by J. T. Edson
Trent rolled to his hands and knees, shaking his head and spitting out lurid curses. A large crowd had gathered before his place to see the fun, but the marshal had not made a show of himself yet. This did not surprise Trent who knew the marshal held his post by means of his lax law enforcement rather than by zeal and vigor in the line of duty. Having heard of the fight, Trent did not doubt that the marshal would be waiting for things to cool down before arriving and trying to do anything about breaking it up.
Forcing himself to his feet Trent looked down at the two exhausted women. His never amiable temper burst in full flood upon them, blaming them for everything which happened inside his place since their arrival.
“You lousy calico cats!” he screamed, no other word could describe the sounds he made. “I’ll teach you to have my place wrecked. I’ll have the pair of you in jail and working for me until you’ve paid back every cent of the damage that’s been done!”
At that moment the other front window smashed outwards as a table sailed through it. Thinking of the cost of those big windows, Trent bellowed in rage and drew back his foot meaning to sink it into Poker Alice’s unprotected ribs.
Somebody landed a punch on Mark Counter’s jaw and sent the big Texan sprawling through the batwing doors. Mark never did learn who hit him, all he knew was that whoever did it packed a real good punch. It propelled Mark through the batwing doors and into the hitching rail. Catching the upright support Mark stopped himself going flying into the street. He put a hand to his jaw and winced, that hombre inside landed a punch like his amigo Dusty Fog. For a moment Mark thought of going back and trying conclusions with the man who handled such a good punch. Then he saw something which drove all such thoughts from his head.
The shattering of the first window brought his attention to it so he saw Trent and the girl make their hurried departure through the broken frame. He also saw Trent rise and heard the threats uttered.
Not until Trent started to draw back his foot and kick Alice did Mark move. But when he moved—man he moved fast.
With long strides Mark shot along the sidewalk and reached Trent even before the saloonkeeper could draw back his foot. Mark’s left hand shot out and caught Trent’s arm. The saloonkeeper let out a low snarl and started to turn, throwing a punch. Faster than Trent moved, Mark deflected the blow over his head and then shot out a bunched fist which carried all his weight behind it. Trent’s head snapped back and he reeled into the window, performed a neat somersault back over the low edge and disappeared from sight.
Mark looked down at the girls. He guessed from the fact that the town law had not arrived to help quell the disturbance what sort of marshal he could expect. The owner of a fine, or what had been a fine, saloon would undoubtedly exert some considerable pull over such a lawman and could arrange that Alice and Madam Moustache be jailed then fix such a heavy fine on them that they would virtually be his slaves until they paid it off.
This did not meet with Mark’s ideas of the fitness of things. The two women came in all good faith to deal faro for Trent and under the agreement that each of them would run his big stake game. Either woman would have fulfilled her side of the bargain and brought in a good return for her cut in the game. Only Trent would not be content with that. He wanted to use the reputations of Poker Alice and Madam Moustache to glorify his place, by setting them at each other’s throats. So Mark did not see why either of them should suffer.
He bent and scooped one girl up under each arm, holding them around the waist and letting head and feet dangle. They hung there limp and unresisting as he headed around the side of the saloon. The watching crowd gave him a warm cheer of approval but none tried to interfere with him. In that they showed prudence, for Mark was in no mood to be trifled with. Before anybody could think of following Mark and discover what he aimed to do with the two girls, a bunch of screaming, fighting women burst through the saloon doors and drew the crowd’s attention to them.
Carrying his limp bundles, Mark headed for the hotel’s stable. He doubted if a night’s rest would cool Trent’s desire for revenge and so the only thing to do would be to get the two women out of town and away from his sphere of influence.
The stable looked deserted when Mark entered. However, as he dumped his load into the straw of an empty stall Mark heard a footstep and turned to find the old-timer he spoke with earlier had come from his office at the far end.
“Now that’s what I call a couple of trophies,” he cackled, throwing a glance at the two girls.
