The Bullwhip Breed (6 page)

Spitting curses, the girl started to rise. She was slightly taller and heavier than Calamity and noted for being a tough dame when riled, which same she appeared to be at the moment. An air of eager anticipation ran through the room. On the upper-class dais all chatter stopped and every eye turned to the dance floor. Predatory interest crept on to the men’s faces—although the upper-crust males were not alone in that—and the women pretended to be shocked at the sight, while waiting eagerly to see the next drama of raw, lower-strata life being played before them.

Even as the dark-haired girl prepared to throw herself at Calamity and take revenge for the slap, a deep voice boomed out a warning.

“All right, my children! Enough of this folly.”

Calamity took her eyes from the other girl for long enough to glance quickly at the speaker. From the authoritative tones, she could have guessed it to be the mountainous Madam Darcel who spoke. The big woman bore down on the girls like a battleship in full sail. While in the girl’s toilet Calamity had removed her jacket and carried it back. The tight fitting shirt and levis left no doubt as to her sex. She did not relax, but kept her attention on the other girl after her quick glance in Madam Darcel’s direction.

Instead of throwing herself at Calamity, the dark-haired girl prepared to bluff her way out. Still crouched ready to spring, the girl turned a sullen, defiant face, that bore just a hint of fear, to her employer.

“What is all this about?” Madam Darcel went on.

“That dame grabbed me—!” began the saloon-girl.

“Sure I did,” agreed Calamity and pointed to the wallet lying on the floor. “Do you let your gals lift wallets from the customers?”

Throwing a scared glance at the big shape of Madam Darcel, the saloon-girl gave a screech of, “It’s a lie!” and threw herself at Calamity, hoping the ensuing fracas might silence the red-head and evade the issue of whether she stole the wallet. Only she did not reach Calamity with her talon-like, grabbing hands.

With a surge of her shoulder, Madam Darcel propelled her big right fist forward so it crashed on to the saloon-girl’s jaw. The force of the blow sent the girl shooting off course even before Calamity could take steps to meet the attack and the pickpocket landed on the dance floor, sliding almost to the bar before coming to a stop in a limp heap.

Calamity studied the blow with the air of a connoisseur. While it looked just a touch slow, that right hand packed such weight and power behind it that on landing would cause the recipient to think the roof had fallen in on her—when she found herself capable of thinking again, that is.

Glancing at Chan Sing as the Chinaman stood feeling in his jacket’s breast pocket, Madam Darcel knew she must prove that she had no knowledge of the theft and did not condone stealing. Nothing could lose the carriage-trade for a saloon quicker than letting thieves rob the customers, or by the place gaining a reputation for dishonesty. The felling of the girl had been the first stage, now Madam Darcel aimed to cement the knowledge of her innocence more firmly in the minds of her customers.

“Is that your wallet, John?” she asked, pointing to the floor.

“By clacky, it is!” Sing yelped, bending and picking the wallet up.

“I don’t allow pickpockets in here,” the saloonkeeper went on in a loud and carrying voice, then looked towards the silent bar. “Eddy, see this gent gets anything he orders for the rest of the evening, on the house.”

“Sure will, Madam,” answered the head bartender, catching his cue and following it up like a professional actor.

A low rumble of approval ran through the room which had fallen silent and expectant at the start of the trouble. Madam Darcel knew her actions had cleared her and figured the money it would cost to keep the Chinaman supplied for the rest of the evening to be a cheap price when her house’s reputation had been at stake.

Then Madam turned her attention to Calamity. The saloonkeeper’s first thought was that Calamity followed the profession of street-walker and dressed in men’s clothing to gain entrance to the
Cheval D’Or
in search of customers. On studying the girl more closely, Madam Darcel revised her opinion. No streetwalker, working at night and following an unhealthy trade, ever carried such a tan as did the red head. Possibly the girl was a camp-follower of the Kiliein outfit, brought down to New Orleans to save hiring local talent. Whoever the red-head might be, Madam Darcel did not intend to let her stay in the saloon.

“All right, girlie,” the saloonkeeper said. I don’t like troublemakers in here—.”

