her destination. Luckily the stagecoach had not been one of the main runs, or she might easily have found the driver to be an acquaintance who could let slip her identity and wind her up in an early grave.
Throwing open the stage’s door, the agent gallantly offered his hand to help Calamity alight, ogling the exposed ankle and lower calf with frank interest.
“Tuck ’em in, friend,” Calamity ordered as she swung herself on to the sidewalk and looked around.
“Huh?” the man grunted.
“Your eyes, they’re bugged out a mite. Come down to the Cattle Queen tonight and look all you want, I’ll be paid for it then.”
Flushing a little, the depot agent jerked around and yelled for the driver to drop down the gal’s bags. There were no other passengers to alight at Caspar and Calamity took her two bags, carrying them along the street toward the batwing doors of the Cattle Queen.
“Calam, gal,” she mused. “Just keep remembering you’re Martha, call me Marty, Connelly. You learned a lot that last night in Austin, don’t forget it or you’ll be a long time dead.”
One thing Calamity had early learned was to face up to the truth. It would do her no good to pretend danger did not lay waiting for her on this chore. To do so might make her careless. So she intended to remember the danger and in doing so would be more likely to recall all the details drummed into her during the evening and morning before she left Austin to start her task.
Sucking in a breath, Calamity pushed open the batwing doors and entered the Cattle Queen’s bar room. It was the first time she had ever entered a saloon as a potential employee and she found the feeling novel. The time being shortly after noon, only a few customers sat at the tables or stood by the bar. Looking around, Calamity found only one girl to be present. That one sure looked a tough handful. She had red hair, stood Calamity’s size and weighed at least twenty pounds heavier. From the way the red-head’s dress fitted her, and the firm muscles apparent in her arms and legs, Calamity figured she would be as strong as they came; the kind of girl Calamity sought to tangle with when employed at her normal trade.
“Looking for somebody?” asked the buxom redhead.
“The boss. That you?”
“Me? Nope. The name’s Phyl. I work here. Come on up, I’ll take you to the boss. What’s your name?”
“Marty Connelly. I’m looking for work.”
“Didn’t take you for a circuit-riding gal-preacher,” Phyl sniffed. “Come on, we’ll see Miss Ella.”
Following the other woman, and holding down a temptation to plant a kick on the plump butt end so alluringly offered for such treatment, Calamity crossed the room and climbed the stairs. They walked along a passage and Phyl knocked on one of the doors.
“Gal to see you, boss,” she said, looking in.
“Show her in, Phyl,” replied a female voice.
On entering the room, Calamity took her first look at the woman who might be the leader of Caspar County cow thieves. All in all, Calamity felt a mite disappointed, for Ella had not long been out of bed and wore a dressing- gown which prevented the other girl from gaining any impression of how the saloonkeeper might stack up in a ruckus.
“So you’re looking for work,” Ella said. “Where were you last?”
“At the Golden Slipper in Austin.”
“Why did you quit?”
“That’s my business.”
Hardly had the words left Calamity’s mouth when she felt a hand clamp on her wrist and her arm was twisted behind and up her back in a practiced move. Phyl was strong and real capable; Calamity gave her that as the twisted arm sent a wave of pain shooting through her. Holding down her first instinct, Calamity let out a yelp of pain. She figured showing her considerable knowledge of self-defense might make Ella suspicious and anyway if she tangled with Phyl, win or lose she would not be in any shape to get on with the chore which brought her to Caspar. So, instead of stamping her heel down hard on Phyl’s toe then giving the buxom girl an elbow where it would do most good, Calamity stood still and croaked to be released.
“When Miss Ella asks a question,” Phyl answered, still holding the trapped arm, “she expects an answer.”
Pain almost made Calamity forget her act, but she fought down her desires and whined, “Leggo my arm! I quit ’cause I didn’t like it there.”
“Why not?” Ella asked.
“T—too much law.”
The grip on Calamity’s arm relaxed and she brought the limb in front of her to rub the aching wrist. Looking sullen—and promising herself that she would hand-scalp that fat, overstuffed, loud-mouthed, hawg-stupid, cat- house cull before she left Caspar—Calamity awaited the next development.
“Are you in trouble with the law?” Ella inquired.
“Me?” yelped Calamity, trying to sound just right. “Naw! Why should I be?”
“You mean they couldn’t prove anything?”
“Yes—no,” Calamity answered. “I—I got tired of Austin.”
“Then why come here?” Ella asked.
“This’s as far as I’d money to go.”
While speaking, Calamity watched Ella and gained the impression that the other might be a real tough gal in her own right and not entirely dependent on Phyl to protect her interests.
For her part, Ella studied Calamity with equal interest. Shorter hair than the usual fashion, a tan to the skin that make-up on the face could not hide, hands roughened by hard work; all the signs of a girl who had spent some time in the female section of the State Penitentiary. A hard cuss, too, or Ella missed her guess. Maybe Phyl had come off easier than she deserved in twisting the newcomer’s arm. A telegraph message to the Golden Slipper would clear up the matter of why the girl left Austin. If, as Ella suspected, the town marshal saw the girl on her way for reasons of unproven dishonesty, well, the Cattle Queen had use for such talents.
“What’s your name?” Ella said.
“Marty Connelly.”
“All right, Marty. I’ll take you on. And get this, I run a quiet house. You don’t start lifting wallets, or finding a partner to run a badger game—and don’t try looking innocent with me—unless I give the word. There’s a small place out back, half-a-dozen rooms in it. If you want to sleep with any of the customers, you go there and do it through me and I get all you make. I’ll give you your cut out of it. Those are the terms. Take them or leave them.”
Wishing she knew more about the working conditions of saloon girls, Calamity did not reply for a moment. She hung her head and stared down at the floor, trying to decide what would be the best answer. Then she made her decision. Ella could not suspect her and be trying to lay a trap. Maybe the conditions might be a mite harsh but probably the saloon keeper figured a girl without money would be forced to accept them.
“All right, Miss Ella,” she said. “I’ll take on.”
“I figured you would,” Ella answered mockingly and Calamity knew her guess must be right. “What rooms have we vacant, Phyl?”
“Only Mousey’s,” Phyl replied. “I’ll put her there.”
“Huh huh,” Ella grunted and nodded her head. It might be as well to keep the new girl in ignorance of the saloon’s other business for a time and Mousey knew less than any of the other girls about what went on outside work hours. “See Marty steeled in, Phyl.”
“Sure, boss. Come on, Marty.”
In the passage, Phyl grinned at Calamity. “You’ll find Miss Ella a damned good boss to work for, as long as you play straight by her. If you don’t, me ’n’ Maisie, she’s the other boss gal’ll tend your needings and, kid, that’s painful.”
At that moment the tall, slim, untidy shape of Dean Soskice appeared at the stairhead. The young lawyer slouched along the passage by the two girls, glancing at Calamity in passing and walked toward Ella’s room, entering without knocking.
“Who’s he?” asked Calamity.
“The boss’s lawyer,” Phyl grunted. “So you just keep good and real respectful around him, Marty gal.”
