Calamity Jane 6: The Hide and Horn Saloon (A Calamity Jane Western)

by J. T. Edson

‘That’s me, ma’am,’ the bartender admitted, the explanation having been brought to an end and an interrogatory glance directed his way. [5]

  ‘Somehow, I thought it just might be,’ the woman conceded, her tone amiable. ‘Maxie spoke highly of you, Joe. Now, afore I do anything else, I want you to come with me to Counselor Scrope’s office. That way I’ll be able to prove I’m telling the truth to both of you at the same time.’

  ‘Sure thing, ma’am,’ Turner assented without hesitation, already convinced the change of ownership had taken place as described. Although at best an indifferent player, Maxwell Higgins had never let this deter him from joining games of poker for high stakes and there was one such game in particular held regularly at the Silver Bell Saloon in Fort Worth which often saw considerable sums of money and even property change hands. ‘I’ll take you there right now, but—!’

  The bartender was not allowed to finish!

  At their table, the saloon girls had been watching and listening to everything that was said. Such had been their interest, the rest had stopped paying even token attention to the story being told by one of their number concerning the part she had played in a certain well known barroom fracas. Having studied the newcomer throughout the conversation, they then turned their gaze back to the story teller in a manner redolent of expectancy mingled with challenge. Knowing what was expected of her by her female associates and having another reason much stronger than a mere desire to retain their esteem, she shoved back her chair. Coming to her feet, she stalked with an arrogant and hip rolling motion towards the woman who claimed to have supplanted the previous owner.

  Suddenly, the atmosphere became charged with tension!

  The employees of the saloon and the cowhand, who had followed the blonde and placed the valise alongside her at the bar, knew Viola Grant to be a tough proposition. Tall, brunette, good looking and shapely in a Junoesque fashion, she was regarded as the boss girl by virtue of her ability in a hair-yanking brawl and also for having been on very close terms with the man who, according to the newcomer, was no longer the proprietor of the establishment.

  ‘So you’re the new boss, huh?’ the brunette demanded, rather than inquired, ignoring the prohibitive glare she received from Turner and planting herself directly in front of the blonde on spread apart legs and with arms akimbo.

  ‘Well, yes,’ the newcomer answered, turning and allowing the reticule she had retrieved to slip back on to the counter. She had been keeping the reactions of the saloon girls under observation via the reflection in the mirror behind the bar and now ran her gaze over what she knew represented the first challenge to her authority. ‘Comes right down to it, I’ll have to admit all modest and humble that I’m the new boss.’

  ‘I was in the Battle At Bearcat Annie’s,’ Viola announced, wondering if the buxom woman had heard of the event she had been describing to her companions. [6]

  ‘On whose side?’ the blonde inquired, sounding almost meek.

  ‘Bearcat’s, of course!’

  ‘That’s interesting, but what does it have to do with me?’

  ‘Just this!’ Viola stated. ‘After what I done there, I don’t take kind’ to the notion of a woman figuring on giving me orders.’

  ‘There’s some might say that’s reasonable,’ the blonde declared, sounding as if considering she was conferring a favor. ‘But it all depends on what you did there.’

  ‘I was in the thick of the fighting!’ the brunette announced.

  ‘Is that all?’ the newcomer sniffed, showing no indication of being impressed. ‘Way I heard it, Bearcat Annie and all her girls got whupped real good that night, in spite of the odds being long in their favor.’

  ‘I got put out by accident afore it was half over!’ Viola claimed, hearing sniggers from the table she had left and supplying her usual excuse with an air of considering this alone explained the adverse result. ‘And that’s the only god-damned time anything like it’s happened to me!’

  ‘Do tell?’ the blonde said, but there was no longer any suggestion of meekness about her. ‘Now me, I’ve always believed there’s a second time for everything!’