“So who’s making trouble?” Calamity replied. “I’ve got good money in my pocket, I’m sober, white and old enough to do a hard day’s work—and I’m staying right here.”

Madam Darcel read the challenge in Calamity’s eyes and an idea crept into the saloonkeeper’s head, showing her a chance of some added entertainment to spice up her customers. With a clientele that liked its fun gamey, unrefined and fullblooded, a fight between two girls had a salutary effect on the spirits and also the sales over the bar. Unless Madam missed her guess, that redheaded girl could handle her end in such an affair. So there only remained the problem of selecting a suitable opponent and that was easily arranged.

Not that Madam Dared intended to be the one who took on Calamity. The days had long passed when the saloon-keeper could trim down a tough young girl who knew the art of female self defence. While Madam did not doubt that she could lay Calamity low with one blow, there remained the problem of making contact with her fist. From the look of her, the red-head would not be fool enough to stand still to be hit, nor unprepared as the pickpocket had been.

“Are you going quietly?” Madam asked.

Throwing back her head and standing with hands on her hips, but ready to dodge a blow and attack, Calamity roared with laughter and replied, “I never go anyplace quietly.”

“And what if I have you thrown out?” said the saloon-keeper.

“Are you fixing to do it yourself?” Calamity countered.

“Not I. But one of my girls will.”

“Happen you got a gal who reckons she can do it, bring her on and let her get to throwing.”

In her untrained way Calamity was every bit as much a showman as Madam Darcel. Both spoke loudly and their words carried around the silent room. Calamity glanced around her, studying the girls. While some of them looked hefty, rough and capable, none struck Calamity as being anything special. Anyways, it ought to be right interesting to see how a big-city girl stacked up in comparison with some of the tough dames Calamity tangled with out West.

Madam Darcel hid her delight as Calamity accepted the challenge. Turning, the saloonkeeper called, “Hey one of you, ask Jacqueline to come in here.”

Grinning broadly, Calamity walked towards her friends’ table and wondered who Jacqueline might be.

CHAPTER SIX

“GOOD ole Calam!” Tophet said as he listened to the girl accept Madam Darcel’s challenge. “Trust her to fix it so to we could win us some money.”

“She’ll take that city gal like Grant took Richmond,” another of the outfit went on, remembering other times when Calamity tied into a saloongirl in a brawl.

Despite his men’s words of confidence, Killem did not feel so sure. Not that he lacked faith in Calamity, but he knew Madam Darcel of old. If Madam aimed to start a brawl between Calamity and one of the saloon’s girls, the big woman figured to have a better than fair chance of her representative winning.

“Hold hard there, Madam,” he called. “Reckon you don’t know who my gal is.”

“I don’t care if she is Calamity Jane—,” Madam began.

“That’s just who she is.”

Talk welled up at Killem’s words, eager and excited chatter, for the name of Calamity Jane had come down river ahead of her. Yet few of the occupants of the room really believed the girl to be the Calamity Jane. Certainly Madam Darcel did not believe Killem and thought the freighter merely wanted to save his girl from a thrashing. Madam did not intend to state her doubts. One glance around—taken with her considerable knowledge of human nature—told her the crowd wanted the red-head to be Calamity Jane; much as hold-up victims always wanted to believe some famous outlaw band robbed them. So Madam went along with the suggestion as if she took Killem to be speaking the gospel truth.

“I have heard of her, Dobe. But I also believe Jacqueline can throw even the famous Calamity Jane out.”

“I’ve got fifty dollars that says she can’t!” whooped Tombes.

“You-all wanting to bet your gal can do it, Madam?” went on another man.

“If you wish,” Madam replied.

“We wish!” whooped the freighters. “Lordy lord, how we wish.”

With that the Killem outfit produced its money and Madam signalled one of her men to accept the wagers. Apart from the freighters, there was little betting so far, the other customers wanting to compare the fighters before risking wealth on one or the other.

Calamity ignored the betting as she walked to Killem’s table. The girl who had escorted Calamity to the toilets handed back the jacket she took on observing the attempted theft of Sing’s wallet.

