The Floating Outfit 19

by J. T. Edson

  One thing Mark noticed, neither woman had long nails, or wore rings. He knew why. Players who knew their business objected to joining a game where the dealer’s nails were long enough to mark the cards during play, or who wore rings in which tiny “shiner” mirrors might be concealed wherewith to see the value of each card dealt.

  A second thing also struck Mark and he took his eyes from the two women to turn to Trent who stood watching in an expectant manner.

  “Looks like they both figure to run the big table for you,” he said. “That’s right, they do.”

  “That could mean trouble.”

  Trent grinned a conspiring grin as if letting Mark be a party to his secret plans. He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper and said: “If there ain’t trouble we’ll all be disappointed.”

  “How do you mean?” growled Mark. “Why’d you reckon I got ’em both here and started them on the same day, at the same time?” Trent replied. “There should be a better brawl than the battle at Bear-cat Annie’s.”

  It did not take Mark five seconds to see what Trent meant. The saloonkeeper had brought together the west’s two foremost lady gamblers in the hope they would tangle in a hair-yanking brawl. He did not need both of them and would most likely let the winner stay on while the loser would have to leave town.

  In this plan Trent showed a thorough working knowledge of the saloon business. Nothing could better bring a saloon to the notice of the public than a fight between persons of note. If two gunmen locked horns, especially two top name men, in a saloon, that saloon’s reputation would be enhanced and people come to see the place where it happened. A remembered fight between two well-known females had the same effect. Bearcat Annie’s saloon in Quiet Town, although under new management, still drew trade on the strength of the fight which had been fought in it and already customers made the pilgrimage to Tennyson to drink in Madam Bulldog’s saloon where the girls recounted blow by blow descriptions of their boss’ fight with Calamity Jane.

  With this in mind Trent had set about building a legend about his place. He did not leave the meeting and fight to chance, but brought in the two lady gamblers, set them up and stood back hoping for the best, knowing full well that both had a lot of pride in their ability at handling a big stake faro game.

  By now the women were almost at the table and Mark gave a low, angry growl. Trent looked at the big Texan and saw he did not give the hoped for reaction. With a shrewd knowledge of men, Trent could see that Mark did not approve of his idea and might even now spoil it, for Mark looked big enough to go against popular opinion and tough enough to back his actions. So Trent turned away and gave a sign which brought two of his bouncers to his side. He did not need to speak, a nod and a wink sent the two big, burly men to flank Mark, one on either side. If Mark noticed the arrival he did not connect it with anything to do with what Trent said, for his full attention stayed on the table and the two women. If he could prevent it he did not intend the fight to take place.

  Not that Mark was a spoilsport in any way. He had the typical western sense of humor and liked the entertainment to be gamey and unrefined. If the two women tangled in the normal course of events Mark would not have objected and would have been quite willing to sit back and enjoy the fight, for he did not worry about the moral objections to letting a pair of women fight. What Mark did object to was that the women had been tricked into coming to Culver Creek for the sole purpose of causing trouble between them for the enrichment of the saloonkeeper. He aimed to walk across the room and stop the fight before it started.

  Now would be the time to move, for already Poker Alice had reached the dealer’s chair. Trent glanced at his bouncers and nodded. It cost him a considerable sum of money to bring the two women together and he did not intend allowing a chance passing stranger, even one who showed signs of being wealthy, to interfere.

  “One moment, mademoiselle!” said a voice as Poker Alice was about to draw out the dealer’s chair, a soft, provocative woman’s voice which brought Alice’s attention to the speaker.

  She turned and faced the black haired beauty, looked her up and down, then replied, “Well?”

  “This is my table,” said Eleonore Dumont, better known as Madame Moustache, her accents those of a New Orleans French Creole of good birth and with a trace of an accent.

  “I’m afraid it was your table,” Alice replied. “I was brought in to take over the game.”