  ‘Is that what you believe, huh?’ the brunette asked, conscious of her reputation for ‘taking no sass but sarsaparilla’ being at stake. She was also aware that the favors she had received due to her association with Higgins were threatened. The thought had opened up another line of speculation. Although he had promised to do so, he had not sent for her to join him wherever he had selected to spend his vacation. She wondered if he had contracted a similar alliance with the newcomer, who was sent—pretending to have won the saloon—to either remove her forcibly, or offer an excuse for him to fire her on his return. ‘Well this ain’t the “mother-something” day for it to happen!’

  Three – Call Me “Madam Bulldog”

  Having delivered the pronouncement, Viola Grant swung her right hand in what was intended to be a hard slap to the face of the buxom blonde newcomer. It was a method of attack which had served her well in the past. Submitted as suddenly and—as she believed it would be at that moment—unexpectedly, similar tactics had invariably reduced whatever resistance the recipient might have been contemplating. Or, if reprisals were attempted, their effect was lessened due to the tears of pain caused by the force of the blow.

  However, to achieve the desired results, the slap first had to land!

  Instead of being caught unawares by the attack, the blonde responded to it with speed and competence!

  Throwing up her left arm, the newcomer deftly blocked and deflected the approaching hand before it even came close to making contact with her cheek. Having done so, she knotted her right hand into a fist. The way she brought this around indicated she was well versed in such matters. Dropping her right shoulder to put all the weight of her curvaceous and clearly powerful stocky body into the effort, she smashed her knuckles and not the flat of the palm with the force of a mule’s kick to the side of the brunette’s unguarded jaw.

  Caught as solidly and even harder than she had anticipated her intended victim would be, Viola was twirled on her heels then returned at a headlong rush in the direction from which she had come. Seeing her approaching, clearly without exercising any control over her movements, the other saloon girls gave vent to squeals of surprise and alarm while starting to hurriedly rise. Nor was the latter precaution unjustified. Spinning back, the brunette collided and fell across the table. Despite its width, and her weight combined with the momentum of her arrival, caused it to turn over sideways. Accompanied by the plates, cups, saucers, silverware, cruet, a jug of milk, bowl of sugar and coffeepot—the last three all but empty as luck would have it—she was deposited on the floor. Rolling over, until flat on her back, she sprawled supine and motionless.

  As became one who had spent many years in his present line of work, Joseph Turner felt he could claim to be something of a connoisseur where fisticuffs—whether in a formal prize ring, or a roughhouse brawl—were concerned. He concluded that the right cross thrown by the woman, who he did not doubt was to be his new employer, had been delivered as competently as any he had ever witnessed. Furthermore, in his considered opinion, it had been performed deliberately and with a skill which could be repeated, rather than merely being the result of chance. It was, in fact, the kind of a blow which could end a fight without the need for repetition.

  Knowing from past experience how well Viola could handle herself in physical combat, the girls who had quit the table were equally impressed by what had happened. While willing to concede over-confidence had been a contributory factor to her downfall, none of them believed luck was in any way responsible for the punch which had returned her to them in such a precipitous fashion.

  Therefore, with the exception of a buxom red head and a more slender blonde—whose hirsute coloration was so obviously produced by artificial aids it had earned her the sobriquet, “Bottles”—the girls were content to accept they had a new employer to be respected. Being particular croni
es of the recumbent brunette, the exceptions had had a few privileges as a result of their connection with her. In addition to feeling a certain loyalty, although they did not doubt the blonde was telling the truth when explaining what had brought her to the Hide and Horn Saloon, they were just as sure of what would befall them should Viola learn, on regaining consciousness, that they had let the attack go unavenged. With that in mind, they darted towards the bar.

  Seeing the pair heading her way, the newcomer guessed their motives with some accuracy and formed a shrewd assessment of their respective abilities. She concluded that neither was as formidable an antagonist as the brunette would have been. Therefore, she was not perturbed nor unduly worried by their obviously hostile intentions. She had felt sure, even before her arrival, that her authority would be challenged by the female members of the staff and was not averse to being presented with such an early opportunity to demonstrate her willingness and skill to cope with matters of that nature.

