by J. T. Edson
“Likely,” answered Calamity, eyeing the girl with a warning Stare. “Only don’t push it, sister, or you’ll wind up with a set of ingrowing buck-teeth.”
Anger glowed in the other girl’s eyes as she glanced towards her friends for moral and actual support. Slapping a big hand on the table top, Kiliem glared around at the girls, his bland face filled with innocent-featured malevolence.
“Now hold it there, all of you!” he ordered. “Just listen good to me, ‘cause I don’t aim to say it twice. Calam here’s part of my outfit. You mean-mouth her and she’ll whup the whole boiling of you, which same’ll spoil all our evenings. So you be nice and friendly with her. You hear me?”
Within certain bounds the girls were taught to regard the customer as always being right. So far they had been treated royally by the free-spending freighters and did not wish to slaughter a goose which laid such frequent golden eggs. Several of their fellow workers eyed the party with calculating gaze and would not hesitate to move in should any of the men give a hint of displeasure. Anyway, that girl in pants did not look as if she aimed to give them any competition.
Although quite willing to take on the saloon-girls individually or as a bunch, Calamity felt no desire to spoil her friends’ evening so early on. Catching the attention of a passing waiter, she ordered drinks for the table and it was taken as a peace-offering by the other girls.
After a few more leg kicks, the dancers came to a halt in a bent forward posture that flipped up their skirts, exposed frilly-edged, short-legged panties to view and caused Killem to make a hurried grab which hauled one of the over-stimulated freighters back into his seat. With a bound, the red-haired solo performer sailed into the air and landed on the floor in a split which brought a gasp from Calamity. However, the girl bounced to her feet without any sign of injury, dropped a graceful curtsy in reply to the applause which rose high, and skipped off the dancing space, between the tables and out through a door at the side of the bar.
“Where at’s the gambling?” asked Calamity as the applause died down.
“Upstairs,” answered one of the girls, hoping Calamity would go, for she did not feel entirely happy at having the red-head at the table.
“Hah!” grunted Tombes. “You don’t want no gambling, Calam gal. It air plumb sinful—and awful chancy too.”
Listening to Tombes’ sombre tones, Calamity might have taken the warning seriously had she not known him so well. On the way down river a well-dressed stranger inveigled Tombes and Killern into a game of poker. While neither gave any sign of their wisdom, both possessed a very thorough knowledge of all branches of the gambling business. On the fourth deal Killem objected to the dealer extracting for the improvement of a hand the seven of clubs from the bottom of the deck. Killem was ‘dressed’ at the time, and possessed a fair amount of skill in the speedy production of a weapon—leaning to his sheathed bowie knife on that occasion—and so was in a good position to make his point. A series of gambling scandals had recently rocked the Mississippi, causing the riverboat captains to be less tolerant of crooked gamblers than had formerly been the case. So the errant well-dressed stranger found himself penniless and standing on a sand bar, leaving Killem’s outfit to share out eighteen hundred dollars of his money. In addition to their pay from a freighting trip to Fort Sherrard in the Dakota Territory, an advance of wages and expense money donated by the Army, the gambler’s contribution ensured that the Killem bunch were well fixed to enjoy their visit to New Orleans.
Calamity decided to forego her investigation of the Cheval D’Or’s games of chance and sat back in her chair to see how the saloon compared with a Western place in the matter of entertainment. After a brief rest, the band struck up with a lively tune and the saloon-girls led most of the men out on to the open space. Never one for dancing, except when toting more ‘Old Whipping Pust’ whisky than at present, Tombes remained at the table with calamity. Taking her opportunity, Calamity told the leathery-faced scout of the incident in the Park, also about the suggestion she made utilising his knowledge of the ancient and honourable art of reading sign Western style.
“We’ll take usa look whether he likes it or not, comes morning,” Tombes stated when Calamity remarked that the final decision must come from one Lieutenant Caiman who she had not yet met. “Damn it, gal, I’d sure like to lay hands on that there Strangler.”