“A man’d say you called it right,” agreed Mark, then pointed to Alice. “This the one who brought that fancy rig in?”
“That’s her. What happened?”
“Trent started a tangle between her and the other gal.”
The old man spat. “That’d be his mark all right.”
“I’ve got to get them both out of town,” Mark went on, seeing the man did not appear to hold the saloon-keeper in very high esteem. “The saloon got wrecked a lil mite.”
“Sounded that way.”
“Hitch the team while I go collect my gear from the hotel.”
“Why, sure, go right ahead.”
Mark threw a glance at the girls, seeing they had recovered enough to shove themselves up on their hands while still laying flopped out in the straw. Then he left the stable and headed to the hotel while the old man started to lead out the harness horses.
Clearly the hotel staff and guests had left to see the fight at the saloon, for he could see no sign of anybody. The reception desk was deserted and Mark looked at the register, hoping to locate Madam Moustache’s room. He could neither find that name, nor one which sounded even remotely French, so concluded, correctly, she must be staying at some other hotel. There would be no time to try and find it and then collect Madam’s belongings, so Mark decided he must abandon them until such time as they could be safely collected.
From his own room he gathered his bedroll and Winchester and, having taken her key as well as his own, Mark went across to Poker Alice’s room and entered. He found that apart from one case she had brought little or nothing with her. With all the speed he could manage Mark stuffed Alice’s belongings into the case, fastened it and left the room, locking the door.
By the time he reached the stables he found the hitching of the team to be going on. He also found that Poker Alice and Madam Moustache had recovered enough to be fighting with each other again. Muffled screams, squeals and scuffling noises came from the stall and the old-timer threw a look towards it.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “A couple of real trophies. I sure admire you all for trying to take them on the hoof.”
Mark looked at the stall where four legs, each encased in a tattered black silk stocking and showing an expanse of white flesh slashed with black suspender above them, thrashed and waved as the struggling girls rolled over and over. The old man took a look also, for either pair of legs was neat enough to attract attention. He could not take much time to admire the view, for Mark wanted to leave town as soon as possible.
“Saddle your hoss, friend,” the old-timer suggested. “Then if I need help you can give it to me.”
This struck Mark as being the best idea, so he followed the old man’s instructions. By the time he had the bloodbay saddled and bridled, he saw the old man did not need his help. Mark lashed his bedroll into place and thrust the Winchester into the saddleboot. He secured the horse’s reins to the rear of the carriage and turned to the business of separating the women without getting hand-scalped in the process.
At that moment they both reared up, then dragged themselves to their feet. Although on the last verge of exhaustion they still clung to each other. During the brawl in the straw Alice had lost her skirt. Now they rose and Eleonore’s dress at last gave up the uneven struggle and peeled from her, leaving her exposed in a set of the latest fashion, very brief, black lace underwear. Even this did nothing to make them break up their fight.
Without a thought, though with a good look
, at how the two women were now attired, Mark stepped forward. He used a tactic a female deputy in Quiet Town demonstrated on several occasions as being best for such a situation. Shooting out his hands he gripped each woman by the scruff of her neck, drew them apart, then brought their heads together with a thud. Alice and Eleonore went limp and he let them fall into the straw. They would not be causing him any trouble for a spell.
“I sure likes to see a chivalrous southern gent,” grinned the old-timer who had finished hitching the team and was securing Alice’s bag on top of the trunk.
“And me,” grinned Mark. “Last one I saw who tried to split apart a pair of tangling females ended up as a bald-headed chivalrous southern gent and I’m too handsome to want to be bald.”
He handed the old man a twenty-dollar gold piece and then lifted first Alice and then Eleonore into the carriage, putting them in the rear covered seat and draping them over with the rug which had been curled on the seat. Swinging up on to the driving seat, Mark took up the reins and whip. He gave the old-timer a cheery salute and sent the horses out into the night, the bloodbay following on their heels.
