THE ROAD TO PURGATORY (A Tale of the Old West)
I realized that I needed to take a break from OLD DEADWOOD DAYS. As much as I love writing it, it's time to put it away for a while. But I love the Old West too much so I decided to start a new series that takes place in 1888, twelve years after OLD DEADWOOD DAYS, in the Wyoming Territory instead of South Dakota. Like in O.D.D., I'm using FCF friends 'n 'frenemies' in this series. Jonica, Marie B., Jenn Peccavi 'n Kayla are the first to make an appearance, along with me 'n my cat Marnie. I didn't find out until today that Jonica is allergic to cats. Oh, well. Marnie is staying! More familiar names will be showing up! Hope everyone likes this new series! Feel free to respond 'n thanks for reading!!!
xoxo
Laurie
Chapter One
The tired grizzled old man, known as “Leadhead” to both friend and enemy, had seen better days. Much better days. Once upon a time, he had been working his own claim, panning for the color in the Black Hills of the Dakotas. But the vein dried up, the color disappeared forever, and too much bad whiskey and bad luck at poker eventually led him, twelve years later, here to Purgatory. Purgatory, this godforsaken dry hole of a town in the bowels of the Wyoming territory where he spends his days slowly pushing a well-worn broom along the dusty boardwalk for pennies and wondering what the hell went wrong with his life.
Leadhead stopped to hawk a spit gob into the dirt of the main thoroughfare and wipe the grimy sweat off his wrinkled brow. He squinted into the harsh noonday sunlight and was about to resume his lethargic sweeping when something in the distance caught his eye. He stood there and stared, toothless mouth slightly open, transfixed with amazement at the sight of the three riders making their way down the dusty road into Purgatory. Not that three riders heading into town was an uncommon sight. Old Leadhead had seen hundreds of them pass by and never once did a one of them cause him to stop in his tracks and rub his rheumy eyes like they were playing tricks on him.
What made these three riders so unique to the old man was the fact that they all happened to be women. Three women riding into a town like Purgatory without a man to watch out for them was not something you’d see every day. Or practically never. And these women weren’t big neither. In fact, they were downright small, the bunch of them.
“Well, I’ll be go to shit,” was all Old Leadhead could think of to say.
If the sight of these three small female riders on three equally small horses wasn’t enough to make him shake his head in wonderment, the fourth figure trotting along beside them did the trick. It was a gray black tabby cat, with bright inquisitive eyes, keeping pace with the three horses that barely acknowledged its presence in the line. But Buster, the old Bluetick Coonhound lazing under the bench in front of the Mercantile, sure noticed. The sleepy dog scrambled to his feet, eyes fixed on the feline interloper, and let out a low excited growl. The cat and the rider closest to it both saw the dog at the same moment. The girl gave a quick whistle and, without breaking stride, the cat leapt into her protective arms.
Buster’s growl turned into a sad whine as the procession passed by the astounded old boardwalk sweeper and disappointed dog. The rider in the middle, a tiny blonde, turned to her companion and muttered, “You just had to bring the cat, didn’t you?”
The other girl gave her a quick look. “You startin’ that again?”
The three riders continued down the dusty thoroughfare until they arrived at The Briars Hotel. They dismounted, tied their reins to the hitching post and all four of them, cat included, went inside. Buster yawned, shook himself, and curled up under the bench again. In moments, he was dreaming about cats that didn’t cheat you out of a fun chase by jumping in the arms of a girl on horseback. Old Leadhead shook his head and mumbled, “I WILL be go to shit!” He cackled, farted loudly, and resumed sweeping.
First Impressions
Jenn Peccavi looked up from her ledger book in annoyance when she heard the timid little knock on her office door.
“What is it, Tippitt?” she called out, an impatient edge to her Australian accented voice. She had given instructions not to be disturbed. The door opened and a head came into view. A round head with bulging blinking owl eyes behind spectacles, a flat nose, a tiny almost lipless mouth and a few sparse corn-colored hairs plastered to a shiny skull.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss Peccavi,” the roundhead said in a quaking voice. “There are three young … ladies … out here who say they have business with you.”
Miss Peccavi caught his hesitation on the word “ladies” and it piqued her curiosity. Figuring it was a delegation of “soiled doves” looking for rooms to rent while they secured a suitable establishment for their business needs, she signaled Tippitt to usher the visitors in. The sight that greeted her was probably the last thing she expected to see. Jenn Peccavi was a woman who’d been around. From Southern Australia to the Barbary Coast of San Francisco. From Denver, Colorado, to Purgatory. Like Old Leadhead, she’d seen it all. Or so she thought.
