by J. T. Edson
‘We’d appreciate having your help, dear girl,’ the Englishman declared, admiring the red head for her spirited words. ‘But giving it could put you in grave peril.’
‘Is that the truth?’ Calamity answered, grinning broadly and showing not the slightest perturbation over the prospect. ‘Well, I figure I can go along with what it says in the Good Book. Hell, “though I’m walking through the valley of the shadow of death, I don’t fear any evil” – ’cause I’m a whole heap meaner’n any son-of-a-bitch I’m likely to meet there.’
‘Patrick St John-Haythornthwaite?’ Vera Gorr-Kauphin said slowly, in answer to a question Arnaud Cavallier had put to her at the end of his description of the events in which he had participated at the Fair Lady Saloon. Almost two hours had elapsed since he left the blackjack game, but he and his associates had only just got rid of Jebediah Lincoln and he had not mentioned the matter while the freighter was present. ‘No, I can’t recollect having heard the name. Is there any reason why I should have?’
‘I got the impression from his nickname, the Remittance Kid, that his family may have sent him from England because of some scandal, or to avoid one,’ le Loup-Garou replied. ‘At least, one or the other was the reason for every remittance man I’ve met so far being in Canada,’
‘His name doesn’t mean anything to me,’ the actress stated. ‘Of course, I didn’t mingle with the upper classes to any great extent, or pay any attention to their gossip.’
Close to five foot nine inches tall, in her middle thirties, there was little sexually attractive about Vera. She had a thin face with prominent cheek bones, piercing dark eyes, a sharp nose and a chin that came to a point below thin, pallid lips. An expression of fanatical zeal which was repellant in its intensity, taken with a harsh and arrogant voice, prevented any chance of it being thought that her appearance masked a pleasant nature. She had covered her mousey brown hair with a more luxuriant blonde wig. Any poise, elegance, or charm her angular, almost boney figure might have had was effectively concealed by the severely plain brown taffeta dress she was wearing and from beneath which showed a pair of low-heeled, blunt-toed shoes. In spite of pretending to be “Matthew Devlin’s” wife, she wore no jewelry and prevented her lack of a wedding ring from being noticed by never appearing in public without gloves.
‘What makes him so important?’ the impostor asked.
Six foot in height, with a powerful physique, “Devlin” was in his late forties. His voice was redolent of middle class Southern Irish origins. In addition to having changed his ‘priest’s’ attire for clothing suitable to his new pose of being a wealthy businessman, he was covering his close-cropped iron-gray hair with a well-made brown wig. He had an equally realistic matching false moustache and neat chin beard affixed to his hard, tanned face. They did nothing to relieve its bitter and unsmiling lines. Everything about him gave a warning that he was strong, authoritative and unforgiving of weakness in others.
‘I would find any Englishman interesting after our troubles in Chicago,’ Cavallier replied, showing no sign of being either impressed or concerned by the impostor’s stern and forbidding demeanor. ‘Particularly one who is staying in this hotel and, even without his name pointing to it, speaks in the manner of the British upper class.’
From the beginning of their association, there had been little love lost between le Loup-Garou and “Devlin”.
In spite of his pretense of believing in equality, the anarchist had a tendency towards racial prejudice he could never entirely conceal. Furthermore, he assumed he had the right to command – and believed everybody else should follow his orders without question. That Cavallier was not only born of mixed parentage but was also rich and influential would have been sufficient to arouse his animosity. So did the Metis’ refusal to accept subordinate status. The last thing he wanted was for there to be such a strong leader of the uprising he was helping to set into motion. Nor was the situation improved by “Devlin” realizing that his reputation for being tough and unscrupulous caused the equally ruthless le Loup-Garou not the slightest trepidation.
‘Nobody’s told me there was an Englishman staying here!’ Vera said indignantly.
‘He and his wife only arrived yesterday evening,’ Cavallier explained but did not mention that it was the actress’s snobbish attitude which caused the hotel’s staff to be so uncommunicative.
‘His wife?’ Vera repeated. ‘Could they be the same couple you saw the night you killed Tinville?’
