by J. T. Edson
“Surely runs the town,” Mark remarked.
“She sure does.” Fryer warmed to his subject, and went on eagerly: “Take the madame of that cat-house on Back Street. She used to cuss so loud that the local ladies didn’t dast walk anywhere near the place. So Pauline went and asked her to quit it. The Madame got sassy and they fought for near on an hour. But after the licking she got, the madame don’t cuss any more. Then there was a big German gal who did most of the washing in town. Wouldn’t do it clean, and used to go round dirtying anybody’s who did their own. Pauline went to see her. Man, you’ve never seen so much hair flying in all your life; but that German gal sure does the wash good now. That Pauline’s quite a gal—quite a gal!’
The door of the bar-room was thrown open and Pauline Cushman came in. Three or four thin-faced, sniggering women watched from the door of the hotel.
“Jere Fryer. I’ve warned you about going to see that slut, Iris Pendleton. You stay away from her.”
“I only went to see if she’d like some help with her hotel—” Fryer started to object.
“Hotel, is it?” Pauline snapped back. “You mean a cat-house. And she’s as bad as that fat female mac on Back Street.”
Mark walked across the room and from the bar. He went upstairs, hearing Pauline Cushman telling her husband in no uncertain terms what she thought of the fat blonde who’d be better off on Red Light Street, San Francisco, than here among decent, ordinary folks. Mark carried on upstairs, other people’s domestic troubles both bored him and made him feel uncomfortable. He could quite well see Jere Fryer showing any pretty young woman attention, even though Fryer did have a wife as beautiful as Pauline Cushman. At the top of the stairs, Mark turned; the townswomen were still listening; but, even as he watched, they turned and hurried from the hotel to make their way along the street, calling out to other women as they passed.
Mark went into his room and removed his gunbelt. He sat on the bed and took the cleaning gear from his war-bag. He cleaned the two guns and his rifle, then lay back on his bed and went to sleep. He lay back in comfort, eyes closed for some time. Then the door of his room burst open. Mark came off his bed with a lithe bound, his right-hand gun lining and the hammer easing back under his thumb.
Jere Fryer halted; several other men behind him also stopping as the handsome blond giant came up with his gun ready for use. Fryer gulped, then said: “Easy now, friend. I didn’t know this room was being used. The boys and I want to use the balcony. Iris Pendleton’s coming after a showdown with Pauline, and the Major’s out in the corral.”
The men didn’t wait for further invitation, but trooped by Mark and made for the window. With one exception, they were the sort of men Mark would expect to be Fryer’s friends. Fairly well off men of the town, owners of small businesses; or, maybe, working at the bank. The last man in was a slim, elegant-looking gambler dressed to the latest height of frontier gambling fashion. His cut-away coat was light gray, with darker facing on the collar, his shirt frilly-bosomed and the string-tie immaculate. His trousers were tight-legged and almost white, the shoes under the trousers shining enough to reflect the sun. To ordinary eyes, the man was not armed; but, to Mark’s experienced gaze, that slight bulge under the left arm spelled a shoulder-clip with a short-barreled weapon in it.
Mark watched the men troop through, then put the revolver back into its holster and followed them out. Looking down, he saw Pauline Cushman in the corral, and realized, from her general relaxed, watchful attitude, that she was not unaware of Mrs. Pendleton’s coming. She ignored the crowd of people who were standing all round the corral, treating them as if they were not there at all. Up on the balcony, Mark watched this crowd and guessed that near every man and woman who could walk was there. He saw a big, red-faced, red-handed woman with long blonde hair and guessed that she was the German washerwoman who didn’t clean the clothes until forced to by Pauline Cushman. Further along, separate from the good ladies of the town, and among a bunch of grinning, loud-talking cowhands, stood a short, heavily-built woman—who, by dress and general appearance, must be the madame of the local cat-house.
Mark frowned, he was no moralist and wouldn’t want to set up as a pious do-good man. He liked his entertainment frontier style, wild, woolly and uncurried; yet there was something about this spectacle below that sickened him. The crowd were watching with a kind of drooling expectation. They were watching to see two women fight with each other, and they were hoping Pauline Cushman would be beaten.