On leaving Culver Creek behind him Mark gave thought to getting away from possible pursuit. He knew roughly the direction in which to head for Holbrock City and could most likely follow this trail to it. But then men who Trent would send after the girls could just as easily follow the road and make better time.
With this thought in mind Mark swung the team from the trail and headed out across the range. He headed at right angles to the trail for a mile, then turned the team in the direction he wished to go. Behind him he could hear gasps as the carriage bounced over the rough ground but kept his full attention on steering the team. He wanted to put as many miles as he could between himself and Culver City before finding a camp site for the night.
Not until Culver City lay a good six miles behind them did Mark draw rein. He located a small stream and followed its banks until he found a wood in which he could hide the wagon from chance passers. For the first time he looked around at his passengers. They were hanging on to each other’s neck for all the world like two sleeping babies, although Mark could never remember seeing two babies at which he would rather look. Apparently they had been so exhausted that when they recovered from his pacifying methods they must have drifted off into sleep.
Poker Alice stirred, then opened her eyes. She stared at Mark for a moment and groaned, “Where am I?”
“Sorry I had to bounce you about, ma’am,” Mark replied. “It was that or stay on the trail and likely wind you both up back in the Culver City jail.”
For the first time Alice seemed to notice how she was dressed, for the rug had slipped down from them. She gave a gasp, bent and dragged the covering back up over herself, although only partially over Madam Moustache who groaned and opened her eyes.
“What is happening?” she asked. “Where—wha—”
At that moment Alice turned and stared at her rival. Recognition was mutual and instantaneous. However, Alice made no move to resume hostilities with Eleonore. Her hand dropped under the rug and to the edge of the seat. From where it lay hidden, she drew a Remington Double Derringer and lined it on Mark.
“I think you owe us an explanation,” she said coolly.
“You’ll find another Derringer at the edge of your seat, Madam, if you know how to use one.”
“I never needed one to deal with a man before,” Eleonore replied, then for the first time she appeared to become aware of the scanty nature of her attire. “My dress!” she wailed.
“You left it in the stable back at Culver City,” Mark told her, then looked at the four .41 caliber barrels which lined on him, for Eleonore also produced a Derringer and handled it in a manner which showed she, like Alice, knew which end the bullet emerged.
He explained quickly what had happened, both Trent’s plan for bringing them together and his threat at the end. They listened, but neither let their gun barrels waver any.
“I see,” Alice said when Mark finished speaking and she had thought over his statements. “May I ask who you are?”
“The name’s Mark Counter and I’d sure admire to see those guns pointed some other place. Happen I’d felt that way earlier I could have done what I wanted afore either of you knowed what was coming off.”
“You’ve a point there,” Eleonore replied. “I think we can trust you.”
“I wouldn’t want to accept your judgment on anything, darling,” Alice stated. “But this time I believe you’re right.”
They both tucked the Derringers out of sight once more and Mark waved a hand to the team.
“I’ll tend to the horses,” he told them. “Then I reckon I’d best throw some wood up and start a fire. I’ve some airtights in my war bag, if one of you ladies can do the cooking.”
“I think an improvement in dress is called for,” Alice remarked.
The words brought a wail from Eleonore. “My clothes! I haven’t anything here to put on.”
“That’s deucedly awkward,” purred Alice. “I took the precaution of leaving my trunk on my carriage. And our gallant rescuer appears to have brought my bag from the hotel too.”
“Sure,” Mark agreed, then looked at Eleonore. “I’d’ve brought your gear, but I couldn’t find if you had a. room at the hotel.”
“I didn’t. I was staying at the other hotel. I always leave my bag at the stage depot for the first two days, with word that if I have to leave town in a hurry they are to send it on to some other place.”
“Do you often have to leave town in a hurry?” Alice asked.
