The Floating Outfit 19 Read online

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  Six feet three and built like Hercules, Mark Counter was certainly the most handsome of all the Floating Outfit’s members. Independently wealthy, he dressed elaborately, using the fancy clothes to set off his handsome and virile features.

  But Mark was more than just a Beau Brummell of the West. He could handle a rifle, or his matched guns, with more than ordinary skill. And he could handle women, too—as he proved when he met up with such charming ladies as Madame Bulldog, Calamity Jane, Poker Alice and Madame Moustache ...

  Part One – Better than Calamity

  Part Two – The Gamblers

  Copyright

  About J.T Edson

  The Floating Outfit Series

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  Part One – Better than Calamity

  The town’s usual crowd of loafers gathered at the Wells Fargo office to welcome the arrival of the west-bound stage. They watched the bouncing Concord stage roll to a halt, then waited to see who travelled aboard the coach. This day trade appeared to be bad, for only one passenger climbed down, a woman.

  In height she stood at most five foot four. A dainty, small and stylish hat sat her piled-up red hair. The good ladies of the crowd whispered amongst themselves that the hair must be tinted with henna, although this might have been no more than their catty way with anyone better favored in the matter of looks than themselves. Her face looked attractive, maybe not out and out beautiful, but still pleasant, with lips which looked like they were used to smiling, and sparkling blue eyes. She wore a black travelling outfit, stylish, costly and in good taste. It did tend to emphasize her plump build, but plumpness, especially the type which sported a large bosom, reasonably slender waist and full hips, was held to be the peak of feminine attraction in male eyes at this time.

  Her arrival stirred some speculation amongst the crowd, the more so as she appeared to be meaning to stay in Tennyson for some time. While they watched her baggage, including a large trunk, unloaded, the crowd speculated as to who she might be and why she came to their sleepy little Texas township. A variety of answers sprang to mind. That she was a rich widow come west to find a husband. She might be on the run from the law after some spectacular crime back east. Or she might, studying her calm poised assurance and good clothes, be a famous theatrical lady on a tour, although that did not explain why she stopped in Tennyson which boasted only one saloon and it rarely imported entertainment.

  They all studied the woman as eagerly as she ignored them, being more concerned with the unloading of her baggage. The women, still in their catty way, decided her age must be at least forty even though she looked in her middle thirties at most.

  From the pile of bags which heaped around the trunk, the woman took a small grip. She stepped to where the Wells Fargo agent stood signing the driver’s official delivery receipt book.

  “Can you have my gear taken to the Bull’s Head, Oscar?” she asked.

  “B-Bull’s Head?” squawked the agent, a thin, studious looking man whose name might well have been, but was not, Oscar. He heard the talk well up amongst the loafers at her words. “But that’s a saloon, ma’am.”

  “I knew that when I bought it.”

  She made her reply with calm assurance, in the manner of a woman who knew her way around and cared little for the type of public opinion expressed by the people who stood around the front of the Wells Fargo office.

  The watching and listening crowd stood, stared and talked amongst themselves discussing the woman’s statement. A small group of dried-up, vinegar faced women; wives, mothers, unmarried sisters or spinsters; gathered like vultures over a kill, clucking their tongues, shaking their heads and mumbling together.

  “Disgusting!”

  “Shocking!”

  “How could she!”

  “This is a disgrace!”

  If the red-haired woman heard the words—and they were repeated often or spoken loud enough for her to do so—she ignored them. After throwing a cool, contemptuous look at the women and seeing them for what they were, she dismissed them as being of no importance to her future.

  “Take hold of that bag there, Charlie,” she said with easy familiarity to one of the loafers, indicating the top piece of luggage. “Tote it to the Bull’s Head and there’ll be drinks all night for you tonight.”

  Although he noted an expression of disapproval amongst the crowd of women, the man eagerly grabbed the bag. He grunted as he felt its weight, but gritted his teeth manfully and set into the task of toting the bag and keeping pace with the redhead. With the looks of the good ladies of Tennyson bouncing unheeded from her back, she walked along the street, keeping from the warped sidewalk the better to study her surroundings. Her bag-carrier struggled gamely by her side, trying to impress her with his strength.

  “You aim to run the Bull’s Head yourself, ma’am?” he asked, gasping the words out.

  “I reckon so.”

  “It’s a tough joint. Reckon it got too much for Turner. That’s why he sold out.”

  For all the notice the woman took she might never have heard a word he said. Her eyes studied the length of Tennyson’s main street in one quick glance and then appeared to dismiss it. Not that Tennyson looked any better, or had anything more to offer than a thousand other such small towns which dotted the open range country from the east line of Texas to the Pacific Ocean. The building materials might differ, ranging from stone and logs in the north to pure adobe or adobe and wood in the south. The names on the business premises might change. Yet the layout still looked the same with the same kind of businesses, the bank, the undertaker’s shop, the saddler’s place of work, stores, town marshal’s office and jail, saloon, all in one way or another catering for the cowhand workers of the land.