“And me,” Calamity answered, then her eyes swung from Tombes to gaze across the room with all the intent eagerness of a starving Cheyenne seeing a herd of prime Great Plains buffalo. “Say, who’s that big gal there?”
Following the direction of Calamity’s gaze and jerked thumb, Tombes studied the woman who so aroused his companion’s interest. Big was no exaggeration when describing the woman. She stood nearly six foot tall and weighed at least two hundred pounds. Blonde hair piled high on the woman’s head and her fat, jovial face carried stage make-up. Expensive-looking jewellery glinted around her neck, wrists and fingers and she wore a trailing, stylish, though tight-fitting blue dress.
“That’s Madam Darcel, gal, the owner,” Tombes explained and gave a warning for he knew Calamity. “And you forget it. She’d call the great siezer in and have you jailed happen you tried to start a brawl with her.”
A grin creased Calamity’s face at Tornbes’ insight of her character. “She’d be a mite too heavy anyways.”
“Likely,” the scout replied. “Just look at ole Dobe dance.”
“He’s about as graceful as a salmon-fed grizzly just afore winter,” the girl answered. “Happen that black-haired gal ain’t lively on her feet, she’ll sure wind up with tired toes comes the end of the dance.”
Although Killem’s partner limped slightly as she returned, to the table, her face held a smile. A saloon-girl learned to look happy under most conditions, even after having her toes stepped on by a partner who stood six foot two and carried a fair amount of weight. A round of drinks, bought this time by Chan Sing, who had a plump, dark-haired girl hanging to his arm, made Killem’s partner feel happier.
For a time the party went on, drinks flowed, jokes bounced around the table and most of the girls appeared to be overlooking Calamity’s sex, regarding her more as a paying customer rather than a rival.
Turning to the girl at her side, Calamity asked, “Hey, where’a a gal go, happen she wants to go?”
“Huh?” asked the puzzled saloon-girl, then the light glowed. “Oh! I’ll show you where we go.”
Watching Calamity and the saloon-girl walk away from the table, Killem thought over what Calamity had told him about her rescue of St. Andre. A grin came to the big freighter’s face. Dang that Calamity, never happy unless she was mixed up in some fuss or ruckus; but life would sure be dull without her around.
The dark-haired girl seated on Chan Sing’s knee had only recently come to work at the Cheval D’Or after being employed in a rather lower-class establishment further along Latour Street. In her previous post, the management expected her to augment her salary by collecting donations from the customers—without their being aware, of the removal of their wealth—and reckoned the same rule applied at the Cheval D’Or. Deciding the Chinaman would offer her the best possibilities, she latched on to him and had been on the point of extracting his wallet when Calamity arrived. Since then, the girl had not found an opportunity to take the wallet, for Calamity had none of the distractions offered to her male friends. Naturally when augmenting her salary without the owner of the wallet’s permission, one required privacy. So the girl left Chang Sing’s wallet where it rightfully belonged. When Calamity left, the girl thought she might find a chance. Seconds ticked by with nothing to take the attention of the other occupants of the table. Then a couple of jugglers made their appearance and the men gave the performers their attention.
Still keeping one arm around Sing’s neck, the girl slipped her other hand into his jacket and slid out the wallet. Being skilled at her trade, Sing did not feel his loss and the girl believed her action went unnotice
d. So it did among the occupants of the table—however, somebody had seen the move, a person well capable of dealing with the matter.
The dark-haired girl’s first warning that things had gone wrong came as she prepared to slip the wallet into the front of her dress. Suddenly a strong hand dug fingers deep into her hair, twisted hard, and hauled her from Sing’s knee.
With a screech of pain, the girl twisted around, though still held by the hair, and faced her assailant. The wallet fell from the girl’s fingers as she prepared to defend herself against Calamity who, having seen the attempted theft, came to the rescue of her unsuspecting friend. Before the girl could make a hostile move, Calamity swung her hand in a slap which caught the other across the cheek. Showing superb timing, Calamity released the girI’s hair and the force of the slap sent the pickpocket staggering ,ackwards. After taking several steps to the rear, the girl tripped nd landed hard, rump-first on the floor at the centre of the open area.
