From that moment on, I never lacked for work. Oh, I won’t claim I had as many admirers as the other girls. Those days was yet to come. But I found myself so steadily occupied that I knew I was secure. I had made my place in the world. I had a roof above my head and enough food to fill my belly; I was content as a girl can be.
Now, my contentment didn’t last overlong. All too soon, the other girls came to see me as real competition. After the Tom Porter incident, I was tolerated better by the other ladies, and even viewed with affectionate pride (as a pet might be, or a favorite saint in a church-house.) They still thought me too homely to threaten their livelihoods, but what harm was there in my conjuring up a laugh now and then? I only ever siphoned off one or two randy boys with my antics, and left the rest for the pretty girls to sweet up on.
But the other girls didn’t know I had made a promise to our madam. I have faults aplenty—God knows I do—but breaking my word once I’ve given it is no fault you can lay at my feet. I made a vow to turn a healthy profit for Madam Robair, and by God, I was determined to see my promise through.
In time, I learned to use my ugliness as a cover, like a hunter shooting down ducks from a blind. Because the other girls saw my blunt, coarse face and curveless body as no real threat, I was able to work my way in close to the men, moving among them easily, learning their names, their ways, what made them laugh—and what made them tick. If one of the dainty, fancy ladies moved in too close to another girl’s favorite fella, she was liable to get her hair pulled or her face slapped—later, of course, when there was no boys around to see the fight. But nobody suspected old Calamity Jane of poaching in claimed territory. The mere thought was downright ridiculous. I played that advantage as careful as I ever played faro at old Mr. Braddick’s fireside.
I might have gone on playing my secret hand for weeks longer, too, if Red Nancy hadn’t come along to spoil it. One Saturday afternoon, she appeared in the pool hall—all furious swirling skirt and terse stamp of boots, face near as scarlet as her hair. Seemed Madam Robair had found some truck with Nancy and sent her from the visiting-house to the pool hall as a kind of punishment, a busting-down. The minute Nancy entered the place, her stare locked with mine. I could see my own startlement reflected in her features, in the jerk of her slender frame and the widening of her eyes. But we both shook off our surprise, for by that time I was a girl who had seen enough to know that nothing in this life is ever much of a shock. I nodded at her, kind of cool-like, in a detached way I hoped would do Madam Robair proud. Nancy pursed her lips and glared at me through her black-caked lashes.
From her first day among the pool-hall set, it was clear to all of us that Nancy bubbled over with spite. If she was to spend her days in a mere pool hall, she was bound and determined to become the boss of the place, a sort of Madam in miniature. She harried the other girls with commands, frightening them with cold, hateful stares. Nancy even began doling out slaps, once she figured she could get away with it.
I did my best to stay out of Nancy’s way, but it seemed whenever I looked up from my own business, there she was, a-glaring at me with mean promise in her eyes. I didn’t want to find out whether Nancy was as keen to make good on her promises as I was. I figured she must hate me for finding a place among the Madam’s girls despite my disappointing face and figure—for proving her wrong when she had been so certain Madam Robair would kick me out on my ass to wallow in the Laramie dust. I thought, Nancy will really hate me once she sees how the fellas have taken a shine. Then it’ll all be over, unless I make damn sure my path never crosses hers.
The fellas really had taken a shine to me by then. I’m pleased to say that I became a real favorite in short order. The men was all charmed—as fellas had been before—by my habits of cussing and telling shocking tales. I guess it was still a novel thing back then, to hear a girl of tender years let loose an avalanche of words so blue they’d drop a sailor dead from shock. And I was even tenderer than they suspected, for none of them knew my genuine age.
But I had more charms than my intricate and fanciful swearing. I took every chance I got to show those boys my card tricks—all the tricks Braddick taught me, and a few more I invented besides. And of course, once I convinced the boys to let me get my hands on a deck of cards, it was the most natural thing in the world to join in their games. I was a good faro player—the only legacy my pa bequeathed me—and I impressed them all by beating them so soundly, some men began cringing in anticipation of a loss whenever they saw me coming.