These were no painted ladies of the evening. First of all, they were all covered from head to toe with a good fifty miles of Wyoming dust. Their attire suggested a life of trail scouting, fur trapping, cattle driving, faro dealing. Except for the long hair, soft features, lack of facial hair and obvious curves of their bodies, she would have been hard-pressed to even hazard a guess that they were indeed feminine. But they were. And they were standing in her office doorway. Tippitt discreetly withdrew, closing the door behind him.
“Please,” Miss Peccavi gestured toward the wooden chairs in front of her desk. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
The three women looked at each other, fidgeting. The tallest of the three, who was maybe two inches above five feet at the most, tipped the brim of her black hat with her fingers and mumbled, “Thank you, ma’am. We just fine standin’.” Her voice had a slight but definite Louisiana flair to it. The older woman tried to place it. Definitely not Creole. Cajun, most likely.
“Very well.” Miss Peccavi leaned forward in her chair, her clasped hands resting on her open ledger book. “What can I do for you?”
The Cajun girl had evidently been elected spokesperson of the trio. She took a small step forward and replied, “Question is, ma’am, what can we do for you?”
She took off her black hat and shook out her shoulder length brunette hair. Miss Peccavi chose to ignore the light cloud of dust that suddenly appeared in the air. The smallest of the three, the little blonde, gave a quick cough of warning. The brunette immediately started fanning the air with her empty hand. Miss Peccavi tried to hide her smile. The girl holding the cat looked bored. The cat yawned.
Miss Peccavi took this uncomfortable moment to quickly study her visitors. She prided herself on being a good judge of character; one who could size up a stranger at first glance. By their demeanor, body language, clothing. It was apparent to her that these were not three city girls indulging in a silly game of dress-up. They were not play-acting. The weapons they wore were not there for show.
The Cajun girl wore a burgundy coat over a frilled shirt with ruffled cuffs that had once been white a long time ago. Scarlet brocade vest with a few buttons missing. The top button of her shirt was open and, instead of a gambler’s tie or cravat, a large lethal-looking yellowish tooth dangled at the end of a leather necklace. Probably a crocodile’s. Tight black striped trousers and dusty black boots. A well cared for Colt .45 Peacemaker rested in a holster on her right hip. That was the only weapon in sight but the older woman guessed there were others hidden for just the right moment.
As the Cajun finished clearing the dust from the air, Miss Peccavi turned her attention to the other two. Barely five feet tall, the tiny blonde looked positively lost in the large open buckskin jacket she wore over a calico shirt and faded cords. A carved wooden cross hung from her neck. A black plush beaver fur western style hat rested on her silvery blonde hair, the brim pulled down covering her cornflower-blue eyes in shadow. A large trapper’s skinning knife hung in a sheath on her left hip while a shortened cut-off Winchester rifle was nestled in a custom leg holster on her right. Miss Peccavi had heard tell of these new-fangled Mare’s Legs but this was the first one she had ever laid eyes on.
The girl holding the cat was a puzzlement. Her light brown hair was curly and her eyes were sky blue but everything else about her screamed Injun. Her fringed blouse and leggings were made from tanned elk and bighorn sheep skin. She wore high top moccasins on her feet and a coffee-colored slouch-brimmed hat rested squarely on her head. A well-crafted bow was slung over her right shoulder and a quiver of homemade arrows hung down her back. Three knives were nestled snugly in a back sheath between her shoulder blades.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the Cajun girl stammered, her face flushing. Then she regained her composure, removed a folded piece of wrinkled newspaper from the inside brim of her hat and placed it on the desk in front of the older woman’s clasped hands. Miss Peccavi smoothed out the much-folded clipping and began to read. She recognized it as the advert she herself had posted in the Cheyenne Daily Sun when she visited that city a few months earlier. An advert for help in ridding Purgatory of the undesirable element that so often plagued small out-of-the-way western towns. So far, the advert had been a waste of time and money. Not a single candidate had responded. Until now.
Miss Peccavi looked up from the newspaper at her visitors. The three girls watched her expectantly, waiting for her decision.
“Let me get this straight,” she began, in a slow deliberate voice. “You’re here for the job, all three of you?”
“That’s right, ma’am,” the Cajun spokesperson replied. “We’re kinda a package deal. Ya hire one, ya hire us all.”
The Australian woman smiled. It was a friendly smile, not at all condescending. “No disrespect meant,” she chose her words carefully. “But as my old man used to say, the three of you don’t look big enough to fight, fuck or run a foot race.”
The unexpected profanity coming from the proper-looking well-dressed woman caused a couple of surprised gasps and a muffled giggle from the dusty girls. Miss Peccavi pushed the clipping off the ledger book in a gesture of dismissal. “I’m very sorry you rode all this way for nothing, ladies. You’re welcome to stay the night, have a bath and a hot meal.”
