by J. T. Edson
The fittings and state of cleanliness inside compared favorably with that of the Granada in Tribune, Derringer decided as he looked around. Behind the desk, the clerk stared at the blonde, grabbed up his pen and poked it toward the neck of the ink-pot.
Only two of the hotel’s residents were in the lobby, both women who eyed the newly arrived blonde with disapproval but no sign of recognition. Seated by the door, the tall rusty-haired woman reminded Derringer of all the schoolmarms he had ever known. In her late thirties at least, she might have been beautiful but for the chilling, stand-no-nonsense aspect of her face. Under the severe black of an expensive town suit lay a figure that, given chance, might come close to the blonde’s in richness of curves.
Just entering the lobby from the dining room, the other woman seemed out of place in such surroundings. While her buxom figure was clad in good, costly clothing, she gave the impression that such had not always been the case. Wives of newly rich businessmen, or up-from-the-ranks army officers often looked that way. Not bad looking, although nothing compared with the blonde, she had a good, sturdy shape.
Undulating her way across to the desk, the blonde halted and favored the clerk with a winning smile.
“I’m Mrs. Banyan,” she said. “And I’m sure my husband would want me to have the best room in the house.”
Shock twisted at the clerk’s beaming features and he stabbed the pen down hard into the ink-pot.
“M-Mrs. Banyan?” he repeated in a high-pitched, squeaky voice.
“Yes?” said two voices.
The other two women spoke, each sounding as if she were answering her name. Then both of them converged on the desk where the clerk stared open-mouthed from one to another of them. Slowly realization came to the three women and each looked at the other two with some surprise showing on her face. If offered a bet on the matter, Derringer would have put his money on the one with rusty hair recovering first.
She did. Stiffening slightly, she spoke in a well-educated-sounding voice.
“You ladies must be related to my husband.”
“I never knew Sultan had any brothers, or other kin,” the blonde answered.
“Su——!” gasped the one with black hair. “Bu–But I’m married to Wallace.”
“I never called him either Claude or Wallace,” the blonde stated. “But he’s my husband—and I’ve never divorced him.”
“Neither did I!” bristled the black-haired woman, her accent working-class Kansan.
“And I can assure you both that I am also Claude Wallace Banyan’s wife,” the rusty-haired woman put in. “It seems that we are all married to the same man and that two of us can have no legal standing.”
“I married Sultan in December sixty-five!” the blonde announced and reached toward the mouth of the vanity bag. “And I’ve got my marriage lines to prove it.”
“But he married me in June sixty-nine,” the black-haired woman said, showing more concern over the situation than the other two. “And I’ve got proof with me.”
“My marriage, which is still legally binding, was in December, sixty-one, ladies,” the rusty-haired woman declared. “Which I can also prove. So I——” At which point she became aware that three men stood listening to every word spoken. “This is not a matter we can discuss before these people. May I suggest that we go up to my room and continue our business in private?”
“It would be best,” agreed the black-haired Mrs. Banyan.
“Sure,” the blonde went on. “Leave my trunk by the desk, boys, and thanks.”
Although the loafers would normally have expected a tip for their services, the scene they had witnessed drove all such thoughts from their heads. So they just stood gaping as the three women walked up the stairs. From what Derringer could hear, introductions were being made.
“My name is Rachel B——” the rusty-haired one said, then chopped off the last word as being superfluous under the circumstances.
“I’m Velma,” the blonde replied.
“M-My name’s Joan,” the third wife went on. Of the three, she sounded the most shocked at finding her husband had two more wives. “B-But I can’t believe——”
“Nor me,” Velma replied, darting a glance at the other two as if trying to see what her husband found in them after being with her.