  “You!” Eleonore gasped. “Surely know that Madam Moustache, which is me, always runs the big table in any house which hires me.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of Madam Moustache,” sniffed Alice calmly. “But I happen to be Poker Alice. Now trot along like a good little girl and I’m sure Mr. Trent will let you turn his wheel-of-fortune.”

  Poker Alice had told a lie when she said she had never heard of Madam Moustache and Eleonore acted ignorant of who the blonde girl might be. They had their pride and were deadly rivals although they had never run across each other before. Neither was the type to become involved in unseemly brawls, but they also both knew how to take care of themselves when a quarrel was forced on to them by jealous girls. Also neither would back down, give way to her rival at the big-game table.

  “Take your hand off the chair!” Alice ordered, seeing every eye on her and Eleonore, reading the expectancy in their gaze. She did not wish to be put into the indignity of fighting, but would not back down.

  “Make me!” hissed Eleonore, who did not really want to fight but also would not give way.

  With an annoyed frown Alice released the back of the chair. Instantly Eleonore moved. Her right arm swung around to land on Alice’s cheek in a flat-handed slap which snapped the blonde’s head across to her lashing left palm causing Alice to take a hurried pace to the rear. Alice rocked under the impact of the slaps and Eleonore waited, tense as an alley-cat. Usually such a savage and rapid attack resulted in the one receiving it bursting into tears and taking a hurried departure. Only this time Eleonore did not face a saloon girl.

  After catching her balance Alice swung a fist, not a slap, in return. Her knuckles cracked against the side of Eleonore’s cheek and the Creole beauty went backwards on her heels, arms flailing to prevent herself from falling.

  She spat out a mouthful of rapid French curses then sprang forward like a wildcat. Alice attacked at the same instant and the two women seemed to meet in mid-air. Hands dug into hair, tugging and yanking, or flailed in wild slaps and punches while feet lashed and kicked just as wildly. Clinging to each other and swinging wildly the two women crashed to the floor and rolled over and over, Alice’s pale skin making a contrast to the tan of the Creole Girl.

  As soon as the fight started almost everybody in the room either stood up and gathered around to get a better view, or climbed on chairs, tables, anywhere that offered them a vantage point over the heads of the standing crowd. The men yelled their encouragement but the saloon girls gathered in a sullen group and scowled at Alice and Eleonore, who they regarded as interlopers, for taking the center of attraction away from them.

  At the bar, as soon as the two women met, Mark felt hands clamp on both his arms, strong and powerful hands which knew their business.

  “Let’s go easy, hombre!” a growling voice whispered in his ear and the two bouncers started walking him towards the door. “Just keep on going, boyo, and you won’t get hurt.”

  They took five steps forward. To one side the squeals, gasps and yelps of the two fighting women became almost drowned by the excited shouts of the crowd and the calls of the gamblers offering to take bets on the winner. Mark decided he had gone as far as he aimed to go.

  Instantly the two men hustling him towards the door came to a halt as Mark dug his heels in. Up until that moment the bouncers had been fooled and lulled into a sense of false security by Mark’s appearance. They regarded him as a rich dandy, which he was due to an aunt leaving her considerable fortune to him in her will, and easy meat, which he most certainly was not. So
the sudden halt took them both by surprise for it felt as if they had run into a brick wall.

  Before either man could make up his mind what to do, the one at the right felt himself lifted from the floor. It took him completely by surprise when he felt his two hundred and thirty pounds of bone and muscle hefted up into the air, which delayed his reactions.

  With a sudden surge of power Mark flung the right hand bouncer from him like a hound-dog shaking off a fly. The startled bouncer let out a howl and went head first across the room to smash into a table on which stood several soldiers all eagerly watching the fighting girls. With a crash the table went over and half a dozen soldiers pitched all ways, bellowing out curses and landing on other spectators as they went down. Men cursed, yelled and tempers boiled, so it did not help matters that the bartender should be a man with a bad reputation amongst soldiers due to some rough handling he had handed out. Fists started flying and a general brawl developed rapidly.

