by J. T. Edson
A screeching girl leapt on to Freddie’s back and two more tangled with Kate. Reaching over her shoulder, Freddie grabbed her attacker’s hair, bent double and shot the girl forward on to the floor. At the same moment Kate managed to grab her two assailants by the necks and crack their heads together. Dropping the limp girls, Kate looked at Freddie.
‘This’s no good!’ Freddie gasped, knocking aside another girl. ‘Let’s go into my office!’
‘Sure!’ Kate gasped.
They fought their way across the room with an effort and entered Freddie’s private downstairs office. To prevent further interferences Freddie locked the door. It seemed that she anticipated using the office for this purpose, for all its furniture but the big desk, which had been shoved back against one wall, and the safe had been removed.
‘How about a drink before we start again?’ Freddie asked, wiping blood from the side of her mouth. ‘There’ll be nothing extra in this one.’
‘I found out what happened,’ Kate replied leaning against the wall and sniffing through a nose which felt twice its normal size. ‘Damned fools.’
‘Did they do much damage in the fight?’ Freddie inquired, taking a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the desk cupboard.
‘I’ve hardly a whole chair or table left.’
‘Can you afford to replace them?’
‘No. I paid out all I had to buy the Buffalo in town. Things had been as slack in Brownton as down here and my overheads ate away my savings.’
‘Look,’ Freddie said, handing Kate a drink. ‘I feel responsible—’
‘Don’t offer me charity’ Elate warned.
‘Sip that brandy and shut up,’ Freddie answered. ‘I’m not thinking of offering charity. I think you and I could make a good team. I have some capital and you have experience. Let’s be partners.’
Kate gagged as the brandy went down the wrong way in her surprise. She stared at Freddie for a moment and gasped, ‘Are you serious?’
‘My father always told me to be serious when discussing money. Is it a deal, old girl?’
‘You’ve got a partner,’ Kate grinned and held out her hand.
‘We’ll have the lawyer tie it up in the morning, or whenever we can get out of bed,’ Freddie said, shaking hands with Kate,
‘Huh?’
‘Just because we’re partners doesn’t mean our little party’s over,’ Freddie explained. ‘I can’t bear suspense and we’ll both want to know who is boss.’
‘You know something,’ grinned Kate. You’re right at that. Put the glasses away, junior partner, and let’s away to the ball.’
After Freddie had locked away the glassware, she and Kate circled each other, then closed and the fight resumed with as much ferocity as they had shown when still rivals.
In the bar-room an equally hectic and wild battle raged. It may have started as Fair Lady against Buffalo, but now nobody cared who she fought with as long as she fought. It became a matter of kick, punch, slap, scratch at, bite on and tear hair from the nearest body regardless of who the body worked for.
Only Babsy and Ginger managed to stick together and it went hard for anybody who tried to come between them. Both girls gave out with a considerable amount of energy for they always threw themselves whole-heartedly into anything they found themselves doing. All went reasonably well until Ginger ripped the shoulder strap of Babsy’s dress and tore the material down the side. Staggering back a couple of paces, Babsy screeched like a scalded cat. One look at Babsy’s face set Ginger flying for safety behind the bar. Babsy followed her and tackled her. Kneeling on Ginger’s body, Babsy gripped the red-head’s dress and tore at it until she ripped it off. With a howl of rage, Ginger threw Babsy off and dived at her, hands grabbing cloth. Neither would be seen again for some time but notice of their presence showed in screams, scuffling sounds, ripping noises and the occasional piece of a garment which flew up into the air.
Freddie and Kate fought on, ignoring the lessening sounds of strife from the bar-room. First one then the other appeared to be on the verge of victory during the wild thirty minutes they fought in the office. Each time the apparent loser would manage to rally just in time and fight on. They fought with their fists like two men, showing a fair knowledge of wrestling in throws and holds, using women’s tactics in their struggle for mastery. At last both were on their last legs and the bar-room had been silent for some minutes. Both were naked to the waist and mottled with bruises as well as sporting four blackened, swollen eyes between them, bloody noses and puffed-up lips. Their hair resembled twin dirty mop heads and a fair amount lay scattered around the room. Freddie’s tights had no knees and the right leg no longer had a foot, while Kate’s jeans left leg flapped open along its seams.