“Thanks, Maisie,” grinned Calamity. “Say, who is this Jacqueline.”

“You’ve seen her once tonight,” replied the girl.

While waiting for the mysterious Jacqueline to put in an appearance, Calamity prepared for the fight. Taking off her kepi, she laid it on her jacket. Next she removed her bandana, rolling it into a ball and dropping it into the crown of her kepi. Calamity always removed her bandana, given time to do so, since a girl almost choked her insensible in an early fight by grabbing hold and twisting at the neck cloth.

“What’s eating you, Dobe?” she asked, glancing at Killem’s face and reading his concern where most folks could have seen nothing at all.

“Was just wondering what sort of gal Madam’s got in mind,” the freighter answered. “Maybe this Jacqueline’s one of them gal prize-fighters like was with that wagon train that went to Fort Sherrard with us last trip.”

“Shucks,” grinned Calamity. “I whipped that one, and she claimed to be the champeen gal fist-fighter of the world. Don’t reckon this Jacqueline gal’ll be any tougher’n that one.” *

“Here she comes now,” said one of the saloon-girls, pointing across the room.

Turning from the table, Calamity glanced in the direction indicated by the other girl. Killem and his men also looked and the big freighter felt puzzled by what he saw. However, Killem’s men, possibly because they did not share his ability to carry a load of liquor, nudged each other and exchanged knowing nods or winks. The men, with the exception of Killem, agreed that if the girl who approached was the Jacqueline, Calamity should lick her so easy that the bets would be as safe as finding money in the street.

For a moment Calamity studied her proposed opponent, then swung to face Madam Darcel, wondering if the other woman made a joke.

“Is this her? “ asked Calamity.

“It is.”

“Hell, you can’t expect her to tangle with me.”

“Why should she not?” inquired Madam Darcel.

“That skinny kid won’t have a chance,” replied Calamity. Yet she was no fool and, like Killem, knew that Madam Darcel would be most unlikely to act as a philanthropist by taking bets when, on the face of it, the saloon’s representative had no hope of winning. With that thought in mind Calamity had been expecting to find herself matched by a big, buxom, tough girl. Instead she found herself faced by the slim, red-headed girl who performed as a solo dancer. The red-head still wore the same outfit as when dancing, including her ballet slippers—a point Calamity overlooked.

Annoyance glowed in Jacqueline’s eyes at Calamity’s words. In an age when the ideal female tended to be buxom, Jacqueline was conscious of her slim though shapely build and did not care for Calamity’s reference to her as ‘that skinny kid’.

“Are you afraid?” hissed Jacqueline.

“I sure am,” agreed Calamity. “Afraid I’ll hurt you real bad.”

“Let me worry about that!”

Frowning a little, Calamity gave the other girl a close study. One thing was for sure, that scanty costume prevented any chance of Jacqueline being a young man dressed as a girl, a possibility that had occured to Calamity. Nor did it allow Jacqueline to carry concealed weapons; not that Calamity figured Madam would chance such a thing. While slim, Jacqueline’s hips were well developed, her long legs showed a good set of thigh and calf muscles. Yet she did not have the weight to take on a girl Calamity’s build. Calamity enjoyed a fight, but she had never been a bully or wished to take an unfair advantage of anybody.

“Hell, Madam!” Calamity objected. “This’s not fair on your gal.”

“She seems content to take her chances,” Madam answered. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give the winner five dollars for every minute the fight lasts.”

Calamity shrugged, the financial side of the affair meant little or nothing to her. Having leaned over backwards to save Jacqueline from a licking, Calamity reckoned she had done enough. However, even with the prospect of earning five dollars for every minute she kept the other girl standing, Calamity decided to make a rapid end to the affair. Once she sent Jacqueline tearfully on her way, Calamity reckoned she would see how tough Madam Darcel could act and teach the big blonde not to send her employees to take a licking when they did not have a chance.

“It’s her that gets the lumps,” Calamity remarked.

“Start as soon as you like,” replied Madam Darcel and went to join Killem.

