The Floating Outfit 19

by J. T. Edson

  “Are all you Counter men tall?” she inquired, studying his six foot three inches of height and the great spread of his shoulders.

  “Most of us,” Mark grinned. “My Uncle Shorty though, he’s only six foot tall. We don’t talk about him much.”

  A laugh changed Madam Bulldog’s face, made it look pleasant, friendly and attractive. She lost the smile after a moment.

  “Those two set Cordby on to you?” she asked.

  “Why sure,” agreed Mark.

  “Saw it all. I thought Tune was fast with a gun, but you’re faster.”

  “You’ll be making me blush next, ma’am.”

  “The day you blush will be a day to remember,” she sniffed. “Tell you one thing though. You’ve got the town now.”

  Mark knew what she meant. His handling of Cordby, his proof of how fast he could draw and with what skill he could plant home his bullets, had not gone without notice amongst the customers. They knew they had a good man with a gun wearing the law badge and would be the more willing to follow his lead when the time came.

  “Those pair, ma’am,” Mark said, “you reckon they’re working with Cousins?”

  “No. They saw a chance of getting Tune out of town—and knowing he would be unlikely to come back, so they took it.”

  “Huh, huh!” grunted Mark. “Anybody in town likely to side with Cousins and his bunch when they come.”

  She grinned. It was a hard, cold grin, without humor. “Not since you cut Al Cordby down.”

  At that moment Madam Bulldog stopped looking and talking to Mark and stepped by him, making for the door. Mark turned and almost groaned aloud as he saw the reason for Madam Bulldog’s departure.

  Calamity Jane entered the Bull’s Head Saloon, shoving through the batwing door as she had done in innumerable places and towns throughout the west. She left behind her the world of the good ladies of a town, entering the protected domain of the dancehall girl. This time Calam took a bare three steps into the room before she found her way blocked, a woman standing full in her path.

  “The door’s there, girlie,” said Madam Bulldog, indicating the entrance through which Calamity came into the room.

  “Yeah!” replied Calamity, studying the woman she had ridden almost five hundred miles to meet. Then, although she could make a real accurate guess at the answer, went on: “Who’re you?”

  Hands on hips, feet braced apart, stood Madam Bulldog. She read the challenge in Calamity’s eyes and knew that here stood no ordinary saloon girl trying to impress folks with how tough she was. To the saloonkeeper’s way of seeing, Calamity formed a definite and dangerous menace, more so than the average tough calico cat who came to try Madam Bulldog out and left a sadder, pain-filled and wiser woman. The red-haired girl, for all her fancy, man’s clothes, would need different handling than the normal run of challengers.

  “I’m Madam Bulldog—and who might you be?”

  Calamity grinned broadly. “I might be Belle Starr, or Poker Alice, or Madame Moustache, but I’m none of them. I’m Calamity Jane.”

  A matter of interest, anticipation and excitement rose from the watching and listening crowd, for all had heard of Calamity Jane, and all could guess at why she came to Tennyson.

  So could Madam Bulldog and in that moment, she felt grateful to Calamity for making the pilgrimage. Madam Bulldog could see that all thoughts of danger, all fears of the Cousins’ gang, already weakened by Mark’s prompt action in dealing with Wardle and Cordby, now became forgotten in the anticipation of the forthcoming clash between herself and Calamity Jane. So, although she did not wish for the clash, Madam Bulldog did not side-step it either.

  “Calamity Jane, huh?” said Madam Bulldog with a sniff which might have meant anything or nothing.

  Everybody in the room waited and watched. They wondered if Calamity would land on the other woman with tooth and claw, in a brawl which would make a legend, or if the girl aimed to make her play with guns, which would also be memorable if not as lasting or entertaining.

  Calamity herself had the same thoughts. She took in the hard rubbery way in which the other woman stood, noted the powerful looking arms and general air of tough capability.

  “Yes, sir,” thought Calamity, “this gal’s worth riding to see.”