She saw the disappointed looks on their faces. The Cajun girl opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. The blonde looked down at her feet, it was hard to tell what she was thinking. The girl with the cat had edged a few steps toward the door, as if she felt the need to make a quick getaway.
Miss Peccavi felt she owed them at least an explanation. “Purgatory is growing fast,” she continued, “and decent folks are sick and tired of riff raff and troublemakers coming in raising hell. The big ranchers in the valley send their men in to unwind and they end up shooting their guns off in the street and the saloon. People lock their doors now and are scared to go out after dark. Yes, we need help but I really don’t think three tiny girls can ride roughshod over a pack of drunk cowboys.”
“You’re wrong,” the blonde spoke for the first time. She nudged the Cajun girl. “Show her the book.”
Her voice was insistent, with a pronounced French lilt. Canadian, from a trapping family, Miss Peccavi guessed, by the look of her. The brown haired girl nodded and pulled a paper-covered book from the pocket of her burgundy coat. She stepped forward and handed it to the curious woman behind the desk. Miss Peccavi looked at the cover. It was one of those penny-dreadfuls that were so popular in Britain and brought over to Australia by sailors. She had read more than her share of them in her youth. Lurid sensational stories in purple prose printed on cheap pulp paper. She’d seen plenty out here too. Only they were called dime novels now and they usually told some wild tale of derring-do by some gunslinger or outlaw or lawman. Half lies and half exaggeration.
The artwork on the cover depicted three women -- three small women -- brandishing blazing guns and slashing knives doing battle with a mob of evil-looking desperadoes, under the banner title The Legend of the Killer Bees: Scourge of the Lawless. A True Story recounted by S.A. Tyree.
Miss Peccavi cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Killer Bees?”
The Cajun girl grinned. It was a pretty grin, one that would light up a room, even under all the dust and grit. “Yeah, the writer made up that palaver. On account of all our last names start with ‘B’. Killer B’s. Not the buzzing stinging kind. But I guess the printer fellas liked it the other way. Or something.”
Miss Peccavi smiled. “I can see how they’d be confused.”
“Anyway,” the Cajun girl continued. “I’m Jonica Bowdrie.” She pointed to the blonde. “She’s Marie Bouchard.” The blonde nodded with a shy smile as she fingered the wooden cross at her neck. Jonica indicated the girl holding the cat. “And that’s Laurie Benteen.” The curly haired girl lifted a hand up to touch the brim of her slouch hat in greeting. Her face bore no expression at all. Miss Peccavi was certain of it now, she just had to be part Injun.
Jonica leaned on the desk. “Please,” she said, in her most persuasive voice, “Give us the chance to prove we can get the job done. Say, a week. If you don’t think we cut the mustard at the end of the week, we’ll ride outta town, no hard feelings.”
“A trial period, huh.” Jenn Peccavi was a business woman. She liked the logic. It made perfect sense. She also liked these three girls. She had a good feeling about them. Sometimes in business you go with logic, sometimes you go with your gut instincts, sometimes you go with both. The Australian woman stood up. “You have yourselves a deal. I’ll have to bring it up to the town council to make it official but they’ll go along with it.” She pointed a finger at them. “But I’ll give you three weeks, not one. Twenty-one days to prove yourselves.”
The girls all looked relieved at her decision, even Laurie allowed herself a slight smile. Marie, the blonde, pointed at the clipping on the desk and said, “Your writing here says room and board provided.”
Miss Peccavi nodded. “That’s what it says and that’s what you’ll get.” She frowned. “Unfortunately we only have one room available. It’s not very big, it will only fit two of you comfortably.” Her gaze fixed on the cat, purring in Laurie’s arm. “And we don’t allow any pets in the hotel. I’m sorry.”
"Good," Jonica mumbled. "Damn cat makes me itch. An' sneeze like the dickens."
Laurie spoke for the first time. “That's all in your head an' you know it." She turned to the older woman. "It’s all right. Wihakayda and I can sleep in the livery stable.”
The Australian woman shook her head. “You will do no such thing! There’s a small room in back of the jail. Sheriff Bogardus wouldn’t mind you staying there. In fact, I think he’d appreciate having someone else around. Means less work for him.” As she led them out of the office, she continued, “Our sheriff isn’t the most thrifty of men. In fact, he’s downright lazy but he’s all we have in Purgatory. That’s why I put out the advert.”