“I hope that neither of you ladies has any children,” Rachel remarked as they reached the head of the stairs. “I have none——”
“Well, I’ll be——!” gasped the clerk as the women’s voices died away. Then he stared down at the register, tapping the top line of the newly started page. “So that’s how I missed the other two. One of ’em come in last night and signed over the page, while I was at home. The other come in on the morning stage.” With his curiosity partially satisfied, he looked at Derringer and went on, “Don’t that beat all. Do you reckon it’s right about them all being married to ole Sultan?”
“I don’t know,” Derringer replied. “And I’m not fixing to ask. Right or wrong, I don’t reckon Sultan or Turk’d go much on having word of it spread around town about this——”
“Especially Turk,” the clerk interrupted, worry on his face.
“Like you say, especially Turk,” Derringer agreed and glared at the other three men. “Now I’m not fixing to say a word. So if it does leak out, there’ll only be three who could have started it. Savvy?”
From the expressions on their faces, the trio savvied. Clearly Turk carried some weight around Banyan; enough to ensure the trio’s silence until the sheriff returned. So Derringer gave his attention to booking rooms for Calamity and himself and wondering what would be the next fantastic development in Sultan Banyan’s affairs.
Chapter 9
CALAMITY JANE MIGHT BE A TOUCH HOT-HEADED, a mite tactless and somewhat reckless at times, but she could be relied upon to keep her eyes open and take notice of anything interesting she saw. After the incidents of the past few days, she still could not relax, even though approaching her final delivery point. Her eyes continued to dart glances around, studying the people she passed and the lay-out of the town.
Standing at the end of the Big Herd Saloon’s strip of sidewalk, a medium-sized man, wearing glasses with thick lens, watched the wagon go by. By the saloon’s main entrance stood a tall, lean gambler, swarthily handsome with an air of toughness apparent to a student of western human nature. Lounging with a shoulder against the wall, he kept his right hand thumb-hooked into the gunbelt close to the Adams Army revolver in the fast-draw holster. He too studied the wagon with some interest. Enough to attract Calamity’s attention under the circumstances. Of course the sight of a pretty gal dressed in such a manner and handling the ribbons of a six-horse team could be counted on to draw male eyes. Yet Calamity felt that more than that was causing the two men to watch her approach.
Although the pair had nothing in common, the one a saloon worker or professional gambler and the other apparently a member of the lower middle-class workers—a bank clerk maybe, or a senior employee in a store—Calamity’s instincts told her they shared a mutual interest. Something in the way they stood, each exhibiting just too casual a disregard for the other’s presence, reminded the girl of peace officers keeping watch on suspected premises—or outlaws studying the scene of their next crime. Yet the latter seemed unlikely for the bank lay back along the street and, successful though it might be, Sam Werner’s store was an unlikely prospect for a robbery.
In some way the two men seemed vaguely familiar to Calamity. She tried to place them, but could not. This being her first visit to Banyan, she had not met them in the town. Of course she travelled around and saw a whole heap of people. Maybe the two had been in some other place. Or it could be that she was making a mistake in thinking she recognized them.
Putting aside her thoughts on the men, Calamity brought the wagon to a halt before Werner’s general store. She booted on the brake, then swung to the sidewalk as the store’s door opened. Coming out, the stocky, cheerful-looking owner
showed his surprise at finding a girl instead of the usual male driver.
“You’re from Dobe Killem?” Werner asked.
“Sure. None of the other drivers’d come in and he allowed you’d likely need the gear in the wagon.”
“I do. This’s the first time you’ve been here, Calamity.”
“Sure, and it’s been some trip,” she answered, not surprised that the store-keeper had identified her. All Killem’s regular customers knew she drove for him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get a deer for you on the way in.”
“Country’s getting all hunted out down that ways,” Werner said. “I’ll have my boys come out and unload.”
“Here’s the bill-of-lading,” Calamity told him, producing the sheet of paper and pleased that he had found a suitable excuse for her lack of hunting success without her needing to go into details. “Check it off, will you. Say, who’s the tinhorn across the street?”
“Him? That’s Ted Claggert, floor-boss over to the Big Herd.”