Now and then, after I cleaned out the kitty with an especially wicked hand, one of the fellas would say to me, “You ain’t playing fair, Calamity Jane. Everybody knows you got a way with card tricks. You’re cheating; you must be.”
I would wink and reply, “If you want to see my best tricks, you’re going to have to pay to take me upstairs.”
Every week, every day, more fellas took me up on that offer. And once I had them in my crib, I made damn sure every man who did gamble on me won big—and had a time he wouldn’t soon forget.
It wasn’t long before I earned as robust a take as the prettiest little things in the pool hall. I was pleased, having made good on my vow to Madam. But I was anxious, too, for the other girls had begun to note my popularity. And Red Nancy’s eyes was as keen and hard as ever.
By and by, the madam came around to the pool hall to check on her business, to take stock of her girls and see to the workings of her establishment. She rolled up to the front door in a sleek black carriage pulled by a couple of snow-white horses, surely the finest rig in Fort Laramie. I watched through the rippled window as her driver helped her down. She stood there on the board sidewalk, smoothing the creases from her green skirt. The color and delicate poise of the madam contrasted so vividly with red, blocky Laramie that it seemed as if Robair was the only thing that truly existed in all the world.
“Look sharp, girls,” I shouted. “Madam’s here!”
Every girl who wasn’t upstairs and occupied with an admirer hustled into a line. We stood waiting to greet her. I took my place at the end of the line, doing my strenuous best to look like a flower instead of a slug.
Madam Robair stepped inside the pool hall with her usual brisk efficiency. She peeled white gloves from her small, delicate hands. Then she walked down the line of girls, looking each of us over, nodding in approval at the state of our dresses, our hair—or giving a quiet order to put on a different color tomorrow, or find something with a lower neckline, as her taste dictated.
When the madam got to me, away at the end of her line of fine and fancy playthings, she stared up at me and sniffed. “Your dress ees atrocious, Jane,” she said in that funny accent. “Somehow eet manages to feet you like a grain sack and a death shroud all at once.”
“Yes mam, that is so,” I said. There was no sense denying what was plain for everyone to see.
“I will send over a seamstress to make you another. Perhaps two or three.”
“That’s mighty generous of you, mam.”
She paused, as if wondering whether she ought to say what was on her mind. I could just about feel all the pool-hall girls holding their breath, the better to listen. No doubt Red Nancy was waiting for me to get a real good scalding, right there in front of everybody.
Madam Robair said, “You have done well, Jane. I did not think eet possible, but you proved me wrong. You have made yourself a great favorite with the men, and for that I commend you.”
My cheeks burned with pleasure. It was true that I had gained quite a following. Word had spread around Fort Laramie—tales of my amusing language, my wild and raucous ways—my wild ways upstairs, too, in the privacy of my crib. I kept busy every night I worked, and I liked the job just fine, for I found the men good company. The whiskey they bought me was even better. The working girl’s life had surpassed my expectations—and I had surpassed Madam Robair’s.
When she had finished inspecting the pool hall, the madam took her leave, and all us girls was left mu
rmuring in her wake. Those who had been complimented glowed with pride, displaying an air of superiority well suited to cats on a fence. Those who’d been dressed down stomped or fluttered, and generally stared knives at the rest.
I didn’t need to catch Nancy’s eye to know she was throwing her very sharpest daggers at me. I could feel her rage piercing me from across’t the room, so I kept my head down and hurried to the back of the hall where the card games was underway. In that way I avoided a slap from Nancy’s quick and peevish hand.
Nancy hadn’t any real reason to hate me; I was sure of that. Some girls just couldn’t let themselves love the profession. It got under their skin and iced them over, one tumble after another, till they was bitter as witches and twice as mean. I wanted to go to Nancy and tell her, “I know this life don’t suit you, so you shouldn’t do it no more. Let me help you find a place in the boarding houses; I’ll teach you everything I know, and it’ll be a more agreeable life for you, I can promise you that.” But by then, I knew Nancy well enough to understand this: she would have considered my offer no kindness. It was better to let dogs lie, as the saying goes—and I guess it goes double for cats.
