The Bullwhip Breed

by J. T. Edson

  “Go tell Dobe to come with you!” she ordered.

  “Where to?” barked Tombes after the girl’s departing back.

  “After me!” Calamity answered over her shoulder and headed for the pen’s rail, coiling her whip as she walked.

  “Danged fool female!” snorted Tombes. “It’s being in the city made her loco—or wuss’n she was afore.”

  Shaking his head, but also grinning as he thought of the many sterling qualities which sprang from Calamity’s ‘loco’ behaviour, Tombes crossed the pen and climbed out. However, before he could prevent his boss leaving and deliver Calamity’s message, Tombes saw Killem and Furlong walk towards where Lieutenant Bristow returned from walking and cooling out the black horse.

  “Where’s Calam?” Killem asked when his scout arrived.

  “Danged if I know,” Tombes admitted. “Soon’s as I told her about them three fellers, she took out like the devil after a yearling.”

  “Know the gal likes company,” Killem remarked. “But them fellers must be real something happen she chases after them.”

  “And me,” drawled the scout. “They wasn’t none of ‘em what anybody ‘cepting maybe their mothers’d think worth looking at. One of ‘em looked like he’d already tangled with a whip.”

  On the night Calamity told her friends of how she rescued St. Andre, Tombes had been drinking; which always affected his memory. However, Killem, more sober at the time, took in Calamity’s story and could remember enough of it to understand her present interest in a man with what might be whip-marked features. Despite her wild nature, Calamity was not a promiscuous girl who threw herself at every man she met. If Calamity took out after three men, she did not do so for sexual reasons but because she suspected them of being part of the quartet which jumped St. Andre.

  “That danged lil fool hot-head!” Killem spat out. “Let’s get after her.”

  “What’s wrong, Dobe?” Furlong asked, but the freighter and scout already strode away at a good speed.

  “Our lil gal’s likely to find herself with some bad trouble,” Killem called back over his shoulder.

  On leaving the corral, Calamity passed through a crowd of excited admirers, grinning and acknowledging their approbation but keeping an eye on the departing quartet. The loafers, seeing there would be no more free entertainment, separated to go about their business. Ignoring the men behind her, Calamity strode through the waterfront area following the four bulky shapes. As she walked, she hoped to see a policeman who she might take into her confidence. Not that Calamity reckoned she would need help, but merely wished to have some official on hand to take over if the four men should be the same who attacked St. Andre. Even as she walked, Calamity found herself wishing that she had flouted New Orleans’ rules and worn her gunbelt that morning.

  After walking for a short way, the four men turned into an area given over to stacking cotton bales ready for shipment. The bales stood in high rows, separated by lanes through which roustabouts could move and handle the cargo. Reaching the corner, Calamity turned it, looked along the lane. She could see no sign of the quartet along the hundred or more yards length before her, but there were numerous side paths down which they might have gone. Figuring this would be as good a time and place as any to get in closer, Calamity strode along the lane at a better pace.

  A movement caught Calamity’s eye as she passed one of the side lanes. Fast though her reactions were, Calamity left things just a shade too long. Even as she started to turn, right hand reaching for her whip, she saw the big tough with the livid weal on his face, and a second hard-looking cuss standing concealed by the bales. Out shot the bigger man’s hand, gripping Calamity by the right shoulder, digging in and pulping it so she could not make the arm muscles work. With a heave, the man plucked Calamity into the lane and his companion made a grab, catching the whip, pulling it from the girl’s belt and tossing it aside. Neither of the men nor Calamity noticed that the whip fell in plain view on the path the girl had just left.

  Before Calamity could make a move in her defence, the man who held her gave a shove which crashed her into one of the piles of bales. She hit it hard, but the nature of the bales’ contents prevented her from serious injury. Seeing from the very bulk of the two men that fighting was out of the question, Calamity decided to try to bluff her way out.

  “Hey!” she began. “Wha—.”

  For a big man that whip-scarred cuss could move real fast. His right hand came around in a slap that sprawled Calamity to the ground. Stepping forward, he touched the ridge on his cheek, and drew back his left foot.