‘I haven’t seen the lady as yet, mademoiselle,’ Cavallier answered, speaking more politely than when addressing “Devlin”. ‘They would be much of the same height. Although his hair is blond, it could have been dyed for the night, or done since, and he could easily have shaved off his mustache, but his nose is smaller and has not been broken. Also he does not have a Scottish accent and there is no scar on his face,’
Having well developed sexual desires and considering he was an invincible conqueror of female hearts, le Loup-Garou had looked forward to the meeting when he heard that the anarchists from Europe with whom he was allying himself were led by a woman. He had felt sure that he would be able to convert her to being a willing and unquestioning supporter of his aims and against “Devlin”. Although he had not been impressed by Vera’s appearance, he had not allowed it to deter him, but soon found that she refused to yield to his charm. However, in spite of realizing that she was unlikely to regard him as a suitable leader for the Metis nation, he had continued to flatter and cultivate her so as to alienate her from the male anarchist.
‘Then he might not be the same man, you’re saying,’ “Devlin” suggested, with thinly veiled sarcasm.
‘I’m merely pointing out the differences between them,’ Cavallier corrected. ‘Unless you left something behind, or said something to somebody which could have put them on our trail, there’s no reason to believe the British Secret Service, or that of your country, know we’re in Mulrooney. However, I don’t believe in taking unnecessary risks. So I mean to go out and see if I can learn anything about him.’
Chapter Six – Cause Any Trouble And You’re Through
‘Hello!’ Jebediah Lincoln remarked, looking at the young woman and the burly, older man who were entering the club car of the train upon which he, Vera Gorr-Kauphin, “Matthew Devlin” and Arnaud Cavallier were traveling to Stokeley, Montana. ‘I wonder what they’re doing here?’
‘Who are they?’ “Devlin” inquired, glancing over his shoulder.
‘The feller’s Dobe Killem, runs a freight outfit like me,’ Lincoln replied and swung his gaze to the actress as he went on, ‘The gal’s Calamity Jane. I reckon you’ve likely heard of her even over in England, “Mrs. Roxby”?’
‘I can’t say that I have,’ Vera answered stiffly.
Like many of her kind and political persuasions, the actress was an arrant snob with delusions of grandeur and only used the pretense of believing in equality as a means of convincing the little people of her deep concern over their welfare and betterment. So she had resented the familiarity with which Lincoln had treated her from their first meeting. Not only was he the type of man who believed his sex had an inborn and natural superiority over women, his thinly veiled disdain for everything English had failed to appeal to her when she had found herself to be included in it. In her opinion, as he was merely one of Ernst Kramer’s hired hands and employed to transport her party’s property, he should have displayed a vastly greater respect towards her.
The fact that neither “Devlin” nor Cavallier had offered to intervene on her behalf and bring about a change in Lincoln’s behavior had done nothing to make her feel cordial to them. What was more, she suspected that the male anarchist had invited him to join them in the club car knowing to do so would annoy her. Being compelled to accept his company, as an alternative to staying alone in the stateroom they had taken, robbed her of any satisfaction and pleasure in the thought that their affairs were running smoothly once more.
‘Hey, Ca
lam gal!’ Killem boomed, sounding genuinely surprised by the discovery that another freight outfit operator was on the train, as he and the red head approached the conspirators’ table. ‘Will you just look at who’s sat here as large as life and twice as well fed.’
‘Well I’ll be switched!’ Calamity replied, in just as convincing a fashion. ‘If it’s not good old Jebediah Lincoln. Hey there, Jebediah. What’s up, have all the wheels dropped off your son-of-a-bitching wagons?’
‘Damned if I wasn’t just going to ask you pair the same thing, Calam,’ the freighter answered, coming to his feet. Although he had previously been on no more than nodding terms with Killem, he was far from averse to letting his customers assume he had a far closer social relationship with a young lady whose fame had spread across the United States even though it did not appear to have reached the circles in which the Englishwoman moved. ‘Are you going all the way to Stokeley?’