A shove from Freddie sent Kate down on to her back and as Freddie dropped on to the blonde, two plump, powerful legs locked around her waist. The pain was intense and Freddie fought to free herself. More by accident than design she managed to rise, although with the legs still around her. Sliding her arms under Kate’s legs, with the blonde hanging down to the floor before her, Freddie fell backwards. With her knees against Kate’s back, Freddie used their leverage to lift the blonde’s torso from the floor. Kate came erect and fell forward, her head striking the wall. Instantly everything went black and Kate collapsed in a limp heap on top of Freddie. Not for a few seconds could Freddie wriggle from under the plump body. Sitting up with Kate crumpled on her knees, Freddie reached out a hand meaning to pull the blonde into a sitting position and deliver a coup de grace. The effort proved too much for Freddie and she slumped forward over Kate’s limp frame.
‘Sure quiet in there,’ Lily Gouch remarked, looking across the street.
‘Let’s go pick up the pieces,’ Big Sarah replied.
Quite a sight greeted them as Sarah unlocked the doors. One thing was for sure, neither saloon could claim a definite, or even possible, victory. Tables had been overturned, chairs broken or thrown aside, odd items of clothing lay or hung around the room; but not one girl remained on her feet. They lay in piles, pairs, singly and every one of them sported marks of the fight
‘Go get your gals, Lily,’ Sarah said. ‘This’ll’ve cleared the air a mite.’
As there still appeared to be activity in the private office, Sarah went around the girls to see if any might be seriously injured. Apart from scratches, bites, bruises and a little minor blood, there appeared to be nothing to worry her. Missing Babsy and Ginger, Sarah searched for them and found them behind the bar. Both girls always boasted they never did anything by halves and so it seemed. They lay side by side, bruised, battered and as naked as the day they were born.
Chuckling, Sarah crossed the room to the office. After a louder than usual crash it had gone silent When she unlocked and opened the door, she found Kate and Freddie piled on the floor,
‘Oh no!’ Sarah groaned. ‘If it’s a draw we’ll have this lot again as soon as they’re well.’
Chapter Fifteen
Showdown in Brownton
Kady Jones was an honest man. Although he once hired out his gun, it had always been understood that he faced down only men who could defend themselves. Never did he cross the thin dividing line between what the West classed as killing and counted as being murder.
From what Jones heard while standing at the deserted bar of the late Lefarge’s saloon, he reckoned it to be time he pulled up stakes and parted company with Marshal Banks Fagan. Many things Jones had learned and seen about Fagan chilled him and drove out any liking or respect he might have felt for the man. However Jones always remained loyal when hired and he overlooked the marshal’s failings. Incidentally this was the reason, Jones’ loyalty, that made Fagan hire him; the marshal feared that one day some enemy might employ Jones to take revenge and so made sure the situation did not arise. Jones had given Fagan good service, but drew the line at becoming an accessory to a crime. While he might be a killer, Jones had never been a thief.
A sardonic grin creased
the gaunt deputy’s ugly face as he watched Mayor Grief nervously pacing the room, Fagan sitting at a table and drinking Lefarge’s whisky and Buxton, the man employed to spy on Mulrooney, leaning against the left side window, looking along the trail to Mulrooney. They acted about as scared and jumpy as a bunch of whitetail deer in the heart of hotly-hunted country.
‘Is there any sign of Crocker, Buxton?’ asked Grief for the tenth time in thirty minutes.
‘You don’t reckon he’s double-crossing us, Banks, do you?’
‘Who, Vince?’ asked Jones sardonically.
‘He’s not double-crossing us. Those boys with him wouldn’t give him a chance and their only way of getting clear of Kansas is with my help,’ Fagan replied. ‘I don’t make mist—’
‘Hell fire!’ Buxton croaked, staring bug-eyed out of the window. ‘It’s him!’
‘Who?’ asked Fagan, sticking a cigar into the corner of his mouth.
