The Floating Outfit 12

by J. T. Edson

  The “real lady” was at that moment swinging Calamity around by the hair and sent her sprawling across the room to hit the wall. Calamity seemed dazed by the impact and stood with legs apart, back braced against the wall.

  “Best stop—!” Stocker began as Belle moved in towards Calamity.

  His words stopped for Belle did not deliver a crippling kick at her helpless opponent. Instead she stopped and started to slap Calamity’s face, alternating hands and swinging the other girl’s head from side to side. The pain of the slaps revived Calamity and she thrust forward, her hands tangling into Belle’s hair. If Belle’s yell of pain was anything to go by, the grip Calamity had on her hurt.

  The fight developed into a more female brawl with Calamity’s hair-yanking opening. Reeling backwards, the two girls spun across the room in a flailing tangle of arms and legs, pulling hair, swinging slaps and punches. One piece of feminine fighting was denied them. Calamity’s work did not tend to allow her to grow long nails, and Belle knew men objected to playing with a gambler who had long enough fingernails to make identifying nicks on the cards.

  Even without scratching, the two girls put on a tolerable example of the art of barroom brawling. On their feet, or rolling over and over on the floor, they went at it for almost fifteen minutes without a pause.

  Then Belle was flat on her back and Calamity dropped to kneel astride her with the intention of grabbing her hair and bouncing her head on the floor. Belle knew as well as Calamity what the redhead intended to do. Bringing up her legs, Belle hooked them under Calamity’s armpits from behind, almost as if she was trying to perform a full nelson with legs instead of arms. Calamity gave a yell as she went over backwards, but carried on rolling to land on her feet and dropped down. She landed on Belle’s raised feet, felt them against her chest and knew what to expect even if she could not prevent it happening.

  Thrusting up with her feet, Belle sent Calamity flying backwards across the room to land on a tabletop. Calamity saw Belle coming at her and rolled back off the table, throwing it over. It landed on Belle’s right foot, the edge thudding down on her toes. Belle squealed in pain. She was still hopping on her other foot when Calamity rounded the table.

  Calamity swung herself around, her fist coming in a circle which ended on the side of Belle’s jaw. The crowd scattered as Belle went sprawling across the room, hit the bar and clung to it. Dazedly Belle watched Calamity come forward, a chair gripped in her hands ready to strike. The blonde sobbed for

  breath, she tried to force herself from the bar to avoid the blow.

  “We’d better stop Calam,” Mark said to Stocker.

  “Ye—Dabnad it, look there.”

  Instead of lifting the chair and crashing it on to Belle, Calamity threw it to one side. She staggered to the bar and Belle crouched ready to fight back.

  “H—hold it!” Calamity gasped.

  “H—had e—enough?” Belle replied in surprise.

  “No—no—Feel like a drink.”

  “A—and me. Fred, whisky and brandy.”

  “What do you make of that?” Stocker asked.

  “Those gals sure must be enjoying the fight. Belle could have finished Calamity against the wall there, and Calamity could sure have sung B—Marigold to sleep with that chair. There’s been other times when they could have used a knee, or foot and didn’t.”

  He hoped Stocker had not noticed the slip he made in his words. Not by a flicker of emotion did Stocker’s sleepy face show he had noticed Mark say “Belle” instead of Marigold. However, Mark would have been surprised if he had seen anything on the marshal’s face even if he noticed the slip.

  The girls finished their drinks. Watching them, the crowd grew expectant once more. Most of the onlookers had felt disappointed when they saw the fight come to such an indecisive end. Now they realized that the fight had not ended, but that the opponents were just taking a drink while regaining their strength for a resumption of hostilities.

  From his place at the end of the bar, Mark watched the girls and felt puzzled. While he could understand Calamity grandstanding in such a manner, it surprised him that Belle would act in the same way.

  “My turn,” Calamity said, slapping her empty glass on the counter. “Same again, Fred.”

  “Here’s looking at you,” Belle replied, raising her glass. “Not that you’d be seeing much with that eye.”

  “If it’s worse than yours, it’s bad,” Calamity grinned. “Whooee, that was a mean one you caught me with at the beginning. Say, where’d you learn to wrestle?”