“Been around town for long?”
“Came in with Edgar Turnbull and worked here ever since. That’s maybe eighteen months. Why?”
“He looked kind of familiar,” Calamity answered. “But if he’s been around town for that long, I don’t reckon he is. How about that dude along there?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen him afore,” Werner answered, after a casual look along the street in the man’s direction but without actually gazing straight at him. “What’s up, Calam?”
“I’m just a mite uneasy,” she replied. “Let’s get the unloading done so’s I can see to my team.”
That was always the freighter’s code; care for the load and team first, with personal needs coming a long way second. So the girl supervised the unloading by Werner’s two sons. Boxes, barrels, sacks came off the wagon to be carried into the store; each item being ticked off the list Werner held. Due to the trouble at the last camp Calamity made a later start than she expected and the sun was sinking toward the western horizon before the work was completed.
“I done snuck off with a couple of boxes of gold ’n’ jewels,” she told Werner with a grin.
“So who needs them?” he answered. “The rest’s here.”
Before any more could be said, the door opened and Claggert entered. “Did those cards come in, Sam?” he asked.
“Right here,” the store-keeper replied, indicating the box.
“Can I have twenty decks? I tell you, we need ’em across at the Big Herd. The ones we’re using now’re so thick that we have to pound ’em into the dealing boxes.”
“I”ll see to it after I’ve dealt with Calamity here.”
“Give the gent his cards, Sam,” Calamity suggested. “I can wait.”
A puzzled frown came and went across Werner’s face like a flash. From all he had heard, Calamity Jane let nothing stand in the way of caring for her team. Then he remembered the interest she had shown in Claggert and realized that she wanted to see the sale completed. Wondering what caused her interest, he set about opening the box.
The same thought came to Calamity as she moved in a casual-seeming manner to stand by the window. If questioned, she would have been hard put to supply a satisfactory answer. Yet something about the floor-manager’s attitude, although he did no more than stand across the street, had struck her as suspicious. That, and the fact that she felt sure she knew Claggert, caused Calamity to delay attending to her team. Looking across the street, she saw the dude still standing on the sidewalk and gazing with intent expectancy toward the store.
“There’s something cock-eyed somewheres,” she mused. “Only I’m damned if I know where.”
Not in the instant purchase of the cards. Any saloon or gambling house would wish to keep a supply of new decks, for old cards picked up marks on their backs by which a smart player might gain information. Nor would Werner, as jobber for Bletchley & Sons, keep the arrival of fresh stock a secret. For all that, Calamity’s every instinct told her something was wrong.
With the purchase completed, Claggert left the store. Calamity saw him cross the sidewalk and head toward the Big Herd, then swung her eyes in the direction of the other man. Giving a slight inclination of his head, in reply to a nod from Claggert, the dude turned and walked off along the alley of the saloon.
“Is something wrong, Calam?” Werner asked.
“Nope,” she replied. “Like I said, I’m just a mite uneasy. It’s been some trip. I’ll go see to the team.”
“Put the wagon around back and the horses in my stable, if you like,” the store-keeper suggested.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll do just that.”
Accompanied by Werner’s two sons, Calamity took the wagon to the rear of the building. After unhitching and attending to her team, she gathered her warbag, Derringer’s grip and the carbine from the wagon. Watched by the admiring youngsters, she walked off toward the hotel.
Still in something of a daze at the thought of what he learned from the three women, the desk clerk hardly raised an eyebrow when Calamity told him that she had come for Miss Canary’s reservation. At another time he might have raised objections to the girl’s appearance, but that evening did no more than hand her a key and tell a bell-boy to show her to her room.
On reaching the first floor, with the bags carried by a much-impressed youngster, Calamity saw a second bell-boy standing at one of the doors talking with a stern-faced woman. When the words reached her ears, all Calamity’s skill as a poker player went into preventing showing her surprise.