  At the same moment that he flung aside the first man Mark brought the other around with a jerk of his left arm. Before the bouncer could release his hold, Mark’s right fist rammed into his stomach with a thud like a bass drum’s stick striking the skin of the drum. The bouncer let out a startled and agonized gurgle, lost his hold on Mark’s left arm and folded hands over his stomach as he doubled over. Mark shot down a hand, gripped the bouncer by the shirt collar and heaved, sending him shooting off after his pard into the tangle of spectators.

  Next moment almost every man in the place became involved in the general brawl as the fight spread like stone-raised ripples crossing the surface of a pool. A waiter sprang at Mark, swinging up his heavy tray and launching a blow at the big Texan’s head. Mark side-stepped, shot out his hands, gripped the tray, plucking it from the man’s grasp and applying it with some force to its owner’s head, sending him staggering dazedly off towards a group of fighting men. One of them turned on him and knocked him down. Mark heard Trent’s enraged bellows and saw the saloonkeeper still stood at the bar. A chair hissed through the air and Trent ducked, allowing it to smash into the big mirror behind the bar. At that moment a cowhand flung himself at Mark who back-handed him aside then started towards the door. This proved to be a slow process, for the fight had now become general and not one between the various fractions in the saloon. It was now a case of attack the nearest person and hope not to get jumped by somebody else while doing it.

  After thrashing over and over on the floor, Poker Alice and Madame Moustache made their feet, still holding hair with one hand and using the other to slap, push, punch and pull. They staggered clear of the fighting men and towards the foot of the stairs where the saloon girls stood screeching curses, yelling wild encouragement or watching; their retreat to the bedrooms remained open in case a hurried departure should become necessary.

  One of the girls let out an angry yell and charged forward, making for the two fighting women. Why she decided to cut in even she probably could not say. It might have been excitement, a desire to get in on the act. It could even have been through annoyance; she had been on the verge of persuading a gullible young cowhand to give her money for a stage line ticket to visit her (non-existent) sick mother in Arkansas when the fight started and caused him to lose interest. Whatever the motive, she rushed forward, dug two hands into Eleonore’s long, though now considerably ruffled and untidy, black hair and started to pull hard.

  The attack from behind came as a complete surprise and Eleonore gave out a squeal like a tail-stomped cougar. She lost her hold of Alice and was dragged clear of the disheveled blonde. Alice might have been grateful for the help, but did not get a chance to show it, for a second girl darted from the stairs, thrusting Eleonore and her attacker aside. She delivered a slap to Alice’s face, hard enough to leave finger marks on her cheek. With a squeal Alice staggered back a couple of paces. She caught her balance, shot out her left hand to the girl’s shoulder, measuring her up. Then the right hand swung around, clenched into a hard little fist. The saloon girl walked into the punch and shot backwards amongst her friends as they advanced to lend a hand. They all went down in a pile and forgot about Alice and Eleonore as various feuds came to a head in wild fighting among themselves.

  Twisting and squealing, Eleonore struggled to free herself from the girl behind her but could not. However, Alice, having dealt with her assailant, turned to renew hostilities with her business rival. She sprang forward and sportingly landed a punch on the saloon girl, sending her reeling and sprawling back into her friends, where she became involved in a fight of her own.

  To show her gratitude Eleonore lowered her head and butted into Alice, ramming her backwards into the main brawl where they tangled and fought on amongst the flailing fists and flying chairs.

  Mark heard a bellow of rage and from the corner of his eye saw the first bouncer he had tossed aside coming at him in a low crouching charge, arms widespread to clamp around Mark. Only at the last moment Mark side-stepped and his foot raised to drive behind the man’s rump and send him hurtling into the side wall where he slid down and lay still. Another man sprang at Mark, lifting a chair, but Mark bent, stepped forward, caught his attacker around the knees, then straightened to pitch him on to a soldier who had been moving in for an attack from the rear.