  “From an Indian. Have you finished?”

  “Sure.”

  Setting down her glass, Calamity lashed out her fist, driving it into the blonde’s jaw and spinning her in a circle to hit the bar. Belle swung her arm sideways, the heel of her hand driving into Calamity’s ribs and stopping her forward rush.

  For thirty minutes by the bar-room clock the fight raged, from start, to when the two girls, tottering on legs which looked like heat-buckled candles, gave Stocker cause to think he might have to end the fight.

  “I’ll have to stop ’em if they go any further, Mark,” the marshal said as Calamity staggered from a push and left her torn shirt in Belle’s hands.

  “Looks that way,” Mark replied, for Belle had lost her blouse.

  It could not go on. The girls were on their last reserves of strength. Where their slaps had sounded like whip-cracks on landing, they now barely made a sound and on reaching flesh seemed more in the nature of a gentle push.

  Hooking a leg behind Calamity, more by accident than design, Belle tripped her. They were locked in each other’s arms and could do nothing to stop themselves falling. However, Calamity managed to twist herself so they both hit the floor. Their arms relaxed and they rolled apart, lying flat on their backs, breasts heaving, mouths hanging open.

  “Get the doctor,” Mark said. “I’ll get the gals to their rooms.”

  “Sure,” Stocker replied, “I’ll—Man, just look at that.”

  Incredibly, in view of the grueling brawl they had just fought, Belle was trying to sit up. Beside her, Calamity rolled over and forced her hands against the floor. Belle did not look the elegant creature who dealt blackjack. Her once immaculate hair now resembled a tangled, dirty, blonde wool mop. The face was streaked with sweat and dirt, its left eye blackened and puffed almost shut, the nose bloody. Her most serious injury was a bite on the left hand, gained when the fight was at its height. She had lost one stocking but the garter remained, a splash of color against the white of her leg. The other stocking had little foot, no knee and hung in tatters. Calamity was just as badly bruised and battered, dirty and exhausted.

  Sensing a climax approaching, the crowd fell silent. Quite a lot of money depended on the outcome of the fight.

  Through the whirling mist that seemed to surround her, Calamity saw Belle sitting up. Drawing on her last ounce of strength, Calamity thrust herself forward, shooting her fist at Belle. Everything went black for Calamity the instant before her fist landed. Carried by the impetus of her body, the fist caught Belle at the side of the jaw and Belle flopped on to her back. Calamity’s limp form dropped on to Belle’s and they lay there without a move.

  “What’d you call that, Mark?” Stocker asked.

  “I’d say a stand-off. Go get the doc, I’ll tend to the girls.”

  Excitement burst over the crowd, cheers and shouts of laughter ringing out. The floor manager called for drinks on the house and there was a rush to the bar. Mark did not join it. He crossed to where the saloon-girls, eight in all, stood in a group, knowing they were not included in the manager’s largesse.

  “How’d you gals like to earn five dollars each?” he asked.

  “All of us!” gasped the boss-girl, a big, beautiful black-haired woman, eyeing Mark with doubt and admiration.

  “Not for that,” Mark replied. “I want you to tote Marigold and Calamity to their rooms at the hotel.”

  “Sure we’ll do it,”
grinned the boss-girl. “I’m not doing anything important after that though.”

  “I wish I wasn’t,” drawled Mark and took out his wallet. “Take them in the back way.”

  Four girls took Calamity by the arms and legs, raising her from the floor, while the other four lifted Belle. To admiring cheers the battered girls were carried out of the saloon’s rear door.

  “Here, Mark,” Stocker said, coming over with a couple of glasses in his big hands. “I fetched you a drink along. Being a duly appointed officer of the law, I don’t get the give-away stuff.”

  One sip at the contents of his glass told Mark that Stocker spoke the truth. Like most saloons, the Crystal Palace kept a stock of cheaper whisky to be used when the boss announced drinks on the house. The liquor in Mark’s glass tasted like best stock. It seemed that, like Mark, the owners of the Crystal Palace were not fooled by Stocker’s sleepy-acting

  ways and knew how to show a good lawman their appreciation.

