Calamity Jane 2

by J. T. Edson

  Only by exerting all his willpower did Derringer prevent himself from grabbing the cane-gun. If Calamity had been killed, he wanted revenge but getting killed in a fruitless attempt would serve no useful purpose.

  Then they heard the other shots and exchanged glances.

  “She must have missed, or not killed Canary with the first shot,” Rachel guessed, but the more experienced men noticed something that escaped her.

  “There was a revolver as well as a carbine that time!” Turnbull stated.

  “I told that fool Velma not to let Canary get a gun!” Rachel snapped. “But she either forgot, or couldn’t prevent it. I hope Canary killed Sal. I can handle that man-hungry idiot Velma, but not Sal. Lord! You should have seen the way she killed Joan. With no more thought than I’d wash my face in a morning.”

  “Come on!” Gilbert put in. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “Hoping they’ll forget about the Russians’ jewels, Counselor?” Derringer asked, still fighting for time.

  “Yeah, Lawyer,” Turnbull said thoughtfully. “How about them?”

  “What do I know about them?” snorted Gilbert, trying to sound convincing.

  “You tried to have him killed for them,” Derringer remarked.

  “Me—!”

  “It has to be you,” Derringer insisted, raking his memory and coming up with answers. “Before he died, Sultan was rambling and he said something like ‘There’s no pretty gal at Tor Hill, Ed’—”

  “That could mean Turnbull, even Claggert, or any of a dozen men in town!” the lawyer protested. “Anybody who knew Sultan’d know he’d go out to look over a pretty girl if he heard one was around.”

  “Sure,” Derringer agreed. “But it wasn’t Turnbull or Claggert. They’d want Sultan alive, so’s they could fleece him with those marked cards.”

  “You tricky bastard, Derringer,” Turnbull said admiringly. “You knew I was behind it all along.”

  “Not for sure. But it had to be somebody with contacts and money. You seemed the most likely. I was near enough sure when your man killed the dude to stop him talking. No, like I said, you was the only one, Counselor. With Sultan dead, you, as his lawyer, could take over and run things—”

  “But the will—?” Rachel began.

  “He didn’t know about the will until Doc Fir brought it to him,” Derringer answered, still thinking back to the garbled, rambling utterances of the dying man. Fortunately for him, he had recently served as deputy under a mighty shrewd lawman and learned how to deduce from gathered, apparently meaningless, facts. So he could produce an answer to Gilbert’s next objection.

  “I’ve been with Sultan for years,” the lawyer said. “Why should I suddenly decide to kill him?”

  “Because time was running out. You’d hung around all those years just hoping to find the jewels. Then Sultan heard from somewhere that the Russians were dead. So he planned to take the jewels to Europe, sell them and have him a time. Folks still remembered the story in this country, so he daren’t try to sell them over here. That’s why you got him to Tor Hill and sent those hired guns after him. With him dead, you’d have the run of the saloon and could search every inch of it; which you’d never got the chance to do with him alive.”

  Nobody looking at Gilbert’s shocked face could doubt that Derringer had called the play correctly. However, he rallied and gave a shrug, then said, “All right. So that’s what I did. After all this time, with me sure the jewels are hid somewhere in the Harem, and he gets a letter from somebody back East telling him that those two Russians died in a yachting accident. Sultan never let on, but I knew what his vacation in Europe meant. He could sell the jewels over there. So I had to get rid of him—”

  “And us, the wives?” Rachel hissed.

  “So help me, I didn’t know any of you existed!” spluttered the lawyer.

  “Sultan sent for you to decide which one would go to Europe with him,” Derringer went on. “And you all arrived the same day. Gilbert couldn’t’ve known about you, or he’d’ve acted different.”

  “He’d still be running the place until you could be brought in,” Turnbull remarked. “Time enough to search it.”

  “Is that why you’ve been so willing to help me?” Rachel asked Gilbert. “I thought there was something in it!”

  “And you got me in on the game to take Derringer out of it, Lawyer,” Turnbull growled. “Not that I blame you. He’s smart and tough.”

  “The jewels are mine!” Rachel stated. “I am the only legal wife.”