  She thought also that such a meeting might not be terminated too quickly by licking Madam Bulldog physically. First Madam had to learn that her other talents high though they might be, stood second to Calamity Jane’s. With that in mind Calamity held off her physical attack until she had showed Madam how a real wild and woolly gal could cuss.

  “You know what I reckon you are?” Calamity asked. “I reckon you’re a—”

  There followed a string of profanity good enough to turn a thirty year army sergeant green with envy as Calamity poured her vilification on to the other woman’s head in a fast flow.

  After almost three minutes Calamity stopped, sure she had rocked Madam Bulldog to the toes of her dainty high heeled shoes. Only Madam gave no sign of being either rocked or shocked. Instead she came back with and proceeded to heap on the girl a flow of cursing of equal length, pungency and power of abuse.

  For once in her life Calamity looked surprised and taken aback. She grudgingly admitted that Madam Bulldog could pour on the abuse real fast, hard and colorful.

  At the end of Madam’s flow, she turned and walked back to the bar with Calamity on her heels Mark Counter watched them go, then followed to take up his beer. He grinned as he looked around the silent and still room where the crowd, customers and workers alike, sat in rapt attention. Calamity started cursing once more and a man holding an aces full house, with over two hundred dollars of his money already in the pot, sat staring, ignoring the game. At the faro layout the bets lay forgotten. The wheel of fortune came to a halt but the lucky winners did not trouble to gather in their winnings for they stared and listened like men turned to stone.

  The rules for a cursing match had long been known throughout the west. Now Calamity Jane tangled in such a match with Madam Bulldog. The girl had learned her business from the inspired utterances of miners, soldiers and bullwhackers. To this she brought and added all her native powers to improve and increase her vocabulary. Yet for all of that she gained the idea that Madam Bulldog commanded just as good a flow.

  They matched each other word for word, invoked weird and horrible gods, suggested each other had unmentionable diseases, accused each other of every low act the human body could possibly perform and several for which it would be impossible for any human body to perform. They cursed each other’s ancestors, descendants and distant kin. Sweat came to their faces, running down their cheeks. Calamity tore her bandana off and Madam Bulldog’s hair came down, hanging around her face while her make-up became streaked and then washed away.

  Not a sound came from the room. Every man present would have given all he owned to have those inspired utterings written down so he might read and learn from them.

  Then slowly Calamity’s voice trailed off. She looked glassy eyed and dazed under the strain. No longer would her mind function and her mouth felt dry, her tongue unable to force another word through her lips.

  With a croak of frustrated rage Calamity swung her hand around, fist clenched for a blow and in doing so she admitted her defeat at the cussing match. Only the blow did not land. Mark Counter, watching and listening with the same rapt attention as the others, saw the start of the move and took steps to prevent it. He moved forward and his big hand shot out to catch her arm, holding it before the fist touched Madam Bulldog’s face.

  “You’re licked, Calam,” he said quietly.

  The girl nodded her agreement, clinging to the bar and unable to make a single sound in reply. She stared through glassy eyes as Madam Bulldog spat out another flow of curses, driving home the point that Calamity Jane had been out-cussed, over-cussed and cussed plumb into the ground. Although her throat felt raw and she could hardly think or breathe, Madam Bulldog made her final speech. She kne
w Calamity to be licked at cussing, but doubted if the girl would be willing to let things go with just that.

  So Madam Bulldog turned to face the bar, looking at the state of her face and barely holding down a gasp of horror. She nodded to Sam, not wishing to speak and knowing he would understand her needs. Sam did, he poured out a couple of schooners of beer, a drink which at other times Madam would not have thought of touching, but which he knew would be the only thing she could manage at the moment. Placing a schooner before each woman, Sam stepped back, grinning broadly.

  Calamity took up the glass and drank deeply, watching Madam Bulldog in the mirror, trying to carry on drinking after the woman finished. However, Madam saw the way Calamity looked and so tilted back the big schooner. Calamity managed three-quarters of her glass before lack of breath caused her to put it down, she watched Madam empty hers and knew the task ahead would be far harder than she at first imagined.