‘Dusty Fog!’
The cigar fell from Fagan’s mouth and Grief stopped his pacing, staring at the marshal.
‘It went bust!’ Grief croaked.
‘If they took Crocker alive, he’ll be talking up a storm,’ Fagan growled, showing a shrewd judgment of his man’s character. ‘Is Fog alone?’
‘There’s no sign of any of his bunch with him,’ Buxton answered after taking a further look along the street.
‘That figgers,’ the marshal grunted. ‘Fog’s a cowhand, not a lawman and he’s the sort to make a grandstand play.’
‘What’ll we do?’ asked Buxton, glancing at the back door of the room and showing all the ferocious eagerness to fight of a cotton tail rabbit seated by its hole.
‘I know nothing of this affair,’ Grief stated. ‘I’ll be le—’
‘Stay put, Grief!’ Fagan spat out. ‘You’re in this as deep as I am. Make a move out of here and I’ll put the whole blame on you.’
The threat might have carried less weight if Grief did not feel certain that Fagan would shoot him down on the spot should he attempt to leave. Running his tongue tip over fat, suddenly dry lips, he looked at the marshal.
‘Wh—what do we do?’ Grief croaked.
‘Buxton, get hid behind the bar, there’s a sawed-off ten-gauge under it. Grief, go into the office and cover Fog from there. You got a gun?’
‘N-no,’
‘Get the other scatter from under the bar. Move!’
When Fagan’s voice took on that wolf-savage snarl, folk who knew him watched their step—and both Buxton and Grief knew Fagan very well. Neither argued about his duties but headed for the bar, collected the shotguns and took up the positions as he ordered.
Hooves thudded outside, sounding loud in the Sunday afternoon silence. Fagan looked at Jones and there was sweat on his brow as he said, ‘We’ll take him as he comes through the door.’
‘Not me,’ Jones replied. ‘I just quit.’
‘You what?’ Fagan snarled.
‘Quit. Q-U-I-T’s how they spell it, means we’re finished, Banks. I don’t like being took for granted; I don’t like the idea of a robbery that could ruin a bunch of decent folks. Comes to a real fine point, I reckon I don’t like you. See you, Banks—maybe.’
The hooves came to a halt outside and leather creaked as the unseen rider swung from his saddle.
‘You can’t run out on me, Jones!’ Fagan spat out.
‘So long, Banks,’ the ugly gunman replied calmly. ‘I’d like to say it’s been nice knowing you; but it ain’t, so I can’t.’
With that he made a bad mistake. Turning, he walked across the room, meaning to leave by the back door. Fury seethed inside Fagan as he watched Jones walk away. Fury and fear mixed. Outside the saloon Dusty Fog was coming; the fastest gun in Texas was headed into the bar-room to arrest Fagan and now Jones had quit cold, left the hand that fed him at a time when Fagan needed help most. Dropping his hand, Fagan drew his gun and lined it at Jones’ back. Too late Jones tried to turn as he heard the sound of a cocking Colt behind him and guessed what must be happening. Fagan’s gun roared, kicking against his palm and sending lead into Jones’ back as the gunman twisted around, hand fanging to the butt of his Army Colt.
And then all hell tore loose in the saloon.
Dusty tore through the batwing doors, coming with his matched Colts in his hands. Quickly his eyes took in the scene before him. Fagan standing with a smoking gun after cutting Jones down, but starting to swing back towards the front doors. Worse still, the double barrels of a sawed-off ten-gauge showed through the slit of the open office door.
It was a moment of decision, with Dusty’s life hanging in the balance and on the quickness of his reactions. He decided the shotgun-user would be the more pressing danger and must be taken out of the game first. Left, right, left, right, the twin Colts bellowed out, throwing their lead at the office door with unerring accuracy. The shotgun’s barrels tilted upwards, the right side tube discharging its load, but the buckshot went over Dusty’s head. By that time Fagan had almost completed his turn and was even then swinging his gun towards Dusty.
Crashes sounded as the left, rear and side doors of the bar-room burst open to give admittance to Waco, the Kid and Frank Derringer, All saw the danger to Dusty and acted with speed.