  “You’ll get some arguments about that,” Derringer guessed.

  “About the first part, they start right now,” Turnbull went on. “It’s a three-way split with them.”

  “Three!” Rachel squeaked.

  “One, me. Two, the lawyer. Three, you. We’re all in this together and none can do without the others. I need you and the lawyer to hold the saloon. You need me as protection against Sal’s cowhands and the law. Three ways won’t be so bad a split. Especially when all you figured getting was the saloon on half shares, Mrs. Banyan.”

  Anger flushed across Rachel’s face, yet she knew that the saloon-keeper spoke the truth. From first learning of the other wives, she had schemed to gain full control of their husband’s fortune. Not only did Banyan own the saloon but also he held interests in two of the mines, the hotel and other of the town’s businesses. So she could afford to accept a third share of the jewels. Only an avaricious nature, and a certain snobbish objection to being ordered about by a man like Turnbull, caused her protests.

  In avoiding meeting the men’s eyes, Rachel looked around the room. She wanted time to think—and received something more to think about. Catching a movement with the corner of her eye, she turned her head and looked at the stairs. For one terrifying moment she thought the figure cautiously moving down was Sal. Then the truth burst on Rachel and she screamed her warning.

  Dropping the whiskey bottle, Claggert thrust himself from the bar. He advanced in leaping strides, swinging toward the direction at which Rachel pointed. Up on the stairs, Calamity saw the man emerge. Remembering the callous way that the floor-boss had killed Woodley, she did not hesitate. Whipping up her arm, she hurled the grenade. In the poor light and at that distance she could only hope to hit the man. The hope did not materialize, although Calamity had no call to complain about the result of the miss; it might almost be said that missing proved more effective.

  Down plunged the grenade, its stabilizing fins keeping the head pointing in the correct position. Missing Claggert, the base flange made contact with the floor between him and the bar. The impact caused the percussion cap to collide with the head of the plunger. With a roar, the grenade exploded. Caught in the blast, Claggert gave one hideous scream before his torn-open body went to the floor. In addition to killing the man, the force of the explosion ripped a hole in the floorboards.

  Taken by surprise even though Claggert’s body had shielded them from the main force of the explosion, the others on the floor froze for a moment. First to recover, Derringer caught up and raised the cane. Just as Turnbull started to line his revolver, Derringer pressed the cane’s firing stud. Flame followed the cork plug and bullet from the ferrule. Angling upward, the .38 bullet drove into Turnbull’s head. Twisting around on the impact, nervous reaction of the muscles sent the saloonkeeper’s body staggering away. The Colt dropped from his fingers, then his body crumpled and crashed to the floor.

  With Turnbull taken out of the fight, Derringer swung his attention to the lawyer. Thrusting himself from the table. Derringer swung his cane. He missed death by inches as the light-caliber Smith & Wesson spat and sent its bullet by his head. Lashing around, the heavy barrel of the cane crashed into the lawyer’s shoulder; the left one unfortunately. Even as Derringer’s injured leg buckled under him, he saw Calamity leaping down the stairs and Gilbert reeling away from him. Stumbling across the room, the lawyer came to a halt almost on the edge of the hole in the floor. He snarled with rage and
began to raise his revolver for a careful aim.

  Although down in a semi-kneeling position, Derringer did not hesitate. He hurled the cane in a spinning flight across the room. Seeing it flying toward his head, Gilbert threw up an arm to ward it off and took an involuntary pace to the rear. Just too late he realized his danger. The rearmost foot met empty air. With a scream the lawyer tumbled backward and disappeared down the hole. Although neither Derringer nor Calamity noticed it, the sound of Gilbert’s arrival at the bottom came as a splash, not a thud.

  Face twisted in rage, Rachel darted to where Turnbull’s revolver lay and she bent to pick it up. By that time Calamity had reached the foot of the stairs and started toward the woman. Tossing the Navy Colt in a border shift from the right to left hand, Calamity freed and swung her whip. Like a flash the lash hissed through the air, its popper tip snapping savagely against Rachel’s rump. Unlike Velma, Rachel did not wear a bustle. So only three thin layers of cloth covered her flesh. The hardened leather tip sliced through dress, underskirt and drawers like a knife into butter. Fingers already closed on and lifting the Colt, Rachel felt the searing, unexpected pain. A screech broke from her lips, she jerked erect but the revolver remained clutched in her hand.

