A shudder ran through Calamity as the noose slackened, but she fought down her fears. Thinking fast, she came up with a possible solution.
“Kicking won’t work,” she said. “Try again.”
On the next try Calamity made an attempt at stepping to one side. She hoped to pull the cord from Holgate’s shoulder. However, she made a mistake by stepping to her right and this only drew the cord tighter.
“That won’t work,” St. Andre warned as the cord slackened.
“I kinda figured that myself,” admitted Calamity.
“Try stepping to your left next time. It might pull the cords off his shoulder.”
“Let me catch my breath first. Then we’ll try it your way, Sherry.”
An expression of admiration came to Holgate’s face as he coiled the cord and watched Calamity pick up her cigar.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Calamity,” he said. “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever seen or met.”
“Feel free to say it any time,” she replied, hoping she was not blushing at the praise. “Only I’m not being brave. I’m just a half-smart lil country gal trying to act all smart and save her fool neck.”
“If you’re a half-smart country girl,” St. Andre put in, “I’d hate to come across a smart one.”
“Or I,” Holgate went on. “Any time you need a job, come and see me. I could use you as mate on my ship.”
“Let’s make another stab at escaping,” Calamity put in hurriedly and knew she was blushing now.
Even stepping to the left did not provide the necessary solution to the problem, for the cord would not slide off of Holgate’s shoulder and only drew tighter. Calamity let out an exasperated snort when released.
“Say, do you have that itty-bitty stingy gun with you, Sherry?” she asked.
“Of course,” St. Andre answered, taking out his Smith & Wesson.
“Unload it. Let’s try something else. Maybe if I’d a gun in my reticule, I could get it out and use it.”
“It’s worth a try,” the detective admitted. “I’ve got the dead girl’s reticule in my desk, seeing that you didn’t bring one along.”
“It don’t go with pants and a shirt,” explained the fashion-conscious Miss Canary and looked at Holgate. “You’ll have to hold the cord a mite longer this time.”
After St. Andre unloaded his revolver, he took the reticule from the desk’s drawer, handing weapon and bag to the girl. Calamity double-checked on the empty condition of the gun, a safety precaution St. Andre approved of, then placed the revolver into the bag and drew tight the draw-strings which closed the neck of the reticule.
“Let’s go,” she said, standing with the reticule swinging by its strings from her left wrist.
Once more the noose dropped into place and even as it did, Calamity grabbed for the reticule with her right hand. She tried to move fast, but not fumble, yet for all that she barely slid her hand into the reticule before the cord around her throat drew tight. She found that the sudden cutting off of her breath, even though she expected it, induced a state of near-panic which prevented her thinking. Desperately she began to struggle against the choking of the cord.
“Let loose!” St. Andre yelled.
Holgate obeyed instantly and Calamity sank to her knees, hands jerking the cord and bandana from her throat. Both men moved to her side and gentle hands lifted her to a chair. The roaring in her head subsided and she saw two worried faces before her.
“That’s all,
cherie
,” St. Andre announced grimly.
“I just didn’t move fast enough,” she objected.
“And the Strangler will be moving much faster than I did,” Holgate pointed out. “Surely there’s some other way. Can’t your men stick closer to her?”
“Not as close as they’d have to be to make it safe, or the Strangler would see them, especially in the Park.”
“How well can Raoul Redon and the other boys shoot?” asked Calamity.
“Fairly well,” answered St. Andre.
“Well enough to pick the Strangler off me from thirty yards at least on a moonlight night?”
“
Sacre blue
!” gasped the detective. “I doubt it. Hey, how about one of your friends with the freight outfit?”
For a moment loyalty to her friends warred with common sense and in the end common sense won. While Calamity hated to admit it, she doubted if even Dobe Killem could handle a revolver that well. A rifle maybe; but one did not see folks walking around in New Orleans with a rifle tucked under an arm. To have one of the boys do so would attract too much attention.
“None of ‘em could do it. There’s none of the boys can handle a gun that good.”
“Or my men,” St. Andre admitted.
“It’s a pity you don’t have one of those Western gunfighters here,” Holgate remarked.