‘Fagan!’ the Kid roared, levering off shots so fast that his right hand looked no more than a blur and the empty cartridge cases curved into the air like they were being tossed out by a Gatling gun’s ejector.
Throwing up the shotgun he had brought along, Waco cut loose on the marshal without any waste of words, emptying both barrels into Fagan and the eighteen buckshot balls did not have time to spread far when they struck flesh. Also armed with a ten-gauge from the Mulrooney’s office’s rack, Derringer triggered off both barrels in a rapid right, left, and he did not miss.
One way or another Marshal Banks Fagan, late of the Dakota Territory, was a tolerable dead hombre by the time Dusty’s three deputies finished with him.
Rolling on to his stomach, Jones gritted his teeth and fanned off six shots from his already drawn Army Colt, sending the bullets into the front of the bar. Fanning had never been a target-accuracy method of shooting; but the gods of chance must have figured they owed Jones a break after his lapse from grace. His fifth shot sliced through the woodwork and into Buxton just as the spy started to rise and cut in—Buxton being under the impression that it had been Grief’s shotgun he heard and so it called on him to show willing. Taken by surprise, Buxton reared upwards still holding the shotgun. Dusty saw the man and turned, his right hand Colt bellowing and planting a bullet between Buxton’s eyes.
‘Hit the office, Waco!’ Dusty barked, leaping to Jones’ side.
‘Damned fool!’ groaned Jones, watching Waco hold the shotgun in his left hand, draw his right side Colt and go through the office door with the smooth efficiency of a trained lawman.
‘Me?’ asked Dusty, holstering his Colts.
‘Naw, me!’ Jones spat out the two words in a disgusted manner. ‘I should ought to have known better’n show Banks Fagan my back like that.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’m no thief. Didn’t know about that try at your bank until this morning. Then I figgered to pull out. Should’ve knowed Banks wouldn’t go for that.’
‘Lie easy, I’ll get the doctor over here,’ Dusty said and looked to where Waco shoved a scared and slightly wounded Mayor Grief from the office. This did not surprise Dusty, nor did the fact that he had only slightly wounded the man; he had been pumping lead out to distract the shotgun-user and hoped to make some of it count at the same time.
‘Saw the young ’n’ there ride through town a piece back,’ Jones gritted. ‘Only he wasn’t sporting that badge then. And Banks allowed you wasn’t a lawman.’
Fagan’s misjudging of Dusty’s character had been the last mistake in a long mis-spent career.
On reaching the rim overlooking Brownton, Dusty took precautions. Keeping out of sight, he sent Waco into town to reconnoiter. T
he youngster did his work well, returning with word that Fagan and the mayor were in the Buffalo Saloon. So Dusty laid his plans accordingly. He sent his three deputies to make their way into town from the rear and surround the building. Giving them time to take their places, he then rode openly down the main street and held the attention of the men in the saloon. Waco had seen the look-out and reported on his presence, enabling Dusty to plan with more accuracy.
The success of Dusty’s planning showed in the fact that he walked into a gun trap, but came out of it alive. Like Dusty always said, the lawman who used his head for thinking instead of butting wound up by living longer.
Although a hostile crowd of Brownton citizens arrived to investigate the shooting, Mayor Grief sent them about their business. He did not do this out of the goodness of his heart, but because the Ysabel Kid’s bowie knife point pricked his back just over the kidneys and he had the Kid’s solemn promise that failure to remove the crowd would be painful in the extreme.
‘And that was the end of it,’ Dusty Fog told Freddie Woods that evening.
They were in Freddie’s bedroom, which did not hint at romance. Even if Dusty felt romantically inclined, Freddie’s battered face might have put him off; and anyway Freddie did not feel any desire to do more than lie on her back in the hope of easing her bruised and aching body.
‘What about Jones?’ she asked, having heard the full story.
‘I had him brought here. He’s not badly hurt and Kail Beauregard’ll need a good deputy or two when he arrives.’
‘I’ll see Jones is appointed,’ Freddie promised.
‘Who won?’ Dusty asked with a grin.