  Twisting around, Rachel brought up the gun with both hands. Calamity did not hesitate. Back, around and out circled the whip’s lash. True as one could desire, it curled forward, driving below the raised arms to bite into Rachel’s body. A scream burst from the woman and Derringer saw bare flesh beneath the clothing torn by the whip. Letting the Colt drop, Rachel clutched at her side with both hands. Back swung the whip, carrying its lash in the rearward part of another attack. Sobbing, Rachel stumbled against a table but Calamity prepared to strike again.

  “No, Calam!” Derringer yelled. “Don’t!”

  Shock as much as anything caused Calamity to lower her whip. She stared in amazement at the blood running through the tear in Rachel’s bodice and realized that the lash had caused it. While knowing her whip to be a deadly weapon, Calamity realized for the first time its full potential.

  The side door burst open. Coming through, gun in hand, Like-His Rigg skidded to a halt and glared around the room as if hardly able to believe his eyes.

  “What in hell—?” he started.

  “It’s all over,” Derringer replied, hauling himself erect. “If Doc Fir’s around, you’d best get him in here.”

  After collecting the doctor and ordering the rest of the assembled people to stay back, Rigg closed the saloon’s door. He took possession of Turnbull’s Colt, watch Fir approach and examine Rachel, then looked around. Giving a wry grunt, he passed over the gory remains of Claggert, took in Turnbull’s body and then swung to face Derringer.

  “Where’s Gilbert?”

  “He fell into the cellar there,” the gambler replied.

  Taking the bull’s eye lantern from the table, Rigg crossed to the hole. Calamity followed him and they looked downward. However, the light of the lantern did not show the cellar. Instead it illuminated a round shaft sunk into the rock and faintly down below water glinted. For a moment the implications of what they saw did not strike them. Then Calamity straightened up and looked at the deputy. There seemed to be only one comment to make.

  “Well, well, well!” she said.

  Seventeen

  While the doctor attended to Rachel’s bleeding side and diagnosed a broken rib, Derringer told Rigg everything he knew. The deputy listened in silence, then stated he considered the gambler had acted correctly throughout; even to not mentioning Banyan’s dying words about the treasure in the well. However, Rigg continued, they must wait to hear what his uncle said on the matter. Sufficient evidence remained for him to hold Rachel in jail until the sheriff returned, so he left Derringer and went to attend to her incarceration.

  By the time the sheriff returned at noon, Rigg had placed Calamity before the witness from the hotel. The woman stated that Calamity had not been the person seen fleeing from the murder room. That cleared Calamity, but Rachel steadfastly refused to make any comment. In addition to proving Calamity innocent, Rigg allowed himself to be lowered on a rope down the well shaft. He found the Russians’ jewelry box in a niche carved into the rock above the water level and brought it to the surface. Retrieving Gilbert’s body did not prove so easy.

  On his return, Sheriff Wendley heard the full story of the events in town. Then he explained how he and Turk had trailed Nabbes. There had been shooting, in which Nabbes and Turk both died. However, Ferrely—who had been left with the horses while the others stalked the camp—convinced the sheriff that Derringer had told the truth. After burying Turk, Wendley made for Tor Hill. There he learned that only one Banyan resident had visited the village in the past couple of weeks: Gilbert. Heading back to town with the intention of questioning the lawyer, he arrived to find everything settled—or almost everything.

  The rightful ownership of the jewelry would need to be decided. Also a case against Rachel made and put through the courts. Still maintaining her silence, she gave no hint that might help convict her as an accessory to murder. Like-His Rigg headed for the Territorial capital as fast as a horse could carry him, under orders to ask the Governor’s attorney for advice.