  “Man, that came from a customer’s bottle,” Mark said, then noticed Stocker looking around the room. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing much. I was wondering where Framant has gone.”

  Setting down his glass on the nearest table, Mark looked around the room. He had last seen the bounty hunter before the fight started and Framant was showing considerable interest in Belle’s actions.

  Without a word to Stocker about his fears, Mark turned on his heel and headed across the room towards the main doors of the saloon.

  ~*~

  There was considerable excitement at the hotel as Mark entered its reception hall. Although the girls had carried Belle and Calamity in through the rear door, they still had to bring their groaning burdens to the front and up the stairs. In doing so, they attracted attention, their chatter bringing residents from the dining- and sitting-rooms to see what was happening.

  Shoving through the crowd, Mark found the desk clerk, a plump, pompous young man, blocking his path.

  “May I ask just what is going on, Mr. Counter?” the clerk said as Mark started up the stairs. “This is not the sort—”

  His words trailed off as Mark’s hands gripped him by the lapels of his coat, then lifted. The man’s feet left the floor and kicked futilely as Mark set him aside. Gurgling incoherently, the clerk turned and stared after Mark as he went up the stairs. It shook a man to be picked up as if he was a baby and set aside in so casual a manner.

  “Just set the blonde down, you calico cats,” a voice said from the passage above. “I’ll tend to her.”

  Three strides brought Mark to the head of the stairs and he turned the corner. It seemed he had not come a moment too soon.

  “Hold it, Framant!” Mark snapped.

  Standing with his shotgun in his left hand, Framant looked towards the big blond Texan. The saloon-girls had laid Belle down and fallen back, flattening themselves against the walls and stared in fear at the bounty hunter.

  “Keep out of this, cow-nurse,” Framant replied. “I’m taking her down to Newton with me.”

  “How long have you known who she was?” Mark replied, watching the hand which gripped the small of the shotgun’s butt, its forefinger on the trigger.

  “Had me suspicions since I come in,” Framant growled.

  “And left it until now to take her?”

  “I don’t take chances,” Framant answered. “Now just get out of my way.”

  Framant bent down, reaching for Belle’s arm.

  “Leave her lie,” Mark said quietly.

  “Yeah!” the bounty hunter replied, straightening again. “Why? ‘Cause you want to take her in?”

  “Nope. But you hadn’t the guts to stack against her while she was on her feet and you’ll leave her now. Or take her through me.”

  A grin twisted Framant’s lips as he studied the big Texan.

  “That can be done easy enough.”

  He made a gesture to lift the shotgun in his left hand. Mark watched the move—then remembered something. Another man had faced Framant that day, and he died with a revolver bullet, not a charge of buckshot in him.

  Dipping his free hand, Framant closed his fingers around the butt of his revolver and started to lift it. Just like all the others, that big Texan had been watching his shotgun, not the revolver, and would shortly pay the penalty for crossing Jubal Framant.

  Too late the bounty hunter saw his mistake.

  Mark’s right hand dipped, the Army Colt flowed from the holster in a liquid smooth move. Cocking back the hammer as the gun lifted, Mark sent a bullet into Framant’s head; holding his gun waist high and using instinctive alignment for he did not have time to take aim in any other way.

  Shock, amazement and terror warred among themselves for expression on Framant’s face an instant before Mark’s bullet struck between his eyes and wiped off all expression. In that last moment Framant knew he had met a man who saw through his trick and beat him.

  A girl screamed. Another turned, hiding her face in her hands. Framant’s shotgun fell from his left hand, the revolver slipped from between the fingers of his right. Its barrel had barely cleared leather and it clattered to the floor, beating Framant’s lifeless body by a split second.

  Feet pounded on the stairs behind Mark. Stocker appeared at the stair-head, travelling with a speed which belied his usual lethargic pose. Holstering the big Dragoon, Stocker looked down at Belle, then towards Framant.

  “What happened?’

  “Framant threw down on me,” Mark replied. “And I found out what he toted the shotgun for.”

