“She’s a mean cuss all right,” Calamity admitted. “Does she pick on you?”
“A little. If I could fight like you do she wouldn’t.”
“You’re danged tooting she wouldn’t,” grinned Calamity and felt at Mousey’s nearest arm. “Say, you’re a strong kid. She’d be like a bladder of lard against you if you stayed clear of her and used your fists instead of going to hair-yanking. I’ll teach you how, if you like.”
Thinking of all the mean tricks Dora had played on her, Mousey gave a delighted nod. “Boy, that’d be great, Marty. Where’d you learn to fight?”
“Here and there. Hey, isn’t this the place we want?”
On their return from the bath-house and while waiting for the evening trade to arrive, Calamity began to teach Mousey a few basic tricks of rough-house self-defense in their room. From the way the little blonde learned her lessons, Calamity could almost feel sorry for Dora and next time she tried her bullying.
When Calamity and Mousey reported to the bar room to start work, Dora was nowhere in sight, being confined to her room with an eye that resembled a Blue Point Oyster peeking out of its shell. So Mousey did not find opportunity to put her lessons into practice.
Calamity found the feeling of wearing a saloon-girl’s garish and revealing clothing and being in a bar as a worker a novel sensation. Not that she did much work at first. Until shortly after eight o’clock only a few townsmen used the bar and they showed little interest in the girls, having wives at home who took exception to the male members of the family becoming too friendly with female employees of the saloon.
Shortly after eight a few cowhands began to drift in and the place livened. The girls left their tables and mingled with the new arrivals. Laughter rang out, a couple of the games commenced operation and the pianist started playing his instrument. A couple of the customers came to where Calamity and Mousey stood by the bar.
“Hey, Mousey, gal,” greeted the taller customer, a cheerful young cowhand sporting an early attempt at a moustache, “Where-at’s Tommy?”
“He’s not in tonight,” Mousey replied.
“Then how’s about you and your amigo having a drink with me ’n’ Brother Eddie?”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Calamity told him. “The name’s Marty.”
“This’s Stan and Eddie,” Mousey introduced. “They work for the Box Twelve.”
“Sure do,” Eddie, a shorter, slightly younger version of Stan, agreed. “Say, what’ll you gals have to drink?”
“It’ll have to be beer until I’ve seen Miss Ella,” Stan warned.
“My mammy always told me never to look a gift-beer in the froth,” replied Calamity.
“Lord, ain’t she a pistol?” whooped Eddie. “I’ll buy ’em until you get your money off Miss Ella.”
A frown creased Stan’s face as he glared at his brother. “You hold your voice down, you hear me, boy?”
“I hear you,” Eddie answered, dropping his voice. “Hell, these gals are all right, Stan.”
“Sure we are,” agreed Calamity. “First thing a gal learns working in a saloon is to mind her own business.”
Apparently the words mollified Stan for he started to grin again. “Sure, Marty. Only folks might get the wrong idea if they heard Eddie.”
“He’s only young yet, not like two old mossy-horns like us,” Calamity answered. “Say, do we have to stand with our tongues hanging out?”
“Huh?” grunted Stan, then started to grin and turned to the bar. “Four beers Izzy, the ladies’re getting thirsty. Say Mousey, where-at’s the boss lady?”
“Upstairs, I think,” Mousey replied.
“Just have to wait a spell then. Here, Marty, take hold and drink her down.”
The beers came and the cowhands drew up their chairs, sitting with Calamity and Mousey at a table. While drinking, Mousey and the cowhands discussed local affairs. Calamity noticed that any attempt to bring up the subject of cow stealing was met with an immediate change of subject by the cowhands. Not that she kept asking questions, but Mousey seemed to be interested as might be expected from one who had been some time in Caspar County. While Stan and Eddy cursed the departed Gooch for a cowardly, murdering skunk, neither appeared eager to discuss why he might have shot down the two Bench J cowhands. Showing surprising tact, Mousey changed the subject and told of Danny’s defeat of the Rafter O’s bay. A grin played on Calamity’s lips as she listened; it appeared that Danny Fog had been making something of a name for himself since his arrival.
“Let’s go have a dance,” Eddie suggested.
“Sure, let’s,” Mousey agreed.
Already several couples were whirling around on the open space left for dancing. Calamity, Mousey and the two cowhands joined the fun and it was well that Calamity had always been light on her feet for cowhands did not often make graceful partners. However, Calamity had long been used to keeping her toes clear of her partner’s feet when dancing and found little difficulty in avoiding Stan’s boots as they danced in something like time to the music.
Calamity saw the two buxom girls who acted as Ella’s lieutenants standing by the bar and watching her. For a moment she wondered if they might be seeing through her disguise. If she had heard their conversation, she would not have worried.
“That Marty doesn’t dance too well,” Maisie remarked.
There was a considerable rivalry between Phyl and Maisie and the red-head took the comment to be an adverse criticism of her as she took Calamity to see Ella and had her hired.
“Maybe she’s out of practice,” she answered. “You should know they don’t go much for dancing classes at the State Penitentiary.”
Before Maisie could think up a suitable reply, Phyl walked away. The matter dropped for neither girl felt sufficiently confident in her chances of winning to risk a physical clash that would establish who was boss.
“Hey, Phyl,” called Stan, leading Calamity from the dance floor. “Where-at’s Miss Ella?”
“She’s still up in her room, but she ought to be down soon,” Phyl answered. “You wanting to see her real bad?”
“Bad enough. We, me’n’ Eddie’s going with the boss to take a herd to Fort Williams and’ll be away for a month. I wanted to see if—well, she’ll know.”
“I’ll go up and see her,” Phyl promised.
On reaching Ella’s door, Phyl knocked and waited.
“Who is it?” Ella’s voice called.
“Phyl. It’s important.”
The door opened and Phyl entered to find Ella standing naked except for a pair of men’s levis trousers. This did not surprise the red-head for she knew that her boss had not been in the room all afternoon.
“What’s wrong?” Ella asked. “I’ve only just got back from the hideout.”
“It’s Stan, that kid from the Box Twelve. He’s down there and wanting to see you. Only he’s pulling out with a herd and won’t be back for a month.”
Ella frowned as she went to her bed and removed the pants. Knowing why Stan wished to see her, she did not care for the last piece of Phyl’s information. The cowhand had delivered ten stolen yearlings to Ella’s men and awaited payment, but she knew that if he rode out with the money her place would never profit by it.
“Who’s he with?” she asked, standing clad in her black drawers and reaching for her stockings.
“His kid brother.”
“I mean of our girls.”
“Mousey——”
“She’s no good for what I want,” Ella interrupted.
“That new gal, Marty’s, with them. Her and Mousey’s got real friendly.”
“Marty, huh? This might be a chance to find out just what she’s like.”