  “Get the marshal!” Trent howled. “Get the shotgun from under the bar!”

  Neither request had the slightest result, everybody in the room being far too busy defending themselves from a variety of assaults, even the bartenders, who might have handed over the shotgun from beneath the counter, had deserted the sober side of the bar to help out in the general tangle.

  After howling out his request again Trent realized his position and started to lean over the counter. His hands almost closed on the butt of the shotgun when a hand grabbed his coat, hauled him off and sent him sprawling back into the fight where another fist smashed into the side of his jaw and knocked him further from the bar and his weapon.

  By that time Mark had almost reached the doors, being driven aside so he now stood by the side wall. A pretty redheaded girl who had lost her frock and gained what looked like it would be a glorious mouse under her left eye emerged from the center of a knot of fighting men in which she had been tangled. She held a bottle gripped by the neck and clearly meant to use it as a club against somebody. Her eyes settled on Mark first and she rushed at him. The bottle swung up and slapped her wrist into his palm. He hooked his other arm around her waist, pulled her to him and kissed her hard. The girl’s free hand clawed wildly at Mark’s shoulder, let loose then tightened again. The fingers holding the bottle relaxed, allowing it to fall unheeded to the floor. He released the girl and she staggered back, glassy-eyed, to bump into a cowhand who turned and swung a fist which knocked the girl down even before he realized who he struck at. Mark flattened the cowhand as a matter of principle. He then looked around the room to try and locate Poker Alice and Madam Moustache, but among that seething, struggling crowd, he could not locate the two women.

  For their part Alice and Eleonore went at it like a pair of Kilkenny cats. They had no fighting skill and their tactics were pure woman. They pushed, shoved, slapped and kicked at each other, climbing over, dodging behind or crawling between other fighters to get at each other. A man on his knees grabbed Alice around the waist. She felt her frock ripping but before she could escape or do anything about it Eleonore jumped in and launched a kick which a savate fighter might have envied. Her shoe caught the man under the jaw and landed hard enough to both make him release his hold and cause him to lose interest in the proceedings. Alice showed her appreciation for the help by landing a couple of explosive slaps across Eleonore’s bare shoulders, then they closed with each other again. By now they were at the far side of the room but still going at it with all they had.

  Trent was raging in fury as he saw his saloon being wrecked before his eyes. His careful plan for a bit of free advertisement had gone sadly astray. Instead of a cat-fight between the two women he had a braw
l which saw his fixtures being shattered and his staff damaged.

  A bunch of fighting men landed on the big-stake faro table which crumpled and collapsed under them. The wheel-of-fortune rocked from its place on the wall and broke on the floor. Trent saw this happen, then through a gap in the crowd, saw Alice and Eleonore. In his fury he blamed everything that was happening upon the two women and swore they would pay for every bit of the damage they caused.

  He avoided a soldier’s attack and smashed a blow at the side of the man’s head, felling him. With a snarl Trent thrust himself forward and headed towards the two women, swinging a fist or a kick at anyone who crossed his path and without regard for sex or position in life. Coming on to the two women who he blamed for his troubles Trent let out a bellow of rage and stamped towards them, grabbing them by the arms.

  It proved to be the wrong thing to do. With screeches which sounded like a pair of she-bobcats defending their young, the two women turned on Trent. His hair was yanked out in chunks, his shins hacked by wild lashing feet. Trent’s enraged bellows changed to yells of pain. He grabbed the two women around their waists and tried to crush them to him as they all staggered backwards.

  A flying chair just missed Trent and the girls, which proved to be fortunate for them as it shattered the big front window at which they headed. Tight and entwined as a king snake killing a diamondback rattler, the three went into the window frame and crashed through on to the street below, landing amongst the broken glass, luckily without cutting themselves. The force of the landing winded the two girls and they rolled from the dazed Trent’s arms, laying on the sidewalk.