  “It’s not so easy, is it, Calam?” asked Mark Counter as he watched Madam make for her room to tidy her appearance before attending to her customers.

  “It sure ain’t,” Calamity replied, mopping her face with the bandana, all the beauty treatment she needed. “This gal’s going to take some licking.”

  Half an hour passed before Madam Bulldog returned to the barroom with her face once more made-up ready for business and her hair tidy again. She crossed straight to the bar, making for Calamity and the crowd looked on, wondering at what the two women would clash next. The air of eager expectancy had not diminished after seeing Calamity out-cussed, for all knew she was not the kind of girl to take defeat lying down. Most of the crowd hoped for a fight, but once more they did not get their wish for Calamity grinned and said:

  “They reckon you play poker, Madam.”

  In this Calamity showed wisdom. Not that she feared a physical tangle with the other woman. At any other time she would have been only too willing to pitch into Madam Bulldog tooth and claw, but she knew it would not be an easy matter to whip the saloonkeeper and wanted to keep out of the fight until after she helped Mark Counter meet the Cousins gang, if possible. Madam Bulldog’s motives were the same. She also wanted to be unimpaired by the injuries a fight with Calamity must bring, so that when Cousins and his bunch came she could lend Mark a hand and save her own life, for she knew Cousins would be after her as well as Tune Counter.

  “I do,” she replied to Calamity’s suggestion. “Do you?”

  “Let’s set, deal a few ’n’ find out, shall we?”

  Madam nodded, then looked towards the bar. “Sam, a new, unopened deck of cards. That table in front of the bar suit you, Calamity?”

  “Why, sure.”

  For a long moment Madam Bulldog studied the girl, almost as if she felt she ought to recognize, or at least know, Calamity from somewhere. Sure she had heard of Calamity Jane, there were few in the west who had not. Yet few, a very few indeed, knew Calamity’s full name of Martha Jane Canary, for it never received mention when folks talked about her. Madam Bulldog knew her only as Calamity Jane and after the long look shook her head, clearing the thoughts of recognition from it. She led the way to the table and they took their seats facing each other.

  “Mark!” Madam called. “Bring a box of chips, and come on over to act as look out for us.”

  “I’ll do just that,” Mark replied, taking a new deck of cards and box of poker chips from Sam, then crossing to join the two women at the table.

  Once more the other entertainments of the evening lapsed and became forgotten as a crowd gathered around the table, standing in a circle to see the sport. They all knew Madam Bulldog’s skill, but also had heard of Calamity’s poker playing prowess and so expected a good display. Certainly Calamity would be on her mettle after losing out on the cussing match.

  Calamity took the deck of cards, turning it between her fingers, seeing the box carried the mark of a well known firm of card makers and that the Federal tax seal remained intact. This meant little, as she knew well, for crooked gambling supply houses could easily steam off the seal, doctor the cards and reseal it again so as to defy detection. With this thought in mind she broke the seal, took out the cards and flipped the jokers aside.

  “When I play,” she stated, “there’s no limit, no wild cards, and no ladies in the game.”

  “I play any way the others want,” answered Madam and Calamity’s annoyed grunt told her she had scored the point with her words.

  She sat back and without annoyance watched Calamity give the cards a quick but thorough check to ensure they had not been marked or, by having the others filed down a minute piece at the edge, certain cards being larger than the remainder of the deck so as to allow them to be located and used during the game. Madam took no offence at the precautions, for they gave her an insight into Calamity’s knowledge of the game and left her sure of one thing, Calamity knew more than a little about the art of playing card games for money.

  Calamity gave a sweeping glance round the table, making sure that nothing lay on it which might contain a tiny mirror to show Madam the value of the cards as she dealt them. Nor did Madam have either a small bandage on a finger and concealing all but the tip of a thumb-tack, or a ring which might carry a tiny sharp spike either of which could be used for ‘pegging’; marking the cards during play by pricking the backs in certain spots to show their value. This was an old crooked gambling method, but one which still brought in profit when playing against the unwary.