  “Hold it, Jules!” the other man snapped. “Max wants to see her first.”

  “Yeah?” Jules snarled. “She did this to me and I’ll—.”

  “Max’ll see to it,” the other interrupted, bending, gripping Calamity by the hair and hauling her to her feet. “Don’t make any fuss, gal, or it’ll be worse for you.”

  Fighting down her inclination to use her knee on the man, Calamity raised a hand to rub her cheek. Then her eyes flickered to the lane down which she came. Where in hell had Dobe and Tophet got themselves to?

  Feet thudded and the other two of the quartet made their appearance from among the bales. Although Calamity did not know it, she could hardly have found herself in worse or more dangerous company. Max Gravitch ran one of the most notorious bars in New Orleans; a place the police long sought to close, but failed through lack of evidence. While dressed better, and slightly more intelligent in appearance, Gravitch could not be termed an oil-painting and there was an expression on his face that boded little good for Calamity.

  “So this’s St. Andre’s little friend,” Gravitch said, coming closer.

  “This’s her,” Jules agreed.

  “Hey!” Calamity yelped. “What’s with you bunch?”

  Jules shot out his hand, thrusting the girl back against the bales and bunched his big fist ready to strike. Before the tough could move, Gravitch shoved him savagely aside.

  “Hold it! This might not be the one. What do you reckon, Billy?”

  “Don’t seem likely a gal could do it, Max,” the man who had been with Jules replied. “Only we saw what she could do with a whip.”

  “It’s her all right!” Jules snarled and waved a hand towards his face. “Reckon I wouldn’t recognise the bastard who gave me this?”

  “I came out worse than you,” Gravitch answered, “and I couldn’t be sure.”

  “Why was she following us just now?” asked the fourth man.

  “Me follow you?” Calamity spat out. “Hell, you might go over like a house on fire with these city gals, but you’re sure nowhere with me.”

  “Then why’d you follow us?” Gravitch inquired.

  “Who’s following you? I hurt myself riding that hoss and aimed to go home to rest up. Come through here looking for a cab.”

  “I tell you she’s the one, Max!” Jules bellowed.

  “Hold your voice down!” Gravitch ordered. “Whether she’s the one or not, we don’t want the law coming down on us.”

  “Look,” Calamity put in. “If you’d just—.”

  “Shut your yap!” growled Jules, then looked at his boss. “You didn’t see her using that whip, Max, or hear how it sounded.”

  “That’s right,” Gravitch agreed. “I didn’t. Where’s the whip at now?”

  “Right here, gents,” said a voice from behind them.

  Never had Calamity been so pleased to hear Dobe Killem’s voice, or to see her boss and Tophet Tombes, than at that moment. The words brought Gravitch and his men spinning around fast. Freighter and scout stood a few feet apart, Killem holding his coiled whip in his right hand, Tombes gripping Calamity’s whip in his left and holding his right hovering above the butt of the Army Colt thrust into his waist-band in defiance of New Orleans’ disapproval of people carrying firearms.

  “What do you pair want?” Gravitch asked, for there were few men on the New Orleans water-front who would dare cross him.
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  Unfortunately for Gravitch, Killem and Tombes were only visitors and as such unaware of how they should act in the tough’s presence. More than that, they came from a country which held many hard men and so grew blasé about such self-opinionated persons. In the final reckoning Killem and Tombes were, in the range sense of the word, dressed and figured themselves capable of evening the odds against them. So Killem studied the men, noted that Jules still gripped Calamity’s arm in one hand, and answered Gravitch’s question.

  “We’ll start by having that feller take his cotton-picking hand offen Calam, hombre,” said Killem, his voice mild and gentle as that first whisper which heralds the coming of a Texas blue norther storm.

  At which Calamity showed a remarkable lack of tact. Later she would apologise for her actions and explain that the rough-handling dished out by Jules prevented her from thinking straight. Maybe that was true, for the man’s treatment had been far from gentle, but for once in her life Calamity spoke in a serious situation without giving due care and attention to her words.