A rumble of expectation ran through the crowd, and one of the watchers on the balcony pointed excitedly down to where a woman was coming through the crowd. She walked through the gate of the corral and advanced on Pauline Cushman. Up above, Jere Fryer grinned delightedly at Mark. “That’s Iris Pendleton!”
Mark studied the young woman and wondered if he’d over-estimated Jere Fryer. Iris Pendleton was a tall, buxom young woman; but, although she was good-looking in a cheerful, open way, she was nowhere near the woman Pauline Cushman was. Her blonde hair showed from under the ribbons and cover of her sun-bonnet. She wore a tight-fitting old gingham dress which clung to her large, swelling bust and was tight around her firm waist, then over the swell of her hips and flared out to leave her legs free. She looked a pleasant, cheerful young woman, if one not overful of moral scruples. She was plainly the sort who would enjoy the company of men without ever thinking of preying on them.
“Tell you she’s at least ten pound heavier than the Major,” one of the loafers said. “And taller.”
“All right then, Jere!” The gambler became brisk and businesslike. “You want to bet me five thousand your missus wins?”
“Certainly, Dud,” Fryer replied eagerly.
“I know you’re good for it, but I want paying today.”
For a moment Fryer looked worried; then he studied the two women, who were now standing face-to-face below. He laughed and held out his hand. “Bet!”
“Bet,” Dudley Fellowes, owner of the .45 Saloon, replied.
In the corral, Pauline Cushman and Iris Pendleton faced each other. They looked like two cats on a fence. It was the blonde girl who spoke first:
“I hear you’ve been talking big about me.”
Pauline looked the blonde girl up and down with magnificent disdain. Then, with a contemptuous, though theatrical, shrug, she replied, “So you’re Mrs. Pendleton? I rather expected something like you.”
“You did, did you?” Iris’s voice rose a shade as her temper flared up. “Listen, you fat old hag !”
“I haven’t time to listen to every cheap harridan who comes here,” Pauline replied. “I thought Jere had better taste.”
Iris’s breath hissed out in a savage rush. She clenched her right fist and swung it. The fist crashed against the side of Pauline’s face in a punch that sent the older woman crashing to her back and brought a rumble of delight from the crowd. Pauline landed hard, but she came up with a bound that would have done credit to a much younger woman. Her left swung, the solid smack of the blow sending echoes back from the confining walls of the buildings round the corral. Iris went crashing into the corral fence, clinging there and, as Pauline rushed at her, smashed a left into the Major’s eye.
They hurled at each other like two enraged wild-cats, hands driving into hair, tearing and tugging, as they spun round screaming, kicking, scratching and punching. Then they crashed to the ground and rolled over and over in a flurry of wild, waving legs and flailing arms. There were no rules in such a fight as this—anything went; and it would be far worse than two men, for the women were insensible to pain or mercy—like two primeval jungle creatures each trying to savage the other.
Iris got the first advantage; Pauline was on her back and Iris threw a shapely white leg across the Major’s straining, heaving body and sat on her, driving savage fists into her face and head. Pauline gasped, arching her back and heaving the younger woman over. Then, as Iris landed on hands and knees, she shot out a grasping hand to grip the back of
her frock neck and claw the other into the blonde hair, ripping the sun-bonnet clear. Iris screamed in fury as she struggled to get free of the grip which left her with no chance of defense. It would have gone hard for her if the old gingham dress, not meant to stand such treatment, had not torn. The ripping sound was loud and the cloth split to the waist. Iris pulled forward, twisting round to meet Pauline’s attack and disregarding the fact that her dress slipped down off her shoulders. She tore free of it and went down with Pauline on top of her, completely oblivious of the fact that she was now naked to the waist and her large, full breasts were exposed to the view of the watching crowd.
Over and over they thrashed on the ground, first one then the other on top as Iris’s tearing hands clawed Pauline naked to the waist. The crowd were wild with excitement, screaming advice to the fighters and yelling the support and approval to whoever they favored.
“Tear her hair out, Iris!” the fat German washerwoman screamed.