“Not often. I am a square gambler, as I have always heard you are,” Eleonore answered in an angry voice. “But you know how the goody-goodies and do-gooders are in some towns. ‘A woman gambler? Tut, tut! How terrible. We can’t have her besmirching the morals of our fair city.’ You know what I mean.”
Alice started to laugh. Whatever else she might be Eleonore could certainly make her voice sound just like a small town do-gooder denouncing the evils of a woman gambler, or any other kind of sin.
“I know,” she agreed. “A few weeks ago I used to have a maid, but she married a cowhand. I’ve two of her uniforms at the bottom of my trunk. At least they’ll serve until you can collect your belongings from wherever you sent them—if you can get into them, you are somewhat fatter than the girl.”
“FATTER!” squealed Eleonore, raising her fists and then bursting into a string of French Creole curses.
“Now hold it, girls!” Mark put in before either could make a move to resume physical hostilities. “Was I you I’d leave off the hair-yanking until you get out of that carriage. Happen the team spooks and run, you’ll be in bad…”
His words calmed the girls down enough to stop an immediate attack. Eleonore looked at Alice and saw the twinkle in the English girl’s eyes. Her own volatile nature warmed immediately and she burst into a merry laugh.
“I’ve always found men prefer a woman with something they can get their hands on,” she stated. “Of course you can’t help being skinny. I suppose you never win enough gambling to afford a decent meal.”
“Touché!” smiled Alice.
“I’ll make a fire,” Mark drawled. “You can get into something warmer while I’m gathering the wood.”
When he returned from searching amongst the trees for dry wood Mark found Alice wearing a long housecoat while Eleonore had the carriage rug wrapped around her and looked in danger of losing it at any moment. Alice clearly thought an explanation for the lack of clothes to be in order, for she turned to Mark as he started to light the fire.
“We couldn’t see to unpack the trunk, so we’re doing the best we can.”
With the fire lit Mark went to take care of the horses. The two women came to lend a hand, but after she had lost the blanket twice Eleonore decided she would do better to attend to building the fire up. She left Mark and Alice to unhitch and hobble the team horses and raised a comforting blaze. Then while
Alice opened her trunk, Mark cared for his big stallion, removing its saddle and bridle and letting it free to graze, knowing it would not stray far.
“It’s no good,” Alice remarked. “I’ve got my bedroll out, but I can’t find our clothes. I suggest we turn in after a cup of coffee and I’ll find the dresses in the morning.”
Clearly Alice had camped out at nights before, for she carried a coffeepot, skillet and the necessities of life in two sacks in her trunk, along with a western style bedroll.
For the first time, when they all gathered about the fire to drink the coffee, Mark found a chance of looking the girls over. Their hair looked tangled and untidy and their faces and shoulders were dirty, bruised, yet neither showed too much sign of the fight. Possibly Eleonore would have a black eye in the morning but nothing more, for the fight had been more hair yanking, slapping and pushing than fist swinging.
“I hope I don’t look as big a mess as you do,” Alice remarked to Eleonore, reading Mark’s thoughts from his glance.
“It is nothing that water and a comb will not cure,” Eleonore replied.
“Where are you ladies going to sleep?” Mark asked.
“I’ll bed down under the carriage as I usually do,” Alice replied. “Madam here can sleep on the back seat if we loan her some of our bedding.”
So it was arranged, Mark settled down after he had seen the two women rolled in the blankets. Time passed and the fire died down. A soft footfall woke Mark and he looked up to find Eleonore standing by his bed, the rug draped scantily about her.
“I couldn’t sleep, Mark,” she said and sat down beside him.
“Thought you would be able to after that shindig back at the saloon,” he replied with a grin.
Throwing a glance at where Alice’s shape could be seen under the carriage Eleonore gave a laugh.
“That is a tough girl, my Mark,” she sighed. “What a brawl.”
“Sure was, Madam.”
She nestled closer to him and he felt that the rug had slipped from her body. Under the lace her body was warm and inviting.
