Free The Bullwhip Breed by J. T. Edson

her hand in a slap which caught the other across the cheek. Showing superb timing, Calamity released the girI’s hair and the force of the slap sent the pickpocket staggering ,ackwards. After taking several steps to the rear, the girl tripped nd landed hard, rump-first on the floor at the centre of the open area.
    Spitting curses, the girl started to rise. She was slightly taller and heavier than Calamity and noted for being a tough dame when riled, which same she appeared to be at the moment. An air of eager anticipation ran through the room. On the upper-class dais all chatter stopped and every eye turned to the dance floor. Predatory interest crept on to the men’s faces—although the upper-crust males were not alone in that—and the women pretended to be shocked at the sight, while waiting eagerly to see the next drama of raw, lower-strata life being played before them.
    Even as the dark-haired girl prepared to throw herself at Calamity and take revenge for the slap, a deep voice boomed out a warning.
    “All right, my children! Enough of this folly.”
    Calamity took her eyes from the other girl for long enough to glance quickly at the speaker. From the authoritative tones, she could have guessed it to be the mountainous Madam Darcel who spoke. The big woman bore down on the girls like a battleship in full sail. While in the girl’s toilet Calamity had removed her jacket and carried it back. The tight fitting shirt and levis left no doubt as to her sex. She did not relax, but kept her attention on the other girl after her quick glance in Madam Darcel’s direction.
    Instead of throwing herself at Calamity, the dark-haired girl prepared to bluff her way out. Still crouched ready to spring, the girl turned a sullen, defiant face, that bore just a hint of fear, to her employer.
    “What is all this about?” Madam Darcel went on.
    “That dame grabbed me—!” began the saloon-girl.
    “Sure I did,” agreed Calamity and pointed to the wallet lying on the floor. “Do you let your gals lift wallets from the customers?”
    Throwing a scared glance at the big shape of Madam Darcel, the saloon-girl gave a screech of, “It’s a lie!” and threw herself at Calamity, hoping the ensuing fracas might silence the red-head and evade the issue of whether she stole the wallet. Only she did not reach Calamity with her talon-like, grabbing hands.
    With a surge of her shoulder, Madam Darcel propelled her big right fist forward so it crashed on to the saloon-girl’s jaw. The force of the blow sent the girl shooting off course even before Calamity could take steps to meet the attack and the pickpocket landed on the dance floor, sliding almost to the bar before coming to a stop in a limp heap.
    Calamity studied the blow with the air of a connoisseur. While it looked just a touch slow, that right hand packed such weight and power behind it that on landing would cause the recipient to think the roof had fallen in on her—when she found herself capable of thinking again, that is.
    Glancing at Chan Sing as the Chinaman stood feeling in his jacket’s breast pocket, Madam Darcel knew she must prove that she had no knowledge of the theft and did not condone stealing. Nothing could lose the carriage-trade for a saloon quicker than letting thieves rob the customers, or by the place gaining a reputation for dishonesty. The felling of the girl had been the first stage, now Madam Darcel aimed to cement the knowledge of her innocence more firmly in the minds of her customers.
    “Is that your wallet, John?” she asked, pointing to the floor.
    “By clacky, it is!” Sing yelped, bending and picking the wallet up.
    “I don’t allow pickpockets in here,” the saloonkeeper went on in a loud and carrying voice, then looked towards the silent bar. “Eddy, see this gent gets anything he orders for the rest of the evening, on the house.”
    “Sure will, Madam,” answered the head bartender, catching his cue and following it up like a