  She saw all this, but mostly her attention fixed on the Bull’s Head Saloon. It looked to be a fair and substantial piece of structure, two floors high, with a veranda and rail for the upper floor’s rooms, allowing their occupants a chance to step out into the fresh air without needing to walk downstairs. The lower floor looked much as the front of any other saloon. A hitching rail lined the sidewalk edge. The big front windows were painted white over their lower halves so that minors could not see their elders enjoying the pleasures within. The batwing doors gave a main entrance into the bar-room.

  The red-haired woman looked at all this with the expression of a pilgrim getting his first sight of the promised land, or an immigrant seeing the shores of America for the first time.

  “Who’s your great seizer?” she asked.

  “Huh?” gasped the man, not sure he had heard right.

  “Lawman, town marshal, county sheriff, whatever you have here.”

  “Tune Counter, ma’am,” the man replied, wondering where this woman with her refined eastern clothes learned a western term for a law enforcement officer.

  “He all right?”

  “He’s square enough, ma’am. Tried to make Turner run an honest place.”

  Giving a grunt which might have meant anything, the woman paused for a moment to give the saloon a last long searching look. Then she stepped on to the sidewalk, crossing it with purposeful stride and thrust open the batwing doors.

  On the first glance the Bull’s Head did not look prosperous or busy. At the bar two waiters and a bartender idly matched throws with dice. Half a dozen girls in dresses with left arms, shoulders and half the swell of their bosoms bare to view and ended just below their knees, sat around a table talking to themselves. So far there did not appear to be a single customer in the big barroom. The faro layout had a cover over its tiger-decorated top, the vingt-un and chuck-a-luck outfits stood silent and unused and the wheel of fortune on its stand by th
e wall did not spin. For the rest of it, the long bar’s mirror showed no reflection of trade in progress and the shelves had few bottles on them. The doors leading to the outside world, the back rooms and the owner’s private office, were all closed and the stairs leading to the first floor lay silent.

  “Four fours to beat,” said the bartender, from his place on the sober side of the counter. Then he threw a glance at the batwing doors to see who entered at this unexpected hour. He dropped the dice cup to the counter, staring at the door. The expression on his face brought every other eye to the entrance and the shape standing just inside.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” one of the waiters said. “You got the wrong place. The hotel’s down the street a piece, this-here’s a saloon.”

  “I didn’t buy it for a church-hall,” replied the red-haired woman, walking forward and looking around with some interest.

  At their table the girls stared. The big, good looking blonde’s story of how she had been in Quiet Town during the wild days before Dusty Fog tamed it, died on her lips. She studied the newcomer with cold and calculating eyes. She saw the others looking at her and read their challenge for her to get up and do something. Shoving back her chair, she rose to meet the challenge. Then she stepped before the redhead with insolence showing in every inch of her frame.

  An expectant, tense air filled the room. The workers and the townsman who carried the redhead’s bag all knew Viola to be a real tough cookie and the boss-girl by the combined virtue of her skill in a hair-yanking brawl and having been Turner’s girl-friend before he left. Viola had been treated with some favor under Turner’s wing and she doubted if the same would apply with a female boss.

  “You bought this place, did you?” she asked, planting herself full in the other woman’s path, standing with hands on hips and legs braced apart, between the redhead and the bar.

  Slowly the woman looked Viola up and down. Just as slowly she swung the grip on to the nearest table.

  “I did.”

  “Well I don’t like the idea of taking orders from a dame.”

  “Don’t, huh?”

  Speaking mildly and giving no warning of what she aimed to do, the redhead gave her employees a sign of how things would be run in the future. Her right hand folded into a fist and came around fast. She swung the fist like she knew what she was doing. It drove around, she dropped her shoulder behind the blow as it smashed with the power of a mule-kick against the side of Viola’s jaw.

  In his time the bardog had seen many a beautiful punch thrown and that right swing handed out by the redhead was as good as any he had seen from woman or man.

  It landed well and squarely, spun Viola around on her heels, propelled her across the room to crash into the bar. Viola hung there for a moment, eyes glassy and mouth hanging open. Then slowly she slid to the floor, hanging with one arm draped over the brass foot-rail.

  A stunned silence followed the crack of the blow and Viola’s involuntary trip to the bar. Everyone in the room watched as the redhead took up her bag and crossed to where Viola sprawled in a limp pile on the floor. For a moment they expected the woman to drive a high-buttoned shoe into Viola’s unprotected body. She did no such thing.

  Placing her grip on the bar, the redhead bent and hauled Viola away from the foot-rail and turned her face up. Then she looked at the bartender and said:

  “Have you a bucket of water back there, Henry?”

  “Yes’m,” he replied, deciding this was not the time to point out his name was Sam.

  Reaching down he lifted the bucket of water used for washing the glasses during business hours. He placed it on the bar-top from whence the woman lifted it one-handed, making no strain of it even though the full bucket weighed heavy. She gripped the bucket by handle and bottom, then up-ended it, pouring the water over Viola’s head and shoulders.

  With a gasp, followed by a spluttering squeal, Viola recovered and forced herself into a sitting position. Her head spun and she put a hand to a jaw which felt a good three times its normal size. Then she sniffed and started to wail in pain and humiliation.