  ‘Stop anybody coming in, boys!’ the blonde commanded, having heard enough to suggest there was a possibility of customers arriving, directing the words to the two waiters.

  Having darted glances at the bartender and receiving a nod of confirmation, the two men hurried across to the front entrance. They arrived just in time to prevent the first of the spectators from the Wells Fargo depot coming in. Having closed and locked the doors, they turned to watch what was taking place. They found, short as the time taken had been, that their new employer appeared to have the situation well in hand.

  Without having waited to find out whether her instructions would be carried out, the newcomer had stepped to meet her two would-be assailants. Having had somewhat the shorter distance to cover and being in the lead, the red head was subjected to her attentions first. Bringing up and spreading apart both arms, to push aside the hands reaching for her hair, she placed her flat right palm against the other’s face. Twisting her torso slightly to offer an added force, she gave a shove. Finding her advance turned into an even more hurried retreat, the red head did not stop until tripping over and landing upon her rump beyond the recumbent and unprotesting Viola.

  Having disposed of the first intended avenger, the blonde devoted her next efforts to the second. Startled by the ease with which Sally had been removed, Bottles tried to bring to a stop what she now realized to be an incautious and potentially dangerous approach. Although she started to lower the hands raised ready to grab the newcomer, her change of intentions proved of no avail. The buxom woman was already launching a backhand slap which landed and sent her reeling after the red head. A wail of mortification and pain burst from her as she collapsed on top of Sally. However, neither was rendered hors de combat and the mocking laughter of the other girls goaded each into a desire to repay the rough treatment to which they had been subjected. Spluttering profanities, they rolled apart and into kneeling postures from which they meant to rise and resume the attack in a more concerted fashion.

  Showing that she was aware they might not intend to allow the affair to come to a peaceful end, the blonde strode after Bottles as she was following Sally. Grasping each by the scruff of the neck, she jerked them from their hands and knees until almost erect. Granting them not the slightest opportunity to resist and showing no sign of being inconvenienced by supporting their combined weights, she brought their foreheads together in a snapping motion. Stunned by the collision, they went limp and she pushed so they fell across the unmoving body of their friend.

  ‘Any more of you ladies figuring on getting in on the dance?’ the blonde asked, swinging a glance to each of the remaining saloon girls in turn. When there was no suggestion of an acceptance to what had clearly been a challenge, she looked at the bartender and went on, ‘Do you have a bucket of water back there, Joe?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Turner replied, showing admiration.

  ‘Let me have it, please,’ the woman requested, working the fingers of her right hand. ‘And you don’t need to keep saying, “ma’am”. I wasn’t given time to say so before, but you can call me “Madam Bulldog”.’

  ‘Yes, ma … Madam Bulldog!’ the bartender assented.

  Trying to remember what it was about the name he found vaguely familiar, Turner bent and picked up the sizeable oaken bucket filled with water; which was to have been used for washing glasses when the business of the day was commenced. He placed it on the counter, meaning to go around and carry out whatever further instructions he might be given. The need to do so did not arise. Strolling over and picking it up, regardless of its weight, the blonde carried it with only one hand as she returned to where her three victims were beginning to stir. Gripping the bottom with her other hand, she upended it to pour the contents over them. To the accompaniment of gasps, which turned into wails and spluttering squeals, they were brought back to full consciousness. Struggling apart, they sat in slumped and bedraggled discomfiture looking worriedly at the cause of their misfortunes.

  ‘You likely didn’t hear me just now,’ the blonde said, tossing aside the bucket and standing, with hands on hips, just beyond the reach of any of the trio who should show an inclination to resume hostilities. ‘What I said was, the name’s “Madam Bulldog”. I’m your new boss. Any objections?’