Calamity threw a glance at the slim girl, then grinned at Dobe Killem.

“This won’t take long, Dobe,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

And Calamity spoke truer words than she imagined.

With fists clenched ready, she moved towards the Creole girl and wondered how the other aimed to make her fight. Calamity found out soon enough. Watching Jacqueline’s eyes and hands, Calamity overlooked the other girl’s feet. Suddenly and without any warning Jacqueline kicked upwards her long right leg driving into the air to catch Calamity under the jaw. Taken by surprise both by the unexpected tactic and the power of the kick, Calamity sprawled backwards and landed on her rump at Killem’s feet.

“That fat old bitch!” Killem growled, looking at the smiling saloonkeeper. “She’s thrown Calam against a
savate
fighter.”

Calamity did not hear the words. Forcing herself to her feet, she charged into the attack once more. Much to Calamity’s surprise, Jacqueline moved forward to meet her as if ready for a hair-yanking tangle. Only at the last moment the slim girl side-stepped, leaned out of Calamity’s reach and delivered a horizontal sidekick, her toe, catching Calamity in the stomach. Giving a croaking gasp, Calamity grabbed at her middle and doubled over as she staggered by Jacqueline. Pivoting gracefully, the slim girl placed her foot against Calamity’s tight-stretched pants seat and shoved hard. Calamity shot forward to crash into the bar. Grabbing hold of the polished mahogany, she hung there while she tried to catch her wind and clear the fog from her head.

Just as Calamity regained control of herself and turned, Jacqueline came gliding in. Halting before Calamity, the dancer rose on to the point of her right slipper and executed an almost perfect
fouette en tournant
by whipping her raised left leg from bent at the knee to extended waist high so as to spin her entire body around. Four times she spun in a circle, gaining momentum. Then the toe of her left foot crashed into the side of Calamity’s jaw. The impact sprawled Calamity sideways even as she prepared to make an attack of her own.

While Jacqueline did not particularly care for fighting, she meant to keep the brawl going for a time. Nor did Calamity’s insulting references to the dancer’s slim build entirely account for the decision.

Ever since the day Jacqueline sneaked into a theatre and saw a ballet dancer perform, she longed to learn the secrets of the graceful art. Being from a very poor family, she had no chance of taking formal lessons. She took every opportunity to see other dancers and practiced the steps she saw, learning the various positions and manoeuvres even without knowing their names. Two years back Madam Darcel had seen the girl dancing on a street corner and recognised her talent, so hired Jacqueline to perform at the
Cheval D’Or.
From then Jacqueline improved tremendously, yet lacked formal instruction to bring out her talented greatness.

Learning
savate
came as a precaution against the petty jealousies of the saloongirls and Jacqueline found it a useful way of augmenting her earnings. On the dozen or so occasions when she fought another before the customers, Madam Darcel gave her a bonus and when the money went to swell her slowly-growing savings ready for the day when she could afford to take lessons at a ballet school.

So while another kick might have finished Calamity off, the slim girl did not land it. Instead she slapped Calamity’s face with each hand, rocking the red-head from side to side. Pain partially cleared Calamity’s spinning head and she thrust herself from the bar, throwing a punch which ought to have flattened her at Jacqueline’s head. The blow missed as Jacqueline whirled aside and Calamity stumbled forward. Twisting around, Jacqueline delivered a slap to Calamity’s rump as the red-head went by.

Then began the most humiliating five minutes of Calamity’s life. Laughter and jeers rang out from the watching crowd as Calamity tried to catch up with, or lay hands on the other girl. Gracefully, and demonstrating her dancing skill to perfection, Jacqueline avoided Calamity’s rushes and wild blows. Sometimes she would whirl around Calamity so fast that the other girl did not know whether she came or went, then stop in front and slap her face, or halt behind and either push her, deliver a whack to her rump or push her. No matter which way Calamity turned, she could not catch the other girl. It seemed that Jacqueline could deliver a kick from any angle, and when one landed, whether with toe, ball, heel, outside or inside edge of the foot, it hurt.

