Hitting the ground, Florence broke her fall with her hands. Calamity deftly shook the lash free, ignoring the shouts of the men behind her. Grim satisfaction showed on the girl’s face as she watched Florence twist toward her. Resting her left knee on the ground, Florence forced herself up on her hands.
“I warned you what’d happen if I got loose,” Calamity remarked, tossing her whip over Florence to where the land dipped gently to the lip of the gorge.
Instantly Florence catapulted herself forward, trying to ram her skull into the girl’s chest. Expecting some such move, Calamity twisted her torso and the blonde’s head scraped by her side. Florence’s left shoulder struck Calamity and the woman’s arms wrapped about the girl’s waist. Despite having anticipated the attack, Calamity felt herself forced backward by Florence’s weight. Linking her hands under the blonde’s plump midsection, she fell backward. Unable to stop herself, Florence was drawn after the girl. On landing, Calamity’s knees jabbed into the blonde’s upper thighs. Florence felt herself hoisted into the air. Losing her hold on the girl’s waist, she felt herself released and turned a somersault to land on her back.
Rolling over swiftly and rising on one knee, Calamity lunged at Florence. Kneeling astride the woman’s head, she dug her fingers into the other’s left breast. A squeal broke from Florence, but she showed that she knew a trick or two. Bringing up her legs, she snapped them together so that the insides of her knees struck Calamity’s ears. Pain caused the girl to release her hold, rear up and stagger away.
Oblivious of the gunfire that crackled intermittently among the buildings, Florence rolled over and started to rise. As Calamity rushed at her, the blonde shot out a punch. It took the girl in the stomach, halting her and causing a retreat that let the woman stand up. They came together in a flurry of flying fists. There was no skill in either’s attack, only a melee of flailing arms that propelled knuckles into the other’s face, bust, torso, ribs, or missed with equal abandon. For almost a minute the exchange of blows continued. Fists smacked flesh to the accompaniment of gasps, squeals and croaked curses from their recipients. In the course of their slugging, they trampled over Calamity’s whip and gave it no thought.
Abruptly Florence changed her tactics. Blood was running from her nostrils and she snorted them clear as she dug both hands into Calamity’s hair. Taking a firm hold, the blonde stepped backward and pivoted around. Caught by surprise, Calamity was dragged off balance. Releasing the hair, Florence threw but missed with a hay-maker of a blow. Set free, but unable to stop herself, Calamity was propelled down the slope, stumbled and sprawled on her hands and knees. Looking in the direction from which she had come, the girl saw something that sent a chill running through her.
Instead of following Calamity, Florence had bent and snatched up the whip. From all appearances, the blonde knew how to handle it. Maybe not to the girl’s standard, but sufficient for her needs. Advancing, Florence swung the whip and aimed its lash at the redhead. Calamity twisted over, hearing the savage crack and watching the popper churn a groove into the ground where her body had been an instant before. Taking another two strides, Florence tried again. This time Calamity felt the lash bite through her shirt as she rolled. Pain slowed her reactions, preventing her from grabbing at the lash. Yet she knew that she had been lucky. If the popper had caught her, instead of higher up the lash, it would have bitten deep into her flesh. While painful, the section that struck her merely raised a weal across her back.
Again the lash hissed and drove a burning sensation through the girl. She rolled over and found herself at the edge of the gorge. Looking back, she knew that she was in even greater danger. Florence had not come closer, so the distance separating them was just right for Calamity to receive the full impact of the popper when the next attack was delivered. Back rose the blonde’s arm, the long lash following its movement with sinuous grace.
In the sawmill, the Kid and Trinian heard the first crack of Calamity’s whip and saw Florence’s horse departing without a rider. Their place at the door prevented them from witnessing what was going on at the front of the cabin, but the Kid could guess at Calamity’s next actions.
“We’d best stop them gun-slicks horning in while ole Calam hands that Eastfield gal her needings,” the Kid suggested.
“Let’s do just that,” Trinian agreed, glancing at Staff’s body.
Holding his rifle in what soldiers called the “high port” position of readiness, the Kid stepped from the building. Trinian followed him and they were about to go along to the front when Torp and another of Florence’s hands came around the corner. Holding revolvers, the sawmill pair slammed to a halt and stared at their intended victims. They had believed that Trinian and the Kid were by the front entrance and finding otherwise handed them a hell of a shock.
Down swiveled the Kid’s rifle, lining at Torp from hip level. Four times, so fast that the detonations sounded like the rolling of a drum, the Winchester spat out lead that ripped through Torp’s body. Although the man got off a shot as he was thrown backward, the bullet drove into the wall above the Kid’s head. Sidestepping, Trinian moved clear of the Kid and cut loose with his Army Colt. He sent a .44 ball into the second hard-case’s head before the other recovered from the surprise.
“Get back inside!” barked the Kid, seeing the barrel of a rifle poke around the corner of one of the store cabins.
Spinning on his heel, Trinian leaped into the sawmill. He missed death by inches as a man fired at him from the main entrance. Although his Colt barked in reply, the bullet missed and the man retreated uninjured. Coming in on Trinian’s heels, the Kid suggested that they should keep the double doors covered.
“Sure,” the rancher agreed, starting across the building. “I don’t know how many of ’em’s left, but they’re all gunhands.”
“Here,” the Kid said, taking his right hand from the Winchester to draw his Dragoon and offer it to Trinian. “You might need some extra bullets quicker’n you can reload.”
“Thanks,” Trinian replied, accepting the revolver in his left hand.
On reaching the front entrance, they saw the man who had exchanged shots with Trinian diving through the door of the nearest cabin. Darting across the open space to reach the farther side of the entrance, Trinian heard two bullets split the air above him.
“One of ’em’s in the cookshack and t’other’s laid alongside that third cabin,” the Kid announced, then grinned as he looked to where the two women were slugging it out near the gorge. “With them tangled up close, Eastfield’s bunch won’t chance trying to hit Calam.”
Apparently the three gunslingers agreed with the Kid. Ignoring their boss’ predicament, they began to bombard the entrance of the sawmill. The hail of bullets caused the Texan and Trinian to duck inside and they did not see Calamity thrown down the incline or Florence’s use of the whip.
“The gal’s’ve gone,” the Kid said after an ineffectual if lengthy trading of shots. “Let’s load up, then I’ll go through the side door and to the Eastfield cabin. That way we’ll have ’em in a crossfire.”
“It’d be best,” Trinian agreed. “If we can nail another one, his pards won’t be so eager to keep fighting.”
While Trinian went through the slow process of recharging his Army Colt’s chambers with paper combustible cartridges and replaced the used percussion caps, the Kid fed metal-case bullets through the loading slot of his Winchester. Holding a fully loaded rifle, the Kid wondered how Calamity was faring.