Sheriff Bogardus did indeed welcome the help. He was a big man with a perfectly round belly, salt-and-pepper hair, a gray handlebar moustache and spindly bowlegs. Miss Peccavi and the three girls had seen the sheriff lounging on the boardwalk, leaning against the wall of the jail without a care in the world. They crossed the thoroughfare and the older woman made the introductions.
“Sure will be nice to have some permanent help around for a change,” the sheriff said in a raspy voice accompanied by a friendly grin dripping with tobacco juice.
“We do rustle up temporary help when the situation calls for it,” Miss Peccavi explained.
Bogardus spat a gob of brown tobacco juice into the dirt and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Saddle tramps, mostly. They come and they go. Work long enough to buy themselves a bottle of smiles, then they ride outta town spouting bad poetry and big lies.”
The Australian woman scanned the horizon, her eyes passing over the wooden buildings on either side of the thoroughfare. “Purgatory is growing, getting bigger every day. More people are moving in. Good people. And there’s talk of Wyoming becoming a state. When that happens, we want to show everyone we’re civilized in this town.”
“Can’t come soon enough to suit me,” Sheriff Bogardus added. “It’ll make my job one helluva lot easier. I’m tired of puttin’ my neck on the line ever’ time some dumb cowpoke rides in all full of piss, vinegar an' corn likker. I’m fifty-two years old and I aim to live to be sixty-two. Old age runs in my fam’ly, I’d sure hate to spoil the record.”
“Useless as tits on a bull,” Miss Peccavi muttered after the sheriff excused himself and lumbered inside the jail. The four women crossed the thoroughfare and went into The Briars restaurant next door to the hotel. Patrons looked up from their bowls of stew and gaped curiously at the three dusty strangers, then commenced with their eating. Miss Peccavi dispatched a short squat Pawnee woman in a greasy apron to fetch four bowls of stew and a saucer of milk for the cat. As they settled down at the Australian woman’s personal table, she leaned forward with a smile and said, “Alright now. Suppose you tell me how the “Killer B’s” became the “scourge of the lawless”.
The Cajun girl, Jonica, grinned sheepishly. “Well, ma’am, it’s kinda a long story.”
From the Acadian Swampland
“You take that back!”
Nine year-old Jonica Bowdrie stood in the school yard, her tiny fists clenched in fury, angry tears threatening to cascade down her cheeks as she glared at the smug little girl in front of her.
“I will not,” Airy Belle Vermette snickered. “My momma said so, I heard her, and my momma does not lie. You’re a bastard.”
“I am not!”
Jonica had no idea what a “bastard” was, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t one. Airy Belle didn’t know either, all she knew was that it made Jonica mad enough to cry, and that was good enough for her to start a taunting chant of “Jonica’s a bastard” that was picked up by the rest of the girls and a few of the boys too. The taunting chant ended as quickly as it started. It ended because Jonica punched Airy Belle in the nose.
Airy Belle sat down in the dirt, grabbed her nose and started crying. One of her followers scampered off to find the teacher. Jonica didn’t care. She hated Airy Belle Vermette. She was the richest girl in school and she let everyone know it, lording it over the other kids, especially Jonica. Jonica was her favorite target. That’s why punching her in the nose felt so darn good. Jonica knew she was in trouble, would probably even get a few whacks with the switch.
Which is exactly what happened. The teacher didn’t even bother to ask the confused little girl why she punched Airy Belle. She just grabbed the hickory switch she kept in the corner and gave Jonica ten hard lashes across her backside. Fighting back hot tears, Jonica saw the mean triumphant smirk on Airy Belle’s face and blurted out, “She called me a bastard!”
“You are a bastard!” Airy Belle yelled. “And your momma is a whore!”
“Airy Belle!” The red-faced teacher hollered her name so loud, the entire class jumped. “You hush up right this minute, young lady!” She turned to Jonica. “As for you, missy, you go stand in the corner till lessons end. Maybe you’ll learn not to punch anyone anymore.”
“It ain’t fair,” Jonica protested as the teacher pulled her by the arm to the corner. “Airy Belle called me a bastard and I don’t even know what that means.”
“Ask your mother,” the teacher snapped. “She’ll explain it to you.”
When school ended, Jonica was the first one out the door. She ran all the way home, not stopping until she reached the old big red building on the outskirts of the city. The little girl liked the old house. She and her momma had lived there ever since they came to Shreveport from the Atchafalaya swampland when Jonica was four. All the ladies who lived in the house called Jonica their “little princess” and they treated her like one. They doted on her. Maum Arletty the cook always sneaked her a homemade oatmeal cookie or a piece of cake when she came home from school. Burdetta, an older redhead with a still pretty face, taught Jonica how to play cards. The little girl was a natural. Her fingers flew as she expertly shuffled the deck. The cards looked like liquid