Spitting curses, the girl started to rise. She was slightly taller and heavier than Calamity and noted for being a tough dame when riled, which same she appeared to be at the moment. An air of eager anticipation ran through the room. On the upper-class dais all chatter stopped and every eye turned to the dance floor. Predatory interest crept on to the men’s faces—although the upper-crust males were not alone in that—and the women pretended to be shocked at the sight, while waiting eagerly to see the next drama of raw, lower-strata life being played before them.
Even as the dark-haired girl prepared to throw herself at Calamity and take revenge for the slap, a deep voice boomed out a warning.
“All right, my children! Enough of this folly.”
Calamity took her eyes from the other girl for long enough to glance quickly at the speaker. From the authoritative tones, she could have guessed it to be the mountainous Madam Darcel who spoke. The big woman bore down on the girls like a battleship in full sail. While in the girl’s toilet Calamity had removed her jacket and carried it back. The tight fitting shirt and levis left no doubt as to her sex. She did not relax, but kept her attention on the other girl after her quick glance in Madam Darcel’s direction.
Instead of throwing herself at Calamity, the dark-haired girl prepared to bluff her way out. Still crouched ready to spring, the girl turned a sullen, defiant face, that bore just a hint of fear, to her employer.
“What is all this about?” Madam Darcel went on.
“That dame grabbed me—!” began the saloon-girl.
“Sure I did,” agreed Calamity and pointed to the wallet lying on the floor. “Do you let your gals lift wallets from the customers?”
Throwing a scared glance at the big shape of Madam Darcel, the saloon-girl gave a screech of, “It’s a lie!” and threw herself at Calamity, hoping the ensuing fracas might silence the red-head and evade the issue of whether she stole the wallet. Only she did not reach Calamity with her talon-like, grabbing hands.
With a surge of her shoulder, Madam Darcel propelled her big right fist forward so it crashed on to the saloon-girl’s jaw. The force of the blow sent the girl shooting off course even before Calamity could take steps to meet the attack and the pickpocket landed on the dance floor, sliding almost to the bar before coming to a stop in a limp heap.
Calamity studied the blow with the air of a connoisseur. While it looked just a touch slow, that right hand packed such weight and power behind it that on landing would cause the recipient to think the roof had fallen in on her—when she found herself capable of thinking again, that is.
Glancing at Chan Sing as the Chinaman stood feeling in his jacket’s breast pocket, Madam Darcel knew she must prove that she had no knowledge of the theft and did not condone stealing. Nothing could lose the carriage-trade for a saloon quicker than letting thieves rob the customers, or by the place gaining a reputation for dishonesty. The felling of the girl had been the first stage, now Madam Darcel aimed to cement the knowledge of her innocence more firmly in the minds of her customers.
“Is that your wallet, John?” she asked, pointing to the floor.
“By clacky, it is!” Sing yelped, bending and picking the wallet up.
“I don’t allow pickpockets in here,” the saloonkeeper went on in a loud and carrying voice, then looked towards the silent bar. “Eddy, see this gent gets anything he orders for the rest of the evening, on the house.”
“Sure will, Madam,” answered the head bartender, catching his cue and following it up like a professional actor.
A low rumble of approval ran through the room which had fallen silent and expectant at the start of the trouble. Madam Darcel knew her actions had cleared her and figured the money it would cost to keep the Chinaman supplied for the rest of the evening to be a cheap price when her house’s reputation had been at stake.
Then Madam turned her attention to Calamity. The saloonkeeper’s first thought was that Calamity followed the profession of street-walker and dressed in men’s clothing to gain entrance to the Cheval D’Or in search of customers. On studying the girl more closely, Madam Darcel revised her opinion. No streetwalker, working at night and following an unhealthy trade, ever carried such a tan as did the red head. Possibly the girl was a camp-follower of the Kiliein outfit, brought down to New Orleans to save hiring local talent. Whoever the red-head might be, Madam Darcel did not intend to let her stay in the saloon.