  Although Madam’s hands carried neither bandage nor rings, Calamity knew there were many other ways by which the deck might be marked during play. Nailing, pressing the thumbnail into the edge of the cards, making a tiny mark, dangerous against an alert opponent, but used in some circles. Waving, bending the desired cards slightly, again risky when the other player or players knew anything about their business. Daubing, this offered less chance of detection on the cards, but carried the risk of the opposition seeing the small, concealed spot of dye of slightly lighter or darker hue than the back of the deck, or spotting the tell-tale stain on the thumb or finger used to transfer the dye to the cards.

  All these methods Calamity knew of and although she took precautions against them and aimed to keep her eyes open for any kind of crooked play, some instinct told her she did not need to worry, the game would be fair.

  She gave the cards a rapid riffle-stack, then thrust them across the table to Madam Bulldog who took them up and also riffled them. Madam laid the cards on the table top and nodded to the girl.

  “Cut,” Madam said. “Draw or stud?”

  “Make it dealer’s choice,” Calamity said. “Cut light, lose all night.”

  Giving out with the old poker adage Calamity cut deep into the deck and left the completion of the cut to her opponent, watching for any sign that Madam aimed to lay the cards in the same order as before the cut. Madam took up the cards and, deciding to make the first game draw poker, flipped five cards face down to each of them.

  So began a card game which would go down amongst the legends of the west. A game of skill, science and bluff which would have made many an acknowledged master of poker look to his laurels.

  From the very first hand Mark, no novice at the poker game himself, saw that it would be a hard fought contest. Both women had an extensive knowledge of the game, both its mathematics and, although neither of them had ever heard the word, of its psychology. The early hands saw them playing an almost classic game and in such case, their skill being near enough equal, neither could make any impression on the other’s pile of chips.

  However, Mark got the idea that of the two Madam Bulldog showed the better poker sense. Calamity’s volatile nature led her to pile on the pressure when the cards started falling her way. For a time the cards ran Calamity’s way and it seemed that she could do no wrong. At draw she would take one card to two pairs and a third member of one of her pairs would pop up like a trained pig, or she would go for one to an inside straight (which was never good poker) and that required one a
rrived as if drawn by a magnet.

  Against such luck no amount of skill could prevail and even though she played every hand in a manner which would have brought a nod of approval from Hoyle: always working on the widely accepted, but erroneous belief, that Hoyle had played and mastered the game of poker; Madam Bulldog lost heavily. The crowd watched everything, guessing, or trying to guess what each woman held. They groaned their sympathy when Madam lost on a good hand which Calamity’s lucky draw, or lucky arrival of a last up-card winner, snatched from her.

  At the end of two hours’ play Calamity stood almost fifteen thousand dollars ahead and Sam, who knew his boss’ business, felt panic, for he watched the way the girl bet. Madam could not stand much more of this kind of loss.

  For her part Calamity enjoyed every minute of the game; so did Madam Bulldog, even though losing for, if she could hang on long enough, she knew the cards must change their ways.

  “Aw, hell,” drawled Calamity, hauling in a pot. “Whyn’t we move to a bigger table. I’ve hardly got room to move an elbow for my winnings.”

  Mark grinned and Madam Bulldog’s face showed an expression at this ancient poker artifice. She sat back, with no sign of worry, or interest in the growing pile before Calamity.

  “Deal, “she said.

  “Damned if I don’t buy into a freight outfit with my winnings,” Calamity went on, scooping up the cards and riffling them. “Wouldn’t want to keep this place going though, never could stand being in one place. Sorry I can’t stack ’em better than this, Madam, got so much loot in front of me. Say, Mark, did I ever tell you about the time I took a five thousand dollar pot with three threes?”

  For her part Madam ignored the words, playing each hand on its merit, neither being scared out of playing a good hand because the luck went against her, nor trying to make Calamity look small on taking her on an under strength hand. The taunt that Calamity intended to win her place just rolled off her back and she waited.

  Then:

  “Aces full,” Calamity said in a bored tone, as if drawing a full house of three Aces and two nines had become such a regular thing as to bore her. “You had me worried. I thought you’d filled those fours you were after.”