  “They’re the bunch that jumped Sherry!” she yelled.

  A snarl of fury left Jules’ lips. “It was he—.”

  His angry words came to an abrupt halt. Along the river front Jules had a reputation for being rough on women and at least two street-walkers carried scars to attest his brutality; the trouble being that at long last he had picked on the wrong girl. Calamity was no street-walker living in fear of Gravitch’s bunch and so meekly submitting to Jules’ maulings. In her wild free life Calamity neither feared nor took abuse from any man. Only common-sense prevented her from proving that to Jules earlier.

  Then Calamity stood alone against the burly quartet. Now, two good friends on hand to back her, she figured the time for meekness had ended and Jules’ education could begin.

  Suddenly, even as the man spoke and without giving a hint of her intentions, Calamity pivoted around. Her first move took Jules, used to more complaisant girls, by surprise. What came next prevented him from recovering his composure and making use of his extra height and strength. Coming around to face the man, although still held by the arm, Calamity drove up her right knee. While Calamity had not found time to visit a savate academy, she still knew how to get the best out of her shapely but powerful legs. Up lashed her knee, catching her captor right between the legs. While Jules was a tough man with a body hardened to take punishment, no amount of strength could immunise him against a blow like that. Letting out a startled and agony filled croak in place of the ‘r’ at the end of his interrupted final word, Jules clutched at his injured region, doubled over and staggered into the nearest bales, retching and with sweat pouring out of his agony-twisted face.

  Having taken a kick in the same area during the attack on St. Andre, Gravitch found that he gathered troubles of his own. The instant Calamity felt Jules release her arm, she prepared to perform the ancient and noble feat of getting the hell out of it. Like a flash, almost before Gravitch’s men, with the exception of Jules, realised fully what she had done, Calamity spun around. Dropping her shoulder, she threw herself forward and butted hard into Gravitch’s injured arm. Calamity heard the man yell as she bounced away like a billiard ball heading for a cannon. Pain ripped through Gravitch as he staggered under the impact of Calamity’s arrival, but his left hand shot into his jacket pocket.

  “Catch!” Tombes yelled, throwing Calamity’s whip handle-first to her as she came bounding in his direction. At the same moment, the scout’s right hand grabbed at the butt of his Army Colt.

  Even as she caught the whip, Calamity skidded into a turning halt by her two good friends. Behind the girl, Gravitch’s bunch made the foolish decision to fight with guns. Billy’s right hand whipped under his jacket to emerge holding a short barrelled Colt Police Pistol, .36 in calibre and the one of the few easily concealed, working revolvers of the period. Whether Billy had skill in its use remained a moot point, for he was not given the chance to use it.

  Up and down rose Killem’s whip, its lash looping forward; and in matters of that nature Killem stood second to no man. The result proved just as effective as when Calamity handled Gravitch on the night of the attack upon St. Andre, maybe even more so for Killem’s whip was heavier than the girl’s, though none shorter in length. Screeching as his wrist bones splintered under the constriction of the whip, Billy felt himself hauled forward. Killem let the man come close, then ripped a punch into his belly. With an agonised croak, Billy sank to his knees, clutched at his stomach, retched violently and lost all interest in the proceedings.

  Which left Gravitch and the fourth man to uphold the honour of the New Orleans underworld, Jules still being more concerned with his own troubles For an Eastern criminal, Gravitch could lay claim to being better than fair with a gun. Only he dealt with men trained in the handling of firearms and who knew much about gun-fighting situations. Even while staggering, Gravitch sent a hand into his jacket pocket. Closing his fingers on the butt of the waiting Remington Double Derringer, Gravitch fired through the coat and by instinctive alignment. For all that, his shot came mighty close to accomplishing what several aspiring Indian brave-hearts and a couple of white bad-men tried to do. The .41 bullet missed Tophet Tombes’ face by inches on its way up, ripped a hole through the brim of his hat and sent the Stetson jerking back on its storm strap.