  The redhead bent forward, dug a hand into Viola’s soaking hair and lifted her to her feet, then shoved her back against the bar. Hands on hips the newcomer studied Viola.

  “The name’s Madam Bulldog,” said the redhead. “I’m your new boss. Got it?”

  For a moment Viola clung to the bar, sniffing tears and staring at the other woman. Viola might have always been the boss’ favorite and real tough in her own right, but she knew when to yell ‘calf rope’ and surrender. From the look of her, Madam Bulldog was more than ready and willing to wade in tooth and claw, or with those same hard fists to prove her point and make sure Viola ‘got it’. After one sample Viola wanted no more.

  “I got it,” she mumbled through a jaw which hurt when she spoke.

  Madam Bulldog turned to face the other girls, looking them over in the same impersonal manner.

  “Anybody else need convincing?”

  “No ma’am,” answered the girls in chorus. They had seen Viola yell, “calf rope” and needed no more convincing.

  Turning once more to the bar Madam Bulldog looked around her. “Where did Turner room?” she asked.

  “I’ll show you,” Viola replied, working on the sound principle of “If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.”

  “I want to see all that staff here in a couple of hours,” Madam told the bartender. “Who’s been running things since Turner left?”

  “I have,” replied the bartender, thinking of the profit which slipped into his pocket since Turner departed the scene hurriedly and wondering if she would find out about it.

  “Then I want to see you and the books in the office when I come down,” she said and pointed to the man who carried her bags. “See that gent has free drinks all night tonight.”

  With that she turned and nodded to Viola who led her upstairs. Viola looked a little guilty and worried as she opened the door to Turner’s room, for her belongings lay scattered about.

  “I used it after Joe—Mr. Turner left,” she said.

  “And while he was here, I wouldn’t be surprised,” answered Madam Bulldog dryly. “And don’t try to look shocked or innocent. If you’re innocent, I am; and it’d take a damned sight more than that to shock me. Get your gear cleared out this afternoon so I can move in. And I’d better know your name.”

  “Viola.”

  “You’re the boss girl?”

  “I was,” agreed Viola, a trifle bitter at her loss of face and station in life.

  “You still are. You’ll get ten dollars a week over the pay the other girls make and you’ll earn it. I expect you to keep the girls in line and see there’s no trouble. None of you roll drunks, go on the streets, or make fuss with the town women. Can you handle it?”

  Viola nodded. She had never been paid extra, nor had any special duties under Turner’s control. However, she reckoned she would be able to handle things the way her new boss wanted them handling.

  “Then make a start at clearing the room out,” said Madam Bulldog. “I’ll move in after I’ve attended to a few things.”

  Saying this Madam Bulldog turned and headed down-stairs once more, still carrying her small grip. She went straight to the office, halted at the door to tell the waiters to close the main doors and keep customers out, then went inside to interview the sweating bartender. He indicated the safe, its door standing open, and the books which lay on the desk top ready for her inspection.

  “I only want to get an idea of what trade Turner did here,” she remarked. “I expect you made a reasonable profit out of running things. And don’t look so pained, you’d have been a fool not to. I only bought the building and fittings. From what I can see you ran the place all right so you’re welcome to whatever you made. If you want a drink, go get one. Then let’s talk.”

  It became clear that Madam Bulldog knew more than a little about running a saloon. She asked pertinent questions about trade, the customers,
sources of liquor supplies, how they stood with the local citizens. She also discovered the bartender’s name to be Sam, not Henry.

  “I don’t want any customer to complain of short measure, short change, spiked drinks or anything,” she warned at the end of her check. “You order what fresh liquor supplies we need this afternoon. Now let’s take a look at the games.”

  Her inspection of the decks of cards proved she knew more than a little about such things. She examined the cards, studying the designs on their backs, then riffling them through her fingers, watching the designs flip by and alert for any sign of irregularity which would warn her the cards had been marked.

  One thing caught Madam Bulldog’s eye immediately, the cards lay in two separate piles. After her inspection she waved a hand to the left hand pile.

  “Get rid of ’em,” she ordered, watching the bartender’s face and ready to take action if he objected.

  “Sure, boss,” Sam replied instantly and in a manner which told her he had nothing to do with the ownership of the cards.

  She threw a look at the small group of workers who sat around, seeing they all watched her with interest but not animosity. They most likely wondered what changes she intended to make and how those changes would affect them.

  “Who handles the gambling, Sam?” she asked.

  “Feller called Wallace. Took a percentage cut with Turner.”

  “I hope he’s another place marked down,” she said quietly.

  They went to the chuck-a-luck table but Madam’s thorough inspection found nothing in either its operation of dice to meet with her disapproval although the layout of numbers needed their odds corrected to give the players a fair chance. The Vingt-un layouts needed only honest decks of cards to make them satisfactory. However, the wheel of fortune had a concealed control button connected to springs and wires which took all the chance from its operation as far as the house was concerned. A quick rip tore the wires loose and Sam beat his boss to the move. Madam Bulldog nodded her agreement and they headed for the faro layout.