“Ole Sul—Mr. Banyan ain’t down to the Harem, ma’am,” the bell-boy was saying. “And they don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Then go back and tell them that Mrs. Banyan says to send here with word the moment he returns,” the woman replied.
“Yes’m!” answered the boy, and scuttled away.
Calamity could hardly wait to put her warbag and carbine into her room. Yet she forced herself to act as if the brief conversation meant nothing to her. Putting her property on the bed, she tipped the boy and waited until he left. Then she took Derringer’s bag to his room and knocked on the door.
“How’s the leg?” she asked, walking in when he opened up.
“It’s still there,” he replied, and she could tell that it hurt enough for him to be aware of it.
“You’ll never guess who I’ve just seen across the hall,” she said eagerly.
“Who?”
“Mrs. Banyan!”
For a dramatic announcement, the words received little success. Not that she expected Derringer to dance around the room, but felt that he ought to at least act a mite surprised. Instead he merely said, “Which one?”
“Huh?” Calamity grunted.
“There’s three of ’em in the hotel,” the gambler explained. “At least, they all claim to be Mrs. Banyan.”
“Three!” Calamity yelped.
“Three,” Derringer agreed. “And you sure’d make a swell poker player, way you keep calm.”
“Calm be damned! It’s not the son-of-a-bitching kind of news a gal expects to hear. Three of ’em, you say. Whooee! Wonder where the fourth ’n’ is?”
“She’ll most likely turn up comes supper-time. Thing being, what brings ’em all here—today.”
“Hell, yes!” breathed Calamity. “They got here the day he died.”
“The day after he was supposed to die,” Derringer corrected.
“Did they know each other?”
“Not as I could see, and I watched real careful.”
“Being married to two-three other gal’s not what I’d expect a feller to tell his wife,” Calamity said in a wondering voice. “Whooee! Wasn’t that Sultan some hairy-chested he-coon. Hey, though! Except among Mormons and such, having more’n one wife at a time’s agin the law, ain’t it?”
“Sure is,” agreed Derringer. “Thing is, what do we do now?”
“Huh?”
“Do we go in and tell ’em to see what happens? Or s
hall we leave that to the sheriff?”
A knock at the door took the decision from their hands. On opening it, Derringer found Doctor Fir—now clad in a sober black suit—and another man standing outside. Big, heavy-framed, with an air of pompous arrogance on a granite-hard face, the man wore expensive clothing of excellent town cut, if slightly out of fashion, and did not appear to be armed.
“Derringer,” Fir greeted. “This’s Counsellor Edsteed Gilbert. He’s acted for Sultan, so I figured he ought to know about this morning.”
“Our business can’t be discussed standing out here,” Gilbert went on. “I have urgent need to see you and the young woman.”
“He means Calamity,” Fir said dryly, and Derringer could sense an undercurrent of antipathy between the two men, “Any idea where she might be, friend?”
“She’s in here,” Derringer answered. “Just now brought my bag up.”
On entering the room, Gilbert studied Calamity with an air of mixed surprise and interest. However, he wasted no time before reaching into his jacket’s inside pocket and removing a sheet of paper.
“Doctor Fir informed me of Sult—my client’s death. A tragedy and a great loss to the community,” he said. “It was my belief that he died intestate——”
“Nope,” Calamity interrupted. “He got shot——”
“Intestate means he died without making a will, Calam,” Derringer explained.
Giving a sniff, Gilbert continued, “Despite my assumption that he died intestate, a will has come to light.”
“It was inside the lining of Sultan’s right boot,” Fir put in. “That’s why he told you to give them to me.”
“As I was saying,” Gilbert said, throwing a baleful glare at the doctor. “A will has come to light. It is a somewhat unusual document and I felt that its contents should be communicated to you immediately.”
“Us!” Calamity replied. “Why us? His wives’re rooming across the hall.”
“Wife?” Gilbert gasped.
