Before she could squeeze the trigger, she noticed that the segmented strip of light below the door had become a whole line once more. That meant the man on the other side was no longer standing in her line of fire. Give him his due, though, he was a cool son-of-a-bitch. She had heard him lock the door as soon as he closed it.
For a moment Calamity considered shooting open the lock, then dismissed the notion as impractical and dangerous. Maybe the twenty-eight-grain load of powder in the .44 Winchester bullet lacked the long-range potential of a cigar-long buffalo rifle cartridge, but it packed enough power to pass through the lock, cross the passage and injure anybody unfortunate enough to be in its way in the room opposite. Nor would she be any better off if she burst open the lock. Clad only in a pair of drawers, she was not suitably attired to go chasing owlhoots around a fancy hotel—or any other place, come to that.
Shouts rang out in the passage as Calamity came to her feet. Then she remembered her other visitor. Turning, she darted across to the window. At the sight of the man’s bulky figure heading for the alley, she knelt and rested her carbine on the windowsill. While not a particularly vindictive person, she figured that men ought to be dissuaded from the habit of attempting to break into harmless females’ rooms. Being of a blunt and forthright disposition, she reckoned that a .44 bullet in the hide ought to make a mighty effective dissuader.
As Calamity only wanted to injure the man, she lined the carbine’s sights with extra care. Just as her forefinger started to depress the trigger, a thunderous knocking on her door caused her to jerk around. The carbine spat viciously, but its muzzle no longer pointed in the required direction. Instead of plowing into the man’s right hip, the bullet struck and threw a cloud of splinters from the corner of the left-side building.
Again the fist pounded on the door and a worried male voice bellowed, “Are you all right in there?”
A glance out the window told Calamity that the man had passed beyond any hope of immediate retribution. Straightening up, she turned and walked across the room. Approaching the door, she realized that she was no more suitably dressed for receiving visitors than for pursuing routed intruders.
Before she could formulate any solution to the problem, the matter was taken out of her hands. The lock clicked and the door burst open. Revolver in hand, a big, burly man lunged into the room. From the way he entered, he had experience in such important matters. Maybe not up to the standards of a trained peace officer, but adequate to offer him a chance of survival if there had been an enemy inside. Behind him, several other men clad in a variety of night-wear surged forward. They came to a halt, forced to it by the man in the lead. There was an air of hard-bitten authority about him that a night-cap and dressing-gown could not dispel. His entire attitude hinted that he was used to making decisions in a hurry—but he could be surprised.
Embarrassment swept the grim, purposeful frown from the man’s face as he found himself confronted by a pretty, shapely girl who was naked to the waist, briefly clad below it and carried a smoking Winchester carbine. Exclamations of interest and approbation rose from the men who had followed him in.
“Are you all right, young lady?” the big man demanded.
“Sure,” Calamity replied.
“Then we had better withdraw,” the man stated, in tones that brooked no objection. Backing toward the door, he forced the others to leave. Turning his head so that he did not look at Calamity, he went on, “If I might make a suggestion, ma’am, you should put on a robe. The marshal or one of his deputies will be around to find out what’s happening and he’s sure to want to question you.”
“I’ll do just that,” Calamity promised. “Leave the door open a mite so’s I can find a match and light the lamp.”
After the men had left, Calamity crossed to the wardrobe and took a box of matches from the pocket of her buckskin jacket. She lit the lamp and went to close the door, but could not follow the man’s advice. Her normal way of life precluded the need for possessing such high-falutin’ garments as a robe to wear over her sleeping clothes. However, she knew that he had been correct about the marshal or a deputy coming. So she slipped on her shirt and pants, then produced a pair of moccasins from her parfleche. Dressed adequately, if not conventionally, she walked from the room.
When she appeared in the passage, Calamity’s wearing apparel drew almost as much comment from the men as had their first sight of her inside the room. Ignoring them, she went to where the big man stood talking to Philpotter.
“Do you get this sort of thing happening regular?” the girl inquired, looking at the clerk.
“This sort of thing?” Philpotter repeated.
“Fellers trying to bust into a gal’s room from the door and the window,” Calamity elaborated.
“There was another of them at the window?” asked the big man.
“Yep,” agreed Calamity. “It was him I was trying to get a shot at just afore you bust in.”
“Did you hit him?” the man wanted to know.
“Missed,” answered the girl. “He lit out through the alley back of here.”
“Would you know him again?” the man inquired.
“Nope,” Calamity admitted. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. He sure won’t smell like a rose, way I got rid of him.” She turned her attention to Philpotter again. “How’s about it, friend. Do you get this sort of thing coming off regular?”
“Certainly not!” the clerk yelped indignantly. “It’s the first time such a thing has happened here.”
“That figures!” the girl declared, slapping the palms of her hands against her thighs in an exasperated manner. “Now you know why folks call me ‘Calamity.’”
Chapter 3 A POOR, DEFENSELESS GAL LIKE ME
AT NINE O’CLOCK ON THE MORNING AFTER HER ARRIVAL, Calamity Jane walked down the stairs to the entrance hall of the Railroad House Hotel. Philpotter was no longer at the desk and his tall, lean, sour-faced replacement almost mirrored his first reaction at the sight of the girl. Apart from not earning the parfleche and carbine, she was dressed as she had been on her arrival the previous night.
“Howdy,” Calamity greeted amiably as she reached the desk. “Where-at’s Counselor Talbot’s office?”
“On Leicester Street,” the clerk replied. “You turn right, go by the newspaper office and take the street alongside the stock-pens toward the railroad depot.”
“Thanks,” Calamity said, and decided to give the man some good news. “I’ll likely be picking up my gear and pulling out after I’ve seen him.”
“Which room would that be?” the clerk inquired frostily, but he looked a mite relieved to hear the information.
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen!—Oh! So you’re the one—”
“If there’s two of us, I’ve never seen the other,” Calamity answered. “What’d your pard tell you about last night?”
“My par——?” the clerk began. “You mean Mr. Philpotter. He told me about the robbery, but I thought he was joking about the way you dre——About how you were——I mean about your clo——”