Blood trickled from Calamity’s mouth, mingling with the sweat and tears on her face. Pain, rage and humiliation filled the Western girl at the thought of taking such a licking from a city dweller. It forced Calamity to stay up and take more of those wicked horizontal and vertical kicks while trying to lay hands on Jacqueline and fight barroom style.

Only once did Calamity try to take Jacqueline by the slim girl’s own method of fighting. Jerking back her leg, Calamity launched it in a kick. Jacqueline watched the other girl’s right foot lash at her legs and countered the kick by coming into the
chasse croise
position so Calamity missed her. Then as Calamity’s leg went by, Jacqueline brought the side of her right foot in a circular kick against the Western girl’s calf. Caught off balance, Calamity staggered and Jacqueline followed up with a kick to the pants seat which sprawled her on to the floor. Skipping forward Jacqueline gripped Calamity by the hair and waist belt, hauling her up. Before Calamity recovered enough to defend herself, Jacqueline delivered a high kick to her face and started her nose bleeding.

“Damn it hell, Madam!” Killem growled, watching Jacqueline spin away from Calamity. “She’s making a fool of my gal.”

“I thought your girl feared hurting Jacqueline,” replied the saloonkeeper. “If your friends are willing to concede their bets, I will signal Jacqueline to make an end of this farce.”

“You’d best do that afore these boys of mine get riled and take your place apart at the seams.”

Before Madam could decide whether to make the signal, Jacqueline prepared to bring, the affair to an end. Never had she seen a girl take so much punishment. On other occasions, her opponent took at the most half-a-dozen kicks then either collapsed and refused to rise, or ran sobbing from the room. Yet the Western girl kept coming back for more, trying to lay hands on her tormentor. Jacqueline guessed that even now it would go rough on her if Calamity did once get to grips. So she decided to make an end to the affair. The kick to the face had sent Calamity stumbling into the bar where she hung on for support, her legs looking like heat-buckled candles. From her opponent’s general appearance, Jacqueline decided that honour had been satisfied and it would be a long time before the red-headed Westerner insulted another slimly-built girl.

Once more Jacqueline went into her
fouette en tournant
, building up her momentum to deliver a
coup de grace
. In this she made a bad error in judgement. No other girl Jacqueline had tangled with, even those trained in
savate
—after seeing the interest Jacqueline attracted for the
Cheval D’Or
, other saloonkeepers sought out challengers to meet her—faced her with such determination. So Jacqueline reckoned that one more kick ought to stretch Calamity out on the floor, limp and unable to prevent the slim girl gripping her by the feet and hauling her from the room. Once outside, Madam’s bouncers would take over, carrying the beaten Western girl to the rear of the saloon, call in a doctor if needed, and revive her. Then Madam Darcel would most likely give the beaten girl a few dollars to recompense her.

Jacqueline’s thoughts came to an abrupt and painful end right then. Even as the slim girl spun around on her right slipper’s point, Calamity forced herself from the bar and swung a fist around in a looping blow. Taken by surprise, unable to stop her spinning body, Jacqueline swung straight into the punch which stopped her dead in her tracks. Like a flash Calamity struck again, ripping her other hand up as Killem taught her, catching Jacqueline under the jaw and sending her reeling backwards to crash on to the floor.

Turning to the bar, Calamity caught its top and steadied herself, looking at the bartender. “Gi—Gimme—a—drink!” she gasped.

Obligingly the man poured out four fingers of whisky and passed the glass to Calamity. Tilting the liquor down her throat in a single gulp, Calamity glanced into the bar mirror. Much to her surprise, Calamity saw the other girl struggling to rise. Setting down her glass, Calamity turned and crossed the floor. She bent down and dug her fingers into Jacqueline’s hair, ruining its coiffure for the first time in the fight. With a heave Calamity raised the other girl to her feet, swung her and sent her reeling across the room into the bar.