Skills of the bed wasn’t the only ones I sharpened in Madam Robair’s hall. I got damn good at playing cards in short order, for I practiced often enough, playing more hands every night than my old dead pa had played in his whole lifetime. Word spread that Calamity Jane was real sharp at the faro table. Fellas began to bet on me—outrageous sums for a win, or sometimes for a loss, seeing as how I was only a girl. I never took it sore when the boys bet against me. I didn’t blame them for their incredulity. And if money was at stake, I collected it as my honest due—for sharping the cards was work well done, just like all the other tasks I performed for my admirers.
Money was fair pay, but I made a habit of never keeping personal property when it was at stake. Well did I remember all the precious things my family lost to my father’s gambling habit—the good picture frames, a fine horse or two, my mother’s silver spoons. Those losses hurt us worse than the loss of any money, for once a memory is gone it can’t be bought again, no matter how many hands of faro a man may win—no matter how wealthy his vagabond luck may one day make him.
There was one night at the hall I remember well, with the autumn newly come and a grand, hissing rain storm scouring the world outside. Summer cattle had just been driven in from the ranges to the slaughter pens. The town was full of cowboys speckled with dust and raindrops, eager for some fun after weeks riding herd. The rain kept them all confined inside, but after so long away from girls, they would have been indoors with us even if the weather was sunshiney as the day after the Flood.
I held court at one of the card tables, leaning way back in my chair with my boots kicked up on the table. I looked as if I hadn’t a care in the world. The skirt of a new dress was rumpled up around my knees. It was a pretty, dark-green brocade, the finest thing I ever had worn, freshly made to fit and flatter me (as much as I could be flattered) by the madam’s own, very skilled seamstress. I had paid for the dress, of course, with my earnings. But I didn’t mind spending money on something so impossibly dandy.
There was a whole mess of boys gathered around me—and around my three opponents. I loved the feel of the crowd, the graceless stomp and sway of those men’s bodies, the smell coming off them—earth and water and dying sage. They was like the cattle they had tended, big and warm, companionable. They watched, all rapt and attentive, as I rained down hurt on the boys who dared challenge me to a hand.
When I won my third hand, I swept up a pile of silver coins toward with a triumphant laugh, and gathered the whole lot into my purse—a new green purse that matched my dress. Then I downed what was left of my whiskey.
“I told you all,” I crowed, “I can’t be beat, and you’re damn fools for tryin’!”
“No one can beat Calamity,” one of the boys affirmed. I had never seen him at the pool hall before, so I took his praise as a signal that even out on the range, men had learned my name.
The fellow sitting across from me—not much more than a boy, really, perhaps eighteen or nineteen—started forward in his chair. For a second, I thought he would spit a curse at me, or maybe try to slug me from where he sat. When I saw him draw his pistol, my heart leaped up into my throat. I never had considered that a man might be so angry with me that he’d actually try to kill me. But before I could get up and run, or even let fly with a scream, he set the gun on the table and pushed it to the center.
“One more hand,” he said.
I looked down at the gun with some relief. The panicked roar in my ears subsided with every beat of my heart. “You betting your piece?” I said.
He didn’t reply, except to push the gun with one finger, a little closer to me. Some of the crowd jeered at him. Some laughed and pounded each other on their shoulders, gleeful at the promise of a good show.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
He had a shine to his eyes, a spark of something I couldn’t quite read, but I knew he wasn’t angry. Not exactly. He leaned toward me, shivering, and I could sense a great intensity hanging all about him. But there was nothing of anger in it. He seemed sort of hungry, sort of longing for something only I could give. A card game, I guessed—I hoped—though I had already given him three.
Whatever feeling haunted the boy evidently had stopped up his mouth. He wouldn’t answer, so somebody else in the crowd spoke for him. “That’s Billy Voss.”