Matching Killem in height, Lincoln’s extra twenty or so pounds of weight was not attained by hard muscle. Rather he was corpulent in a fashion suggesting a love of good living and which implied his control of the freight outfit was dependent less upon manual skill than administrative ability. Balding – his fancy grey billycock hat lay on the table in front of him – with what was left of his light brown hair rendered almost black by a liberal application of bay rum, his florid features seemed jovial apart from his small and close set eyes. He spoke with a somewhat high pitched New England accent and, being patterned on the most recent fashion to have arrived from the East, his brown suit, white shirt and gaily colored silk cravat gave no clue to the nature of his employment. Although there was no noticeable evidence of his being armed, he carried a short barreled Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket model revolver in what was known as a ‘half breed’ shoulder holster 28 under his left arm. For all his bulging paunch and bulk. Calamity and Killem, having seen him in action, knew he was competent in its use.
‘All the way,’ Killem answered. ‘I’m heading up there to see if there’s any work for us freighters who go where the railroad can’t, or don’t. You got the same in mind?’
‘Nope, Mr. Cavallier’s guiding “Mr. and Mrs. Roxby” here on a hunting trip and I’m carrying their gear along,’ Lincoln lied, but with an acceptable aura of veracity, indicating Vera, “Devlin” and le Loup-Garou with a wave of his left hand. ‘You know me, Dobe. I don’t settle nowhere permanent.’
‘There’re some who might say you’re wise not to,’ Killem commented cryptically, knowing the second part of the explanation was intended to assure him that its maker was not proposing to become a rival for any business that might be going in the Stokeley area. ‘Pleased to meet you folks and I surely wish you every luck in your hunting.’
‘Our thanks for your kind wishes, m’sieur,’ Cavallier responded, rising with his eyes drinking in Calamity’s far from concealed feminine attributes. Despite being aware that Vera’s scrutiny of the girl was disapproving, he was too eager to become better acquainted with the shapely newcomer to let it deter him. ‘Would you care to join us?’
‘Why that’s right neighborly of you, “mon-sewer”,’ Calamity assented, without giving her employer an opportunity to express his opinion. ‘We’d admire to set ’n’ talk a spell.’
‘Do you speak French, mademoiselle?’ Cavallier inquired, smiling a little at the girl’s pronunciation.
‘Not a whole heap more’n I just did,’ Calamity confessed, also grinning. ‘Only I heard fellers calling each other that when I was down to New Orleans a couple of years back. You’re sort of like a right nice feller I met there. Is that where you hail from?’
‘Regrettably, I have never been there,’ le Loup-Garou replied, his lascivious gaze continuing to roam over the girl’s curvaceous body. ‘But if that is your home, I will make every effort to pay a visit in the near future.’
‘Blast if I don’t wish that’s where I lived then,’ Calamity declared, studying the Metis with an intensity which appeared to be every bit as predatory as was his examination of her. She decided that, in spite of knowing he was a cold blooded killer whose morals where members of her sex were concerned left much to be desired – the latter information had been gleaned by Lieutenant Edward Ballinger from a man with whom he had quarreled over the division of the profits and so broken off a scheme to supply Indian and Metis girls to be used as prostitutes – he looked as she put it, “one tolerable hunk of a man”. ‘Trouble being, there’s no room at your table. So, much’s I’d admire to, we can’t sit and “sociable-ize” with you.’
‘Then I’m sure my friends won’t mind if I join you,’ Cavallier countered, although he felt certain he was not expressing Vera’s sentiments on the matter. ‘As Mr. Lincoln said, I am accompanying them as guide and would be pleased if you could give me any suggestions.’
‘I surely hope you only mean about hunting,’ Calamity grinned, but her manner implied that suggestions of a more personal nature would be far from unwelcome.
‘But what else, mon chérie?’ Cavallier clarified, finding the red head a most refreshing change after Vera’s far from amiable society. ‘And, while we are talking, why don’t we take another table. Also, unless it will give offence, perhaps I might be allowed to order a drink for you – both.’