“Somebody like Dusty Fog, you m—.”
St. Andre’s sentence never ended. Giving a whoop like a drunk Pawnee coming to a pow wow, Calamity sprang forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a resounding kiss.
“That’s it, Sherry!” she whooped. “If there’s any way of getting out of the cord, old Dusty’ll be the one to know it.”
“Dusty Fog is not in New Orleans,” St. Andre pointed out.
“Some detective,” sniffed Calamity. “Don’t they have a telegraph office in this fancy big city?”
“It’s a chance,” St. Andre admitted. “Captain Fog knows that strange way of fighting. He might be able to come up with the answer. We’ll get off a message to him right away. But if he doesn’t come up with the answer, we’ll call off the whole thing.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ST. ANDRE turned to Calamity as they left the telegraph office after dispatching the request for advice to Dusty Fog in the Rio Hondo country of Texas.
“That is that, cherie,” he said. “The answer will be sent over to my office as soon as it arrives.”
“If Dusty’s at the OD Connected, we’ll get an answer right soon,” Calamity replied. “What’re you going to do now?”
“Make another tour of the Latour Street district and see if I can find anybody ready to talk about a missing girl. And you?”
“There’s no use in my going with you. Happen the Strangler should see us together in daylight, he might be able to recognise me later, even through that blonde hair and paint.”
“You could take up Captain Holgate’s offer of a tour of inspection of the
China Star
,” St. Andre suggested, for the captain had made the offer before leaving Headquarters to rejoin his ship.
“Sure I could. Might do that later. Only right now I’ve a hankering to see what kind of hosses the Army brought us down here to collect.”
“Then I’ll see you—.”
“Tonight, same as last,” Calamity finished for him. “We’ll just have to play ‘em as they fall until we get word from Dusty.”
Seeing there was no chance of changing Calamity’s mind, and knowing she would probably be stubborn enough to go without an escort, St. Andre surrendered. He hailed a passing cab and handed the girl into it, then gave the driver instructions where to take her.
“Until tonight then,
cherie
,” St. Andre finished, taking the girl’s hand and kissing it.
“Yep,” agreed Calamity. “Hooray wah! Hey, what do you know, I talk French now.”
Standing on the sidewalk, St. Andre watched the cab pull away. Maybe Miss Martha Jane Canary lacked most of the social graces, but there would never be another girl like her. With that thought St. Andre turned and looked for transportation to take him on what his instincts told him would be another dud quest to learn the identity of the Strangler’s victims.
The cab carried Calamity towards the waterfront area. Cattle and other livestock came into New Orleans and an open section of the docks had been given over to pens. Leaving the cab, Calamity walked towards the largest of the pens and as she drew close, the wind wafted the smell of horses to her nostrils. Calamity sucked in the aroma as eagerly as a bluetick hound hitting hot cougar scent. In her imagination, she was carried back to her beloved West. Suddenly Calamity felt homesick for the rolling Great Plains country. She longed to feel leather in her hands as she handled the ribbons of her big Conestoga wagon’s team, feel the sun on her head, the wind or rain in her face. The big city was not for Calamity Jane and never would be. She hated the never-ending rush and bustle of New Orleans, where folks hardly had time to stop and talk a spell. Out on the Great Plains everything seemed calmer, more friendly, cleaner. Even death came openly on the Plains, from bullet, arrow, knife or war-lance, not sneaking, unseen, silent and cowardly as the Strangler’s whipcord noose.
“Now easy there, Calam gal,” she told herself. “You’ve had some fun here too.”
A young cavalry lieutenant, far more tidy and glittering than the junior officers Calamity had met on the Plains, stood by Dobe Killem’s side at the largest of the coral-like pens. Turning from their study of the forty or so horses in the pen, both men looked in Calamity’s direction and Killem raised his hand in greeting.
“Hi there, Calam gal,” he said. “Come on up and get acquainted with Lootenant Bristow.”
Trying not to stare too pointedly at Calamity’s shapely figure and unorthodox dress style, Bristow bowed as taught at West Point.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” he said.