  An instant later Tombes’ Army Colt gave a deep-throated answer to the Remington’s challenge and the scout shot in the only way he dared under the circumstances—to kill. Tombes did not know what kind of a gun Gravitch held in the pocket, and against a man who handled one that good it did not pay to take chances. Caught between the eyes by a .44 ball, Gravitch pitched over backwards and crashed to the cotton bales at Jules’ side. For a moment the gang boss hung there, then he crumpled over and fell to the ground.

  The fourth member of the quartet did not even get his gun clear. Whip in hand, Calamity completed her turn. Out flicked her lash biting into the man’s sleeve and sending shocking pain through him. When he brought his hand from the pocket, it came empty.

  “No more!” he screeched. “I quit!”

  Feet pounded and a small crowd gathered, attracted by the whip cracks and shots. A pair of policemen come forward, halting and staring at the scene before them, but they did not have time to ask questions.

  “Here, boys,” Calamity said. “Lay hold of ‘em. Lootenant St. Andre wants to see them.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Miss Canary Meets An Intellectual Gentleman

  “NONE of the three can tell us anything,” St. Andre told Calamity as he sat on the bed in her apartment and watched her dress for her role as decoy. “Max Gravitch, he was their boss, only told them they had work to do. It was a pity that Tophet had to kill Gravitch.”

  “He just wouldn’t have it any other way,” Calamity replied, drawing up her skirt and hooking one bare leg on the other, then reaching for a stocking.

  “So Tophet explained. Not that I objected to Gravitch dying, our city will be a cleaner place without him. But I would rather have had him alive and talking. You see, cherie, it has long been my theory that there is a big man behind all the organised crime in New Orleans, a man who controls a dozen like Gravitch. One day I hope to get him.”

  The day would come, but not for almost two more years, when St. Andre got his man and finally solved the murder which indirectly brought him into contact with Miss Martha Jane Canary.

  “No answer from Dusty yet?” Calamity inquired, drawing the stocking on and ignoring St. Andre’s gaze at her legs.

  “Not yet. And uncross your legs, we haven’t time to think about that.”

  “This danged police work sure spoils a gal’s fun,” grinned Calamity.

  “Then why not dr—.”

  “No. Sherry. We’ve got to get that Strangler afore he kills again and this’s the only way we might do it. You didn’t have no luck in tracing the last one he killed, did you?”

  “None. It’s the same story, the pe
ople who know won’t help the police.”

  “Then me ‘n’ Jackie’s going out again tonight.”

  Seeing from Calamity’s attitude that there would be no changing her mind, St. Andre surrendered. “Very well,” he said. “Go ahead. I’ll tell Redon and the others not to get too far from you, and if you should meet anybody who might be the Strangler, to make sure they don’t give him a chance to put that cord around your neck.”

  “Happen the boys are in too close, you might scare him off,” Calamity pointed out.

  “It’s a chance we have to take, cherie,” answered St. Andre, rising and laying a hand gently on her head. Bending over, he kissed her lightly on the lips. “I’d rather lose the Strangler than you.”

  “You’re not getting all serious about me, now are you, Sherry?” smiled the girl, looking up at him.

  “Would it be a bad thing if I did?”

  “It’d be a plumb waste of both our time, and you know it. Hell, it’d never come to anything but trouble if we got too dose, Sherry.”

  “We don’t know that,” St. Andre answered. “You could adapt into any society, if you wished to.”

  “I sure couldn’t,” Calamity contradicted. “And I sure as hell couldn’t settle in a big city any more’n you could stop being a lawman and come West with me.”

  “We’ve—.”

  “We’ve done no more than I’ve done afore with men and expect to do again,” the girl interrupted and gently took his hands in her own. “Mind you, Sherry, you’re a long way from the worst I’ve known at happying up a gal. Now stop looking all solemn and go fetch my hat.”

  For a moment St. Andre did not move. If any other woman had spoken in the manner Calamity addressed him, he would have felt disgusted. But one did not judge Martha Jane Canary by other women’s standards. Jerking her forward, he gave her a kiss, then shoved her away from him.

  “Miss Canary,” he stated. “You are an immoral young lady. But, Lord, there will never be another one like you.”