“Smash her teeth in, blondie!” the brothel’s madame howled.
“Kick her! Stomp her!” yet another woman whom Pauline had snubbed on some occasion yelled, forgetting that she was supposed to be a lady.
To give Iris her due, she was trying to oblige all of the other women. One hand tore at Pauline as the Major lay under her, the other smashed into Pauline’s face, while Iris’s feet hacked and kicked at the other woman. Then Pauline threw Iris off and she got up. Her frock was ripped to the hip by then, and her black stockings were burst through at the knee; one had come loose from under the garter and now hung around her ankle.
Iris also rose, sobbing for breath, and attacked again. Both women had lost their shoes; their skirts were ripped; and each had blood flowing from her nostrils; both showed the start of a mouse under at least one eye. Pauline swung a savage punch and they stood toe-to-toe, smashing home blows like two men. Then they closed again to fight with tooth, feet, knees and other brutal and savage female styles of defense. The fight raged from one end of the corral to the other, without a let-up. They were exhausted, sobbing for breath; yet neither would give in.
Then Pauline was knocked to the ground by a wicked upper-cut, which brought her down hard. She lay there dazed, and feeling as if every inch of her aching, pain-wracked body was on fire. Through the spinning haze, she saw Iris loom above her and, in that moment, realized how young the blonde was. She saw the shapely, smooth white leg emerge from the torn slit of the dress and noticed that, unlike her own knees, it could be exposed to view without needing stockings to cover the harshness long hours of scrubbing had left on Pauline’s. Next, the Major’s eyes went up over the tattered frock to the smooth, heaving and dirty, yet still-firm stomach. For a buxom young woman, Iris showed no fat. Her waist was trim, widening out to round, full breasts—which stood out like white mounds in the same way Pauline’s once stood as she posed in a risqué tableau as Aphrodite rising from the waves.
In that moment, Pauline realized her own age and felt scared for the first time in her life. She saw the blonde’s foot lift to stamp on her, and sheer instinct came to her rescue. Her hands shot up, catching the foot. Then she lunged into a sitting position, carried it to her mouth and bit the toes—hard.
Iris screamed as the pain knifed through her. She lost her balance and crashed to the ground. For all of that, she was up again and, with a scream which was more animal than human, threw herself at Pauline in an attack that made the earlier stage of the fight look gentle. The older woman was driven back as the savage onslaught sent her reeling; slaps, kicks, punches rained on her and her own defense grew more weak. Driven the length of the corral and back, Pauline stumbled blindly before Iris, sobbing and almost helpless.
Upon the balcony, Mark Counter watched with growing disgust. The other men were screaming for Pauline to end the fight; but Mark knew she was beaten and it was only a matter of seconds before Pauline Cushman’s reign in this town was over. Mark was a fighting man, and he had seen many fights between both men and women; yet never before was there one so savage and brutal as this. His every instinct told him he should go down there and separate the two women; but he knew that the man who did would have to face that screaming, jeering mob who were now swarming over the corral rails to get a better view of the end of the fight.
Even as Mark decided to end the fight, and left his room, Pauline was sent down by a wild haymaker that caught her under the jaw. She lay on the ground, sobbing, being unable to force her pain-racked body to do anything but try to draw air into her aching lungs through her battered mouth and nose. She could hardly see and the roaring in her head only let through one sound—the jeers of the women as they encouraged Iris to batter her still more.
Iris stood over Pauline for a moment, swaying and hardly able to keep her feet. Then she bent and scooped the other woman up by the hair. Pauline’s legs looked like two heat-buckled candles and would not support her, but Iris was not done. With a snarl of hatred, she drove her right fist into Pauline’s stomach in a brutal and damaging blow which doubled the other woman over. Her other fist came up; it caught Pauline under the chin and lifted the older woman erect, then right over on to her back.:
“Give her some more, Iris!” a woman screamed.
Staggering and almost falling, Iris knotted her hand into Pauline’s hair and pulled her head up, then smashed a punch into the battered, bloody and dirty face. It was the last thing Iris was capable of; her hands lost their grip and she went to her knees, sobbing in pain, while the crowd swarmed round her, cheering and yelling.