“Reckon it is,” grinned the girl and thrust out her right hand. Hurriedly Bristow jerked off his right gauntlet and accepted the girl’s hand. With the formalities tended to, Calamity turned and swung up on the pen’s top rail to study the horses.
“What do you think of them, Miss Canary?” Bristow inquired.
“They look a mite small to me. Can’t see one as goes fifteen hands even.”
“We didn’t buy them for great size, but for their hooves.”
Ducking between the rails, Calamity entered the corral. Unlike Western horses, the animals in the pen showed no desire to avoid human beings, allowing Calamity to approach them. Although the girl had not worn her gunbelt that morning, the bullwhip was thrust into her waist belt. Pulling the whip out, she made a loop of part of its lash and dropped it over the head of the nearest horse. Holding the animal, Calamity glanced down, then bent to take a closer look at its hooves.
Full of male superiority, Bristow joined Calamity in the pen and pointed down at what interested the girl.
“That’s why the Army bought these horses,” he explained. “They’re called muck-ponies and bred between here and Florida. See the sizes of the hooves?”
“I’d be hard put not to.”
“Despite the size, the foot is light, yet, tough,” Bristow went on, lifting the horse’s near fore leg to emphasise his point. “See the small size of the frog? It leaves a deep hollow into which mud can pack tight enough to support the horse’s weight when crossing ground into which an animal with a normal hoof would sink belly deep. Why, I’ve seen muck ponies canter across swampy ground and quicksands that would mire down any other horse, and carrying weight too.”
“That’d be real useful,” answered Calamity, “in swampy country. Only we’re a mite long on swamps on the Great Plains.”
“You have snow there.”
“Yep, reckon we do. It gets real de—Hey, you mean that the army figures using these hosses for a winter campaign again the Injuns?”
“Something like that,” Bristow agreed. “You know as well as I do that the campaign against the Indians is almost brought to a halt with the snows of winter?”
“Reckon it is,” the girl admitted, releasing the horse.
“We hope the muck ponies will enable us to carry on the offensive through the winter. That’s why we bought them.”
“Now me,” grinned Calamity, “I thought that some general’d bred too many hosses and wanted to sell ‘em fast.”
Bristow eyed Calamity coldly and stiffened slightly, for he was still fresh enough from West Point to take himself and life very seriously. Before he could think up a sufficiently chilling response to her remark, he saw something which made him let the matter slide. A two-horse carriage driven by a grizzled infantry sergeant approached, in it sat a tall, slim major-general, a plump, motherly-looking woman and a pretty girl dressed to the height of fashion.
“Excuse me, Miss Canary,” Bristow said stiffly, then turned and left the pen. Watching him go, Calamity coiled her whip and thrust it into her waist band. “Damn fool gal!” she told herself. “That big mouth of your’n’ll get you hung one of these days.”
Following Bristow from the corral, Calamity leaned on the rail and watched the young officer march smartly to the carriage and throw a parade-ground salute to the general.
“At ease, Douglas,” the general said. “We came down to see that horse I had shipped in for Aileen’s birthday.”
“Mr. Killem cut it out for me, sir. I had it put in the smaller, empty pen.”
“Good horse?”
“A fine animal, sir, but a touch high spirited.”
“How about the others, Dobe?” asked the general, turning to the freighter.
“I’ve looked ‘em over, General,” Killem replied. “They’re in good shape. I reckon we’ll still have some alive when we reach St. Jo.”
“They’d better be, or I’ll be coming to you for employment,” grinned General Furlong. “This idea is costing money and Congress hates spending that on the Army in times of peace.”
“Reckon those muck-ponies’ll do what you want?” asked Calamity.
“I hope so. The main idea came from Sheridan, I believe. If the ponies can take the cold, they might help us hit at the Indians during winter.”
“May we see my new horse, papa?” Aileen Furlong asked.
“That’s what we’re here for,” the General replied.