“All right, Billy Voss,” said I. “If you want to bet your pistol, that’s nobody’s business but yours and God’s.” I didn’t know what God might care about a gun gambled away, but I liked the saying.
The watching men set up a hoot of approval. A few tossed in coins to buy their way into the game. The money piled up around the gun, but no coins could shine as pretty as that pistol. I could tell Billy Voss took great pride in his gun and cared for it well. It had fancy engraving around the barrel and a big, mother-of-pearl star set into the handle. It was too fine a piece for a man so young. It must have been a gift—a treasure. Maybe he inherited that gun from a dead relation.
Well, I don’t need to tell you that I won that hand of faro, as I did most hands. I collected my winnings, and Billy looked crumpled, yet somehow all the hungrier. I slid his pretty gun into the beaded belt that held my purse. Then I rose from the card table.
“You headed up to your room, Calamity?” one of the men asked.
“I am, but not with you. I’ll only go up there with Billy.”
Billy’s face turned an awful shade of red. I knew he didn’t have nothing to pay me with—not anymore. The crowd knew it, too, and derided him. But I went around the table and took his arm as if he was the finest, richest gentleman in Fort Laramie.
“Come on,” I said. “This one’s on the house.”
He brightened up then and followed me up the stairs. The cheers of his fellas rang down below.
Inside my room, I lit the stub of my candle and shut the door. I watched the silent Billy for a minute. He stood shivering and wide-eyed, uncertain what to do next, though surely he had been with whores plenty of times before. Every man in Laramie had. The rain was falling hard, pounding on the roof, beating against the four square panes of my tiny window. The light from the candle, stirred by a draft, wobbled and slid over pitted walls.
I took the gun from my belt, extended it to Billy. “Here,” I said. “Take it.”
He shook his head slowly. “No mam. You won it fair and square. And you surely earned it, good as you are at cards. I heard you was good, but I guess I didn’t believe a girl could be so skillful. I guess you might have cheated, but I can’t see how. I was a fool to bet against you, Calam.”
I crossed to him—didn’t take more than a couple of steps—and pressed that shiny, mother-of-pearl handle against his palm. He tensed up at my nearness.
“I can tell this gun is special to you,” I said. “I won’t have it off you, no matter how fa
ir I won it. But when you go back down, keep it under your vest so none of the other boys can see.”
Billy took the gun. He held it for a moment, caressing it with both hands, trailing his fingers along the curves of its engravings. For a second, I thought I saw his face darken with the start of tears, but it could have been the candle light tricking me. Then he put it back in his holster and raised his eyes to mine. That strange, hungry longing had returned to his gaze—the hot, desperate intensity.
“You know I admire you an awful lot, Miss Jane.”
“I don’t know,” I said, laughing a little, full surprised. “Don’t think I ever met you before tonight.”
“We haven’t met, but still I think you’re an awful good woman.”
I didn’t know what to say. Not many people in the world would call me a good woman in the first place, let alone an awful good one. I just stood there, still and silent, with the rain roaring overhead.
Billy went on with a rush. “You’re so very clever, but you’re also good, Calam, there in your heart.”
Just for a moment, so brief I wasn’t quite sure it happened, he reached out as if he wanted to lay his hand against the green brocade of my low-cut bodice. Not to squeeze me, but to feel my heart beating underneath. Then he dropped his hand to his side, and I remained untouched.
“You’ll make a fine wife,” Billy Voss said. His voice had gone dry and soft.
“Ha,” said I. “If only I wasn’t a whore, right?” I wasn’t angry at him; just amused.
After a moment he said, “Do you suppose you’ll ever give it up? Whoring, I mean.”
“What,” I said, incredulous, “for you?”
“Well,” Billy Voss said slowly, choosing his words with great care, “I’m a nice enough fella. I wouldn’t never treat you unkind. And I’m making good money now. I could be a real good husband—I know it. And we’re of an age, so why not?”
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