  For a moment, although she was sufficiently recovered to hear and understand what had been said, Viola did not answer. Nor, satisfied to follow her lead, did either of her would-be avengers offer to comment. Sniffing in pain, the brunette reached with a hand to gingerly move her jaw and which felt twice its normal size. However, even though she doubted whether she would feel capable of eating steak for a while, she concluded it was not broken. Staring upwards through the involuntary tears and water dribbling from her soaked hair, she reached a rapid decision. Even if she was correct in her assumption over the real reason for the arrival of the blonde, the acceptance of the story shown by Joe Turner notwithstanding, she considered it was advisable to “holler calf rope”—as cowhands put it—and surrender. Unless she was mistaken, Madam Bulldog stood ready, willing and more than able to wade in tooth and claw, or with hard fists more likely, to quell any further objections. After having received one sample, for all her personal toughness, Viola wanted no more.

  ‘N–No, boss!' the brunette declared with a vehemence which caused suffering to her swollen jaw.

  ‘How about you two?’ the blonde inquired.

  ‘N–Not me, boss!' Bottles and Sally asserted in practically the same breath and fashion, each being equally disinclined to render assistance even if their friend decided to take up the challenge.

  ‘Then that’s an end to it!’ Madam Bulldog stated, her manner implying it would go hard with anybody who did not accept her ruling on the issue. ‘You’d all best go get into some dry clothes and red up again before we let the paying customers in.’

  Watching the trio help one another to rise and practically scuttle off to obey her orders, the blonde became aware that somebody was being granted admission in spite of her instructions. Swinging around quickly, with the intention of establishing straight away that she expected all her orders to be carried out by male as well as female employees, she raised no objections on seeing who it was. While it was permissible for her to deny access to members of the public at her convenience, applying such a restriction to local peace officers—particularly on the day of her arrival—would be far from diplomatic even if to do so without a good reason was possible.

  ‘Howdy, Marshal,’ Madam greeted amiably, having made the deduction from the shape of the badge of office for one thing. Walking forward and nodding to the second of the men who had been allowed to enter, she went on, ‘I saw your deputy there looking me over down to the Wells Fargo depot, then light a shuck like the Devil caught in a holy water throwing. So I figured it wouldn’t be long before you dropped by. Does all your family run so much to height and heft?’

  There was justification in the latter comment!

  Over six foot tall, Town Marshal Tune Collier was a well set up
figure of a man. Nor had forty-five years of life in Texas, twenty-four of which had been spent serving as a peace officer in various places, brought more than just a tinge of grey to the temples of his brown hair. There was a suggestion of a lively sense of humor about his clean shaven, tanned and ruggedly handsome features and his clothing was of a quality which implied he was sufficiently honest to be living on his salary, instead of supplementing it by dubious, or downright illicit, means. He was wearing a low crowned, wide brimmed tan J.B. Stetson hat, an unfastened and loose fitting brown jacket over an open necked grey shirt, a tightly rolled dark blue bandana knotted around his throat, yellowish brown Nankeen trousers and low heeled, polished black riding boots. The brown gunbelt around a waist which was more slender than the spread to his shoulders, albeit not quite so much as formerly, carried a rosewood handled Remington New Army Model of 1863 revolver at the left side in a cross draw holster. Having clearly seen considerable use, rig and weapon were well maintained.

  ‘I hail from the itty-bitty side of it, ma’am,’ the marshal replied, his voice a pleasant drawl indicative of an upbringing in the Lone Star State. ‘Have you run across many of us?’

  ‘I can only claim a talking acquaintance with Big Ranse Counter and to having heard more than a mite about that boy of his, Mark,’ Madam admitted. ‘Big Ranse’s nice people, but no poker player, even though he thinks real powerful he is.’

  ‘Sounds like you know Cousin Ranse real good at that,’ Collier declared, suspecting the blonde was aware her latter statement was incorrect and born out of a genuine liking for his kinsman which did not stem from the ownership of one of the largest ranches in the Big Bend country. Nor was he surprised that she had heard of ‘that boy of his’, Mark Counter having achieved considerable prominence since the end of the War Between the States. [7] Looking pointedly across the room, his voice took on a more official timbre as he continued, ‘Mind if I ask what’s been coming off here?’