Although nobody asked her, Calamity accompanied Furlong’s party to one of the other pens. Hooking a foot on to the bottom rail, Calamity studied the fifteen hand black gelding inside. She liked what she saw and to her way of thinking there stood a tolerable piece of horse-flesh, dainty, shapely, proud and spirited. The kind of animal one would pick as a go-to-town horse, yet capable of doing a hard day’s work.
“He’s a beauty, papa,” Aileen gasped. “May I try him?”
“You’re hardly dressed for riding, dear,” her mother put in.
“And the horse is too much for a woman yet, Aileen,” Bristow went on. “It needs gentling before you use it.”
“Nonsense!” Aileen snorted. “I’ve been riding—.”
“I’d rather see the horse ridden before we make any decisions,” interrupted Furlong. “I’d ask you if you weren’t in uniform, Douglas. How about it, Dobe?”
At which point Calamity put her bill in. While not setting up as a militant feminist who believed she could do anything a man could and better, Calamity took a dim view of Furlong and Bristow’s display of arrogant male superiority. And with Miss Martha Jane Canary to take a dim view of anything was to act in an attempt to clear her vision.
“Hell, Dobe totes too much lard to ride a hoss that size,” she said. “I’ll go in and ‘three-saddle’ it for you.”
All eyes turned to the girl and grins creased the faces of the two older men, although Bristow clearly did not approve of Calamity’s free and easy attitude. Having been on the Great Plains with her husband, Mrs. Furlong had lost any snobbish ideas of class-distinction she once possessed, so she smiled at the Western girl’s speech. Aileen was young enough to regard Calamity as daring, modern and unconventional—in which she did Calamity an injustice—so must also be someone to respect.
“I could have one of the regimental horse-masters take it in hand, sir,” Bristow suggested.
“And they’d spoil it for the gal,” Calamity sniffed. “They’re all right for busting a hoss so some lead-butted recruit can sit it, but that black wants gentler handling.”
While General Furlong would not openly admit it, he knew army trainers were of necessity often heavy-handed in their training methods and tended to break rather than gentle a horse. Such treatment would ruin the black for his daughter’s use. Anyway, it might be fun to see if Calamity Jane stacked up as high as Dobe Killem claimed for her.
“Do you have a saddle here?” he asked.
“The boys rode down this morning, their rigs are hanging on the rail at the big pen,” answered Calamity. “Happen Mr. Killem’ll act like a lil gentleman and fetch one over for me, I’ll go catch me a hoss.”
“I’ll tend to it,” grinned Killem.
Swinging into the pen, Calamity walked across the hard-packed ground towards the horse. However, the black did not wish to be caught and had room in which to manoeuvre. Showing a neat use of speed and the ability to turn on a dime, the horse refused to be caught for a time. This made Calamity use some choice language not often heard on the lips of a young lady and caused Aileen to jerk up her fan to hide her smile. A small crowd of loafers, the kind of men who gathered everywhere when given a chance of watching other people work, stood around the pen and sniggers sounded.
“All right!” Calamity snorted, coming to a halt and eyeing the horse. “If that’s how want it.”
Drawing her bull whip free, she shook out the lash then sent it snaking through the air to coil around the black’s neck. Outside the pen Aileen gave a little shriek of dismay, while Bristow gave an angry snort aimed to let folks know his lack of faith in Calamity had been justified. General Furlong, a man with some knowledge of horses, noted that the black did not scream or show any sign of pain as the whip landed.
“Ooh!” gasped Aileen. “Did you see that?”
“It’s—,” her father began.
Before the General could say more, Calamity raised her voice in a lady-like plea for assistance.
“Dobe! You and that shavetail shove your tired butt-ends over here and lend me a hand to toss leather on this fool critter!”
“Be right there, gal,” Killem chorused back and held the saddle he carried in Bristow’s direction. “Here, bring this in. I’ll toss a rope on that black.”
From the quiet manner in which the horse stood after feeling the whip’s lash coil around its neck, Calamity decided it had been rope-broke at least. However, her whip could not hope to equal a sixty foot length of hard-plaited manila rope when it came to holding a horse, so she raised no objections when Killem joined her and dabbed a loop on the black’s neck. Calamity shook free, coiled and belted the whip. Clearly the horse did not intend to stand mildly and have the saddle fixed on it. In fact the black kicked up quite a commotion and attracted more loafers to see the fun.
