disapproval from good ladies when Calamity passed by. Not that Calamity usually gave a damn about how folks regarded her style of dress. She wore men’s clothing because she did a man’s job and only donned the skirt as a piece of simple disguise which appeared to have fooled the four Mexicans.
Calamity had been on her way to Austin with a wagon-load of supplies, handling a contract for her boss, Dobe Killem, and decided to call in to visit with her friends, Dai and Blodwin Jones. On her arrival she found the Jones’ had gone into Austin that morning, but with frontier hospitality they left the house open and food around for any chance-passing stranger to take a meal. Being hungry and trail-dirty, Calamity decided to night at the house. After caring for the team which drew her big Conestoga wagon, Calamity took a bath in the Jones family’s swimming hole behind the house—leaving her gunbelt with its ivory butted Navy Colt, Winchester carbine and bull whip in the boot of the wagon. Like a danged fool green kid fresh out from the East, she did not collect the weapons before entering the house and cooking up a meal.
Not until she heard the hooves of the Mexicans’ horses and looked from the window did Calamity realize the full gravity of her mistake. One glance told the range-wise Calamity all she needed to know about the visitors and she did not like the thought. The Jones’ had taken their weapons with them when they headed for town. Nobody left guns, ammunition, powder and lead around an empty house. Even so close to Austin, capital city of the State of Texas, there was always a chance of an Indian raid and no Texan wanted to present a bunch of hostiles with free firearms. Calamity did not even consider using one of the butcher knives to defend herself. Mexicans were a nation of knife-fighters and she would have no chance against them using cold steel. Nor did she commit the folly of dashing out to her wagon. Before she could make it, the
Thinking fast, Calamity headed for the Jones’ bedroom and grabbed one of Blodwin’s skirts. Blodwin stood a few inches taller than Calamity and the extra length of the skirt hid the fact that Calamity wore men’s pants and Pawnee moccasins, then she waited for the Mexicans to arrive.
On their arrival, the four men had been all politeness. Choya, he appeared to be their leader, greeted her in fair English, asking if the
Carefully avoiding turning to where the fat man searched the side-piece’s drawers, Calamity watched and waited. With the meal all but over, she figured it would not be long before the men decided to make their play. If she hoped to come out of the affair with her life, she must act soon, fast and right.
“There’s nothing here, Choya,” the fat man stated in Spanish. “No money, no guns. Nothing for us.”
“She may know where there is something,” Choya answered. “It will be amusing to find out, hey, Manuel?”
Swallowing a mouthful of food, the fourth member of the party ogled Calamity with evil eyes. “It will,” he agreed. “Who is first?”
“Me,” said the fat man.
“You was first last time, Ramon,” Manuel objected.
Calamity knew it was now or never. While the conversation had been in Spanish, which she did not speak, her instincts warned her of its meaning. One did not need the powers of a Pawnee witch-woman to figure out what lay in the Mexicans’ minds, it showed too plainly on their faces for that.
Slowly she lifted the lid of the coffeepot, as if to check on the level of its contents. Among other unladylike things, her freight outfit friends had taught her a thorough working knowledge of the game of poker, including the art of hiding the emotions; and she used all her skill to prevent herself giving any hint of her intentions. Ramon still stood at the far side of the room by the side-piece and, if Calamity be any kind of judge on such matters, his holster did not look to be the type from which a Colt could be drawn speedily. Of the two men at the table, Choya struck Calamity as being the most dangerous and the one to be taken out of the game first.
With that thought in mind, Calamity acted. Suddenly, and without giving a hint of her intentions, she hurled the contents of the coffeepot into Choya’s face. Almost half a pot full of very hot coffee caught the man, temporarily blinding him. Jerking back, hands clawing at his face, Choya threw over his chair and crashed to the floor.