“All right, girlie,” the saloonkeeper said. I don’t like troublemakers in here—.”
“So who’s making trouble?” Calamity replied. “I’ve got good money in my pocket, I’m sober, white and old enough to do a hard day’s work—and I’m staying right here.”
Madam Darcel read the challenge in Calamity’s eyes and an idea crept into the saloonkeeper’s head, showing her a chance of some added entertainment to spice up her customers. With a clientele that liked its fun gamey, unrefined and fullblooded, a fight between two girls had a salutary effect on the spirits and also the sales over the bar. Unless Madam missed her guess, that redheaded girl could handle her end in such an affair. So there only remained the problem of selecting a suitable opponent and that was easily arranged.
Not that Madam Dared intended to be the one who took on Calamity. The days had long passed when the saloon-keeper could trim down a tough young girl who knew the art of female self defence. While Madam did not doubt that she could lay Calamity low with one blow, there remained the problem of making contact with her fist. From the look of her, the red-head would not be fool enough to stand still to be hit, nor unprepared as the pickpocket had been.
“Are you going quietly?” Madam asked.
Throwing back her head and standing with hands on her hips, but ready to dodge a blow and attack, Calamity roared with laughter and replied, “I never go anyplace quietly.”
“And what if I have you thrown out?” said the saloon-keeper.
“Are you fixing to do it yourself?” Calamity countered.
“Not I. But one of my girls will.”
“Happen you got a gal who reckons she can do it, bring her on and let her get to throwing.”
In her untrained way Calamity was every bit as much a showman as Madam Darcel. Both spoke loudly and their words carried around the silent room. Calamity glanced around her, studying the girls. While some of them looked hefty, rough and capable, none struck Calamity as being anything special. Anyways, it ought to be right interesting to see how a big-city girl stacked up in comparison with some of the tough dames Calamity tangled with out West.
Madam Darcel hid her delight as Calamity accepted the challenge. Turning, the saloonkeeper called, “Hey one of you, ask Jacqueline to come in here.”
Grinning broadly, Calamity walked towards her friends’ table and wondered who Jacqueline might be.
CHAPTER SIX
Miss Canary Studies Savate
“GOOD ole Calam!” Tophet said as he listened to the girl accept Madam Darcel’s challenge. “Trust her to fix it so to we could win us some money.”
“
She’ll take that city gal like Grant took Richmond,” another of the outfit went on, remembering other times when Calamity tied into a saloongirl in a brawl.
Despite his men’s words of confidence, Killem did not feel so sure. Not that he lacked faith in Calamity, but he knew Madam Darcel of old. If Madam aimed to start a brawl between Calamity and one of the saloon’s girls, the big woman figured to have a better than fair chance of her representative winning.
“Hold hard there, Madam,” he called. “Reckon you don’t know who my gal is.”
“I don’t care if she is Calamity Jane—,” Madam began.
“That’s just who she is.”
Talk welled up at Killem’s words, eager and excited chatter, for the name of Calamity Jane had come down river ahead of her. Yet few of the occupants of the room really believed the girl to be the Calamity Jane. Certainly Madam Darcel did not believe Killem and thought the freighter merely wanted to save his girl from a thrashing. Madam did not intend to state her doubts. One glance around—taken with her considerable knowledge of human nature—told her the crowd wanted the red-head to be Calamity Jane; much as hold-up victims always wanted to believe some famous outlaw band robbed them. So Madam went along with the suggestion as if she took Killem to be speaking the gospel truth.
“I have heard of her, Dobe. But I also believe Jacqueline can throw even the famous Calamity Jane out.”
“I’ve got fifty dollars that says she can’t!” whooped Tombes.
“You-all wanting to bet your gal can do it, Madam?” went on another man.
“If you wish,” Madam replied.
“We wish!” whooped the freighters. “Lordy lord, how we wish.”
With that the Killem outfit produced its money and Madam signalled one of her men to accept the wagers. Apart from the freighters, there was little betting so far, the other customers wanting to compare the fighters before risking wealth on one or the other.