“We’ll have to ear him down,” Kiilem stated, bracing himself against the pull of the horse and watching Calamity and Bristow’s tries at getting the saddle in position.
“I’ll tend to it!” whooped Calamity.
Watching her chance, the girl darted forward and grabbed to catch the rearing black by one ear. Making her catch, she reached around, took hold of the other ear and used her weight to get the black on to all four feet again. Calamity felt the horse strain against her grasp and as a further inducement to good behaviour took hold of the tip of the nearest ear between her teeth. Apparently the horse knew what Calamity’s action meant, for it stopped struggling and avoided taking further pain. For all his smart and pompous manner, Bristow moved fast. Although he was more used to the Army’s McClennan saddle, he wasted no time in swinging the range rig into place and securing it on the black.
While this went on, Tophet Tombes had returned from checking on the flatboats in which the horses would be transported north. He was on the opposite side of the corral to Furlong’s party, but leaned on the rail among the loafers to watch the fun. A trio of burly, hard-looking men stood close by him. Brutal and coarse though they looked, all wore better clothing than the crowd around them. The tallest of the party had a livid weal running from the right temple across to below the lobe of his left ear. Nor were his friends clean of face, for one sported a swollen, cut lip and black eye, while the other’s nose looked enlarged from some recent damage. Tombes noticed none of this, being more interested in watching the saddling of the black and awaiting Calamity showing those city folks a thing or two about the art of horse-handling Western style.
Never one to disappoint an audience, Calamity fixed herself to give the onlookers a good show. First she checked that the horse’s saddle sat just as she wanted it, then fitted the bridle in place and cast off Killem’s rope. Gripping the saddlehorn and reins, Calamity went afork the horse in a lithe bound.
“Yeeagh!” she yelled and rammed both heels into the horse’s ribs, causing Killem and Bristow to make hurried dives towards the pen’s rails.
It took but three bucking jumps to tell Calamity that the horse had already been ‘three-saddled’, ridden by a buster the three times which were all considered necessary out West for the horse to be ready to hand on to its regular owner. However, the black proved to be a show bucker, tucking its nose between its front legs, arching its back and going high but straight forward. While such a style looked highly spectacular, especially to an audience who saw few such sights, it was not difficult for a skilled rider to handle. Calamity knew that as long as she did not fall asleep, she could stay afork the black and would not wind up eating pen-dirt without stooping for it.
Not that Calamity was content merely to take the conceit and bed-springs out of the black’s belly in solid chunks. To whet the appetites of the crowd, she pretended to be losing her seat, waving as if off balance. A yell of applause rose as she fought her way back into control.
“Dang that Calamity,” grinned Killem. “She’ll bust her fool neck one of these fine days.”
“I’ve never seen such a splendid rider,” Aileen breathed back.
“Likely,” grunted the big freighter, for he knew a show bucker when he saw one. “Stay with it, Calam gal!”
However, the horse decided to call it a day. Having been ‘three-saddled’, the black horse knew better than fight against the inevitable, and its snuffy nature sprang more from not being worked recently than out of a bad spirit. So, finding its rider clearly intended to stay afork, the black stopped fighting. Calamity fanned the horse’s ears with her hat and jabbed moccasined heels into its ribs, but to no avail. Never one to punish a horse for showing a little spirit, she rode the black to the side of the pen and dropped from the saddle.
“There you are,” she said to Aileen. “You’ve got a good hoss here, gal.”
“I’ll walk him until he cools, Aileen,” Bristow put in and swung into the pen to take the black’s reins from Calamity.
“Thank you for riding the horse, Miss—,” Aileen began.
“Never been one for ‘Missing’, unless I don’t like the other gal,” Calamity interrupted. “Call me Calam.”
“Thank you, Calamity,” smiled Aileen. “I thought when you used the whip—.”
Aileen’s words trailed off again, for she did not know how to express her fears and wondered if Calamity might take offence at criticism.