  Between them, from information gathered and guesswork, Derringer and Wendley constructed the whole story. Without his men knowing it, Sultan Banyan must have brought the Russians’ property from the Bushwhacker camp and hidden it. Later, maybe even after the War’s end, he collected the loot. The money gave him his start out west, but the jewelry could not be sold as long as its owners lived. Chinese coolies built the Harem, constructing the well in secret, and returned to San Francisco on its completion. With his loot safely hidden, Banyan waited for its owners to die. He had sufficient confidence to take the trips on which he married the three other wives. Subsequent investigations showed that his various business interests had kept all four women in comfort. Although unable to locate the jewelry, Gilbert knew of the business interests. So he could satisfy Rachel’s curiosity when she asked about them. Probably each of them realized that the other would be useful and they formed an alliance; with Gilbert hoping to achieve his ends and Rachel planning how to gain control of her late husband’s entire estate.

  A week went by and Like-His Rigg returned with orders to hold the jewelry pending the arrival of the attorney. Much discussion had taken place on the matter of Rachel, the deputy reported, with the result that she would be tried only for her part in attempting to murder Derringer. Even that would be no straightforward case as Calamity learned when the sheriff sent for her.

  “He allows that we should say nothing about me being at the saloon,” she told the gathering of people in the Harem’s private office. “I didn’t hear anything they said and can only tie things in knots.”

  “How about the killings at the jail?” Derringer inquired.

  “Way they’ll tell it, Sal killed Velma over the will, or out of meanness, and got shot by the deputy. It’s the only hope they’ve got of nailing Rachel’s hide to the wall—And maybe the sheriff reckons it’ll be safer with me out of town.”

  “He could be right,” Derringer said, eyeing the girl. “You’re likely to do something loco if you stay on.”

  “Thing being, my share in the saloon here,” Calamity said, turning her eyes to Goldie and the other senior employees. “You all know that I don’t reckon I’ve any claim to it—”

  “That’s not what the boss said,” Sharp put in.

  “You won’t let me give it to you, my share, I mean?”

  “No!” the reply came from all the employees. Then Sharp went on, “Derry’s staying, why not you?”

  “Like I said, I don’t have any claim—!” Calamity began.

  “You’ve as much as me,” Derringer commented. “Sultan was a gambler and left things that way on purpose.”

  “All right, I’m a gambler as well,” Calamity answered. “You folks willing to gamble with me? One cut of the cards. If
you win, I stay. If I win, you bunch take my share.”

  “That’s fair enough to me,” Derringer commented, knowing that the girl intended to leave and wanting to help her. Before any of the others could accept or refuse, he took a deck of cards from the desk drawer and shuffled them thoroughly. Placing them before the girl, he said, “Yours, Calam.”

  “You first, Goldie,” Calamity objected. “You gents don’t mind us girls settling this, now do you?”

  None of the men objected, for the sporting nature of the affair would satisfy their dead boss’s sense of the fitness of things. So Goldie cut about a quarter of the way down the deck. Guessing that Calamity wanted to lose, the blonde hoped for a high card.

  “Four of spades,” she said a touch bitterly, exposing her choice.

  Calamity cut, glanced at the card and replaced the portion she held on to the top of the deck without allowing anybody to see it.

  “My! Aren’t I the unlucky one,” she said. “Deuce.”

  “Deuce?” repeated Goldie before she could stop herself.

  Picking up the cards, Calamity began to sort through them. To Derringer at least it was obvious that she had passed the place at which she cut her card. Then, with a slight sigh of relief, she tossed the deuce of hearts before the others.

  “Like I said,” she announced, trying to look like a disappointed loser. “A deuce!”

  “As fine a one as there ever was,” Derringer agreed. “You’ve just lost half a saloon, Calamity gal.”

  “It sure looks that way,” she replied, and the old, reckless Calamity grin creased her face. “Damn! I allus knowed that gambling’d be the ruin of me.”

  About the Author

  J.T. Edson was a former British Army dog-handler who wrote more than 130 Western novels, accounting for some 27 million sales in paperback. Edson’s works - produced on a word processor in an Edwardian semi at Melton Mowbray - contain clear, crisp action in the traditions of B-movies and Western television series. What they lack in psychological depth is made up for by at least twelve good fights per volume. Each portrays a vivid, idealized “West That Never Was”, at a pace that rarely slackens.