Manuel gave an explosive Spanish curse, shoving his chair back and starting to rise. Even as the man’s hand went toward his gun, Calamity, moving with the speed of urgent desperation, turned from Choya and met the fresh menace. Pivoting around, Calamity swung her arm at and crashed the bottom of the coffeepot into Manuel’s face. Calamity had worked hard ever since her sixteenth birthday and had real strong arms. So as she hit to hurt, Manuel knew the blow landed. Blood gushing from his nose, Manuel went over backward smashing the chair under him and sprawled on to the floor.
With the two men at the table handled, Calamity gave Ramon her full and undivided attention. The fat man had been taken completely by surprise by the unexpected turn of events and, as Calamity figured, could not get out his gun with any speed. Not that he bothered; instead his hand dropped and drew a wicked, spear-pointed knife from its boot-top sheath. Whipping back her arm, Calamity hurled the coffeepot at Ramon’s head and for a girl she could aim mighty straight. Even at the width of the cabin, the flying coffeepot landed hard enough to hurt and slowed down Ramon’s attempt at retaliatory measures. The coffeepot’s blow did little actual damage, but it brought Calamity a vital couple of seconds time—and at that moment every second gained was precious.
Snarling with rage, Ramon sprang forward. Not at the girl, but toward the door of the cabin; meaning to block her way out for Calamity was heading toward it. Only Calamity had already thought of and discarded the idea of using the door as a means of egress. Instead she headed for the window nearest to her. Covering her head with her arms, she hurled herself forward, passing through the window and taking both glass and sash with her. The way Calamity saw things, the Jones’ window could be far more easily replaced than the damage those four yahoos would inflict should they lay hands on her.
Sailing through the window, Calamity lit down rolling like she had come off a bad horse. She went under the porch rail and landed on her feet beyond it. Wasting no time, she headed on the run for her wagon. From the corner of her eye, she saw the cabin door fly open and Ramon appeared. The Mexican came knife in hand, a trickle of blood running from his forehead where the coffeepot struck him.
Calamity reached the wagon and despite the awkwardness of wearing a skirt, leapt for the box. Even as she swung on to it, a glance to the rear told her how little time she had to save herself. Ramon had halted and already changed his hold on the knife, gripping it by the point of the blade instead of the hilt. While not the brightest of men, he could figure out that the girl did not head for the wagon in a state of blind panic. She must be after a weapon of some kind and he aimed to throw the knife, downing her before she reached whatever she sought in the wagon.
Grabbing for the nearest of her weapons, Calamity caught up the long bull whip’s handle. Even as Ramon prepared to throw his knife, Calamity struck out. Her right hand rose, carrying the whip up and flicking its lash behind her. Down swept the arm, sending the whip’s lash curling forward. An instant before Ramon made his throw, the tip of the lash caught him in the face, splattering his right eyeball as if it had been struck by the full force of a .44 bullet. Ramon screamed, the knife falling from his fingers as they clawed at his injured face.
For a moment Calamity thought that her luck had changed for the better. While she could handle her bull whip real well, there had not been time to take a careful aim. She just let fly and hoped for the best. Having a bull whip give its explosive pop within inches of one’s head did not make for steady nerves or accurate aim when tossing a knife; so Calamity merely hoped to put Ramon off his aim, causing him to miss his throw, and give her the short time needed to change whip for carbine. From the way that fat jasper screeched and blood spurted between his fingers, she had done a whole lot better than just put him off by a near miss.
A bullet ripped the air by Calamity’s head even as she swung around to drop the whip and grab up her Winchester. Once again, as she had several times before, Calamity decided there was no sound in the world she hated as much as the flat “splat!” sound of a close-passing bullet. Throwing a glance at the shooter, Calamity found she was not yet out of the woods. Gomez stood at the corner of the cabin, holding up his pants with one hand, lining his gun at her with the other. He stood well beyond the range of her whip and handled that smoking Starr Army revolver like he knew which end the bullets came from. What was more, he took careful aim, not meaning to
