied by her lot in life!

  Nor, although she still had a matter of considerable importance demanding her attention, was the appearance presented by the new owner of the Hide and Horn Saloon misleading!

  To Madam’s way of thinking, (a point of view shared by her newly appointed floor manager and the majority of her employees) her first night in control had been an unqualified success. Business had been brisk and profitable. Furthermore, after she had dealt so competently with the threat posed by Wallace and his bodyguards, there was no further trouble. A visit later by Town Marshal Tune Collier and his deputy had not been in the line of duty, and the advice he had given to the deposed head of gambling was never mentioned. Instead, he and Deputy Marshal Herman ‘Pockets’ Hoscroft had drunk to the health and continued success of the new owner before resuming their briefly interrupted rounds.

  Joshua Gilmore had subjected the blonde to what he clearly believed to be irresistible charm which, presumably, he had used with considerable success upon other members of her sex. Far from being impressed, although she had behaved in a friendly fashion, she had excused herself from his company on the grounds that she needed to circulate and get to know the other customers. Despite the blacksmith having made no attempt to conceal displeasure over what was tantamount to a dismissal (which had seemed to amuse his cronies on that account) they had all behaved themselves for the rest of the evening.

  Madam had established a far more satisfactory relationship with another group of local businessmen. One, moreover, of greater prominence and influence—should they care to exert it—than Gilmore and his companions. Joining Lawyer Aloysius P. Scrope, she had been introduced formally to the party he had brought to make her acquaintance. Such had been the skill with which she had handled them that, far from being annoyed at her delay in reaching their table, they had considered it a tribute to their importance that she had given attention to ‘lesser’ customers first and was now willing to spend the rest of the evening in their company.

  Showing an intelligent appreciation of the situation with regard to the most recent developments in the state of affairs at Austin, the blonde had done much to relieve their concern over how her presence might affect the chances of Tennyson supplanting Garnett as seat of Sand County She had made an appointment to visit Gavin Standish, owner of the Cattlemen’s Bank—apologizing for talking business at such a moment—in the morning to make a substantial deposit of cash. Others of the group, including the manager of the Fortescue Hotel and short, peppery Doctor Henry Connel—the only medical practitioner in the area—had gone away satisfied by the indications of the possible business advantages which were likely to accrue from her ownership of the Hide and Horn Saloon.

  Taking into account the generally pleasant atmosphere all evening and the way several of the customers had said their good nights on leaving, Madam felt she had made as good an impression upon them as with the party accompanying the attorney. Now, with Young ‘N’ closing the front entrance to signify business was concluded for the day, and other employees starting to tidy up, she was setting about a matter of some importance.

  Of various heights, builds, hair colors and ages, between the mid-twenties and late fifties, not one of the men to whom the blonde was speaking wore the traditional attire of professional gamblers. Instead, their town style clothing gave no indication of how they might earn their living. That every one of them, with the exception of the Fletcher brothers, wore a firearm of some kind visible upon his person was not unusual. In most places west of the Mississippi River, a man without a gun was the exception rather than the rule.

  ‘He won’t, huh?’ grunted the burly and black haired gambler over whom the waiter, Sam, had spilled the drinks during the confrontation with Wallace. Then how’s that leave us?’

  ‘In what way?’ Madam inquir
ed, although she had a good idea of what the answer was going to be.

  ‘What about our pay?’

  ‘Are you owed any?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Then, was I you, I’d take it up with him,’ the blonde advised. ‘I reckon you know where you can find him. At least, I hope you do. Because he won’t be coming in here again!’

  ‘Is that what you’ve got us here to tell us?’ growled the lanky and heavily mustached man who had backed down from the threat displayed by the five cowhands.

  ‘No, but it was brought up and I reckoned you might as well know how I stand,’ Madam replied, and her manner indicated she would brook no argument on the subject. ‘What I’ve had you come over here for is Joe Turner reckons you’re all good at running your games. He’s floor boss now, and I’m willing to take his word on it.’

  ‘Floor boss?’ sniggered the middle-sized and overweight dealer for the vingt-un table. He belonged to the ‘sporting’ crowd led by Gilmore and had heard the comments made about the blonde’s possible morals. Swinging a mocking gaze towards the man in question, he went on in tones of derision, ‘And you a married man, for sh—’

  Stepping forward swiftly, before Turner could register a similar objection to the completely undeserved comment, the blonde brought it to an abrupt end by knotting and whipping up her left fist. Struck under the side of his jaw by the powerful and skillfully delivered blow, the gambler was knocked in a twirling sprawl from amongst his companions. He was brought to a halt by the sturdy table over which he had been presiding. Accepting his weight, without collapsing or turning over, it prevented him from falling to the floor. Nevertheless, he slid from it to land in a keeling posture. Snarling a profanity, he reached towards the butt of the revolver tucked beneath the dark blue silk sash around his bulging and far from solid midsection. Effective as such a means of carrying the weapon had proved in the past, he was somewhat dazed by the unexpected and surprisingly hard blow and fumbled instead of making a smooth draw.