  Turning, Stocker ordered the people who started to flock upstairs back down again. The cold tone which replaced his sleepy voice warned the crowd that they had best do as he told them without argument.

  “How’d you mean, Mark,” he said, after Mark had carried Belle into her room where she and Calamity now lay side by side on her bed. “You know why he toted the shotgun.”

  “It was a plant. Kept the other feller watching his left hand, while his right fetched out the gun. It near on caught me, only I remembered that feller he shot this morning and wondered why in hell he’d chance drawing a revolver when he held the scatter.”

  The local doctor arrived, having pushed his way through the crowd, showing a complete disregard for social standing as became the only medical man in almost five hundred miles. s

  “I’d best see about moving Framant,” Stocker remarked, as the doctor went into Belle’s room.

  “Sure,” Mark replied. “I’ll go pick up the gals’ belongings from the saloon. They’ll not be feeling like bothering, way they’re all tuckered out.”

  “Go ahead. You leaving town in the morning?”

  “Sure,” Mark agreed.

  “Nothing personal, but I’ll not be sorry to see you go. Be pleased to have you back any time—but come alone.”

  Mark grinned. Having served under Dusty Fog as a deputy marshal, he could appreciate Stocker’s point of view.

  At the saloon, Mark gathered up Belle’s vanity bag and Calamity’s gunbelt. The owner of the saloon himself came over, grinning broadly.

  “You sure brought our Miss Tremayne out, Mark,” he said.

  That the man knew his name did not surprise Mark. A saloonkeeper always tried to keep in touch with important people who used his establishment, and without false modesty Mark admitted he was well enough known to warrant such interest.

  “I’ve got their clothes bundled up back of the bar,” the man went on. “Reckon they might need them, although apart from Calamity’s pants and moccasins and Miss Marigold’s shoes, there’s not much they’ll be able to wear.”

  “I’ll take them anyways,” Mark grinned. “What they don’t want I’ll have built into the suggan I had made after the battle in Bearcat Annie’s.” iv

  “Was you—sure, that was while Cap’n Fog was town marshal in Quiet Town.”

  The battle in Bearcat Annie’s saloon, where three female deputies fought it out with the saloon-keeper and her girls to a
llow Dusty Fog, Mark and the other male deputies a chance to enter the saloon and arrest a bunch of gunmen, had become a legend in the west. Mark had gathered the remnants of clothing and had them made into a suggan, a thick patchwork quilt, which he now carried in his bedroll.

  Mark intended to have Calamity’s shirt and Belle’s blouse and skirt added to the other material, as a memento of the occasion.

  For a time Mark stayed at the saloon, talking with the owner and a number of prominent businessmen of the town. The doctor arrived with word that neither girl had sustained any really serious injury, although Belle’s hand would always carry the mark of Calamity’s teeth.

  “Reckon I’ve lost my blackjack dealer for a spell,” grinned the owner. “But, man, what a fight.”

  Soon after Mark left the saloon, carrying the girls’ belongings with him. On his way to the hotel, Mark thought of Stacker’s apparent lack of interest in why Framant should be in the building. This did not fool Mark. If Stocker guessed the truth, and Mark reckoned he did, he was holding off until Belle had recovered from the brawl before seeing her.

  How long Mark had been asleep, he did not know. Lying in bed in the darkness of his room, he waited for a repetition of the sound which woke him. Reaching out his right hand, he drew a Colt from where his gunbelt lay on the chair.

  The door of his room inched open and he could see a shape, darker than the surrounding blackness, at it.

  “Mark!” a voice whispered.

  “Come ahead, Belle,” he replied, swinging from the bed and reaching for his levis.

  Belle entered the room and closed the door behind her, standing still until Mark drew the curtains and lit the lamp. In its light, Mark studied Belle and a grin of admiration flickered to his lips. She wore a flimsy robe he had seen her in the previous night, but her hair and face still bore traces of the fight even though the doctor had tried to clean her up. The admiration came as a tribute to her courage, not her appearance. After that brawl, Belle could still get up and walk, if hobbling painfully.

  “I’m in trouble, Mark,” she said, limping to the bed and flopping down to sit on it.

  “You sure look that way,” he agreed.