At that moment Jacqueline forgot
savate
. Dazed and hurt by the blows, the slim girl became a woman pure and simple. Suddenly she thrust herself from the bar and met Calamity’s advance, her fingers digging into the other’s red curls. Calamity replied in a like manner and the girls spun around in a tight circle, clinging to hair, lashing out wild kicks at each other’s legs and forgetting more scientific fighting. More by accident than design, Jacqueline hooked a leg behind Calamity and brought them both crashing to the floor.

Despite her earlier rough handling, Calamity buckled down to a real old-fashioned, roll-around, hand-scalping bar-room brawl with all her usual gusto. Nor did Jacqueline fail to do her share. Out-weighed by Calamity, not as strong as the Western girl, Jacqueline’s wiry body had strength to spare and she gave almost as good as she took. Over and over the girls rolled, fists and legs flying, gasps, squeaks, squeals and yelps rising from them.

During the earlier stages of the fight, the crowd, though rowdy, stayed either seated or standing well clear and watched the girls. However, once Calamity and Jacqueline went to the floor, those of the audience at the rear found they could no longer see the sport. So they moved forward and in doing so impeded the view of other customers, causing those impeded to also leave their seats until the dance floor and fighting girls were surrounded by an almost solid wall of wildly excited, yelling people.

At that point of the proceedings, Madame Darcel began to feel like the man who caught a tiger by the tail and could not let go. Without ever having heard of or understanding the words, Madam Darcel possessed a very thorough knowledge of crowd psychology; and knew that when excitement reached a certain pitch any slight thing might start a full-scale riot. Yet she knew that if she attempted to separate the wildly fighting girls, the crowd would object violently; not only because their fun was being spoiled, but because quite a number of the customers had bet heavily on the result of the fight. So she stayed out of the affair, leaving the girls to settle their dispute and keeping a weather eye open for potential spreaders of the conflict.

Coming to their feet, the girls stood facing each other, panting and glaring.

“H—Had enough?” asked Calamity.

Jacqueline did not answer in words. Instead she flung herself at Calamity again. Normally she would have used
savate
, just as Calamity’s self defence ought to have been with her fists, but exhaustion caused the girls to forget such tactics and fight on woman-style. Reeling across the room, clinging one-handed to hair, the other slapping, punching and grabbing, the girls caused a hurried scattering among the crowd, all of whom knew better than come between a pair of furiously fighting females. Still locked with each other, the girls hit against the upper-classes dais. Pinned against the raised stand, Calamity wriggled back upon it. Jacqueline followed her under the protective rail and the girls came to their feet. One of the waiters, outraged at the invasion of the carriage-trade’s privacy, moved forward to either request or force the girls to leave. In this the man showed mighty poor judgement and sense. Coming between a pair of bobcats scrapping over a mate would have been on a par with getting between Calamity and Jacqueline at such a moment. The girls turned on the waiter—a man chosen more for his knowledge of upper-class requirements than those qualities necessary when dealing with the rougher elements of the saloon’s clientele—and worked him over. To the accompaniment of yells and laughter from the onlookers, fingers tore at the waiter’s hair and clothes, feet hacked at his shins and a set of teeth at one point clamped on his ear, giving him a painful nip. Then the girls shoved the waiter aside and sent him sprawling over the protective railing into the crowd beyond.

Having dealt with the interruption, Calamity and Jacqueline turned their attention to each other. The occupants of the dais, three men and two young women at one table and a couple of young bloods squiring a beautiful girl at another, all came to their feet and looked on. None of them knew if the fight be merely something arranged by Madam Darcel for their entertainment, or cared. All showed the same excited stimulation as did the
hoi polloi
beyond the barrier at the wild fight they were seeing.

A shove from Jacqueline sent Calamity reeling to fall on the table of the larger party. One of the women, a beautiful, if rather sullen-looking blonde in an expensive satin dress, did something she thought to be wildly amusing. Stepping forward, she took an open champagne bottle from its ice bucket and emptied its contents over Calamity’s head, shrieking with laughter as the fizzing liquid ran over the red-head’s face.

Across the room Dobe Killem watched and gave a groan, for he knew his Calamity very well. That upper-crust girl was due very shortly to learn the error of her ways, or Killem would be most surprised.