The town photographer, a short, fat man—who was sweating profusely and almost drooling with the sensual pleasure of what he’d witnessed—shoved forward, carrying his camera. “Stand with one foot on her, Mrs. Pendleton!” he suggested eagerly.
Iris looked round her. Her breasts heaved and she sobbed breath into her lungs. Her face was marked by the fight, both eyes blackened, the nose, lips and cheeks bloody. For the first time, she seemed to realize how she was attired. With a gasp, she tried to cover her breasts with her hands. Then she gripped the tattered side of Pauline’s frock and pulled. Pauline’s limp figure rolled over as the frock was torn from her, leaving her lying with nothing but a pair of long-legged knickers, one tattered stocking and a garter. The blonde was helped to her feet by women who, until then, wouldn’t even have spoken to her. They wrapped the torn frock round her shoulders. The madame from the house came up with a handful of Pauline’s black hair which she’d gathered from around the corral.
“Here, blondie,” she said, forcing it into Iris’s hand. “Something to remember this by.”
Iris stared around. Then she gave a half-scream of pain and embarrassment and shoved through the crowd. They followed her, cheering and yelling delightedly—leaving Pauline Cushman laying in the corral, a battered, forlorn and unconscious heap.
The photographer looked round; there was no one about. He focused his camera and took one photograph of Pauline lying there. Then he moved round to get another exposure. They would sell well; he might even be able to sell them to some Eastern newspaper. It was a pity that cameras would not take moving photographs. A set of pictures from the fight would have been something, and would have made the fortune of the man who took them.
He was too busy with the camera to hear or see anything and, as he ducked under the sheet for the focus, felt a hand grip the slack of his trousers. He gave a startled yell as he was hauled out from under the sheet, then another hand gripped him by the scruff of the neck. The photographer was lifted as if he was a baby; he saw the scene spin round and was facing the corral rails; then was pushed towards them and lifted. He yelled as he sailed over to fall into the horse-trough at the other side. By the time he’d shaken the water from his eyes, he found himself looking up at a handsome blond giant, who was eyeing him with a very disapproving look. “Did you get any pictures?” Mark Counter asked grimly. “No, mister, none,” the man lied.
“Mister, happen you did get any, I wouldn’t print them. If y
ou do, and I hear about it, I’ll come down here and tear you limb-from-limb.”
Saying this, Mark turned on his heel, opened the rail-gate of the corral and went to Pauline. She still wasn’t moving and he bent down to lift her as gently as if she’d been a baby. He held the limp, dirty and battered body in his arms and walked back into the hotel, carrying her upstairs to her room. Inside, he lay her on the bed and looked down at her. Then, getting water, he started to bathe the blood from her face.
For ten minutes, he worked on her before she recovered; and another fifteen were to pass before she could get her pain-drugged brain to work. She looked through her swollen, discolored eyelids at the handsome young Texan, and asked weakly: “What happened to me?”
“Just lay back and don’t worry about it,” Mark replied.
“She beat me!” Pauline gasped. “She beat me!”
“Sure. But it’s all done now. Lay back and I’ll do what I can for you.”
“Leave me alone!” there was a note of hysteria in Pauline’s voice now. “Just leave me alone.”
Mark watched as she rolled over, to hide her face in the pillows. Then he went from the room. For some moments, Pauline lay sobbing. Then she forced her aching body erect and staggered to the dressing-table mirror.
A tangled, matted mass of black hair, surrounding a face which had two half-closed discolored, puffed-up eyes, a reddened, swollen nose and puffy, cut lips, looked back at her. She stared at the face; the skin, which was once so soft smooth and white, was now tanned and getting coarse. The neck which once was so shapely was now showing the wrinkles of age. Looking down over her bruised and dirty shoulders at the once round, full breasts—which never needed any support to make them conform to the dictates of fashion—she saw they were now drooping and old; and the once-slender waist was developing a roll of fat, which could not be hid. Never until this day had she seen herself like this, a woman no longer young. Never had she known the bitterness of defeat in anything, nor the humiliation of hearing the people of this town jeering at her and calling her an old woman.