‘Time comes when I get given offence by anybody, ’specially a handsome young feller like yaw, offering to set up the drinks, I’ll know I’m getting old,’ Calamity asserted, having intended to make a similar offer if it had not been forthcoming and realizing Killem had only been included in the invitation as an afterthought. Nodding to the bar in the center of the compartment, she went on, ‘Only I’d sooner go and lean instead, happen that’s all right with you. I’m not took with drinking when I’m sat, I don’t know when I’ve had enough.’
‘But how is it different when you are standing?’ le Loup-Garou asked.
‘Easy enough,’ the red head explained. ‘When I’ve had enough and I’m stood, I can fall down. Only it’s never happened yet. 29 Are you coming or staying, boss-man?’
‘I thought we were going to grab a bite to eat?’ Killem protested, making it appear that he was not in favor of the girl drinking.
‘Aw hell, there’ll be plenty of time for us to do that after we’ve had a snort or three with the “mon-sewer” here,’ the red head insisted, contriving to suggest she cared nothing for her employer’s disapproval. ‘Anyways, happen you don’t want one, why’n’t you stop and tell those good folks what you know about hunting while me ’n’ him go belly up to the bar for a spell?’
‘Do you mind if I buy the young lady a drink, m’sieur?’ Cavallier went on, making the words sound close to a challenge.
‘She’s full grown and knows her mind,’ Killem answered, in tones which lacked cordiality.
‘I sure’s hell’s for sinners am!’ Calamity confirmed, her attitude redolent of defiance. ‘Let’s go and bend an elbow, “mon-sewer”.’
‘That’s Calam for you,’ Lincoln commented with a broad grin, as – before Killem could say anything more on the subject – the girl and Cavallier walked towards the bar. ‘Hey though, didn’t I hear that she had a mite of trouble with a couple of Johnny Raws from Fort Connel outside the Fair Lady Saloon?’
‘She did!’ the burly freighter affirmed, his voice taking on an angry and disgusted timbre. ‘They said something she didn’t like and the damned hot-head threw the pair of them through a window. Miss Woods didn’t cause any fuss, seeing as Paddy Magoon promised the Johnny Raws would pay for the damage, but I could tell she wasn’t pleased it had happened,’
‘She wouldn’t be,’ Lincoln commented. ‘But isn’t that Calam a pistol, things she gets up to?’
‘It’s not so all-fired, god-damned amusing when you’re her boss,’ Killem replied. ‘And I hope she minds what I told her about not getting drunk and causing a fuss up to Stokeley.’
‘What was that?’ Lincoln inquired, remembering the numerous other stories he had heard about the red head’
s penchant for becoming involved in disturbances and fracas.
‘I didn’t want to bring her, but she insisted on coming along,’ Killem answered, noticing that the two anarchists were listening with as much interest as the other freighter. ‘So, after all the money it’s cost me to square things up after the fussing and fighting she’s caused in other places and seeing as how I don’t want anything spoiling my chances of picking up some business there, I’ve told her straight out, “You cause any trouble and you’re through.” And, by grab, I mean it!’
‘You mean you’d fire her?’ Lincoln asked, glancing to where Calamity was lounging against the bar with all the aplomb of a seasoned habituary of such establishments. ‘But she’s a damned good driver.’
‘She’s all of that, fact being I’d say there’s not many better,’ Killem conceded, sounding as if he begrudged having to make such a concession. ‘But I’m getting sick to my guts over having to hand out my money to pay for the damage’s gets caused when she starts a ruckus with another gal in a saloon and getting it damned near wrecked when everybody else joins in. And I don’t take kind to it when a marshal tells me to keep my crew out of his bailiwick because they’re trouble-makers, which’s started to happen. No sir, Jebediah, I’ve had my fill of it. Good as she is, just one more god-damned bit of trouble and she’s finished with my outfit.’ Then he brought his tirade to an abrupt halt and, swinging his gaze to the anarchists, removed his hat hurriedly and continued apologetically, ‘I’m right sorry for taking on that way, ma’am, sir. It’s just that she gets me riled up. Anyways, trouble is I’ve not done any hunting this far north, so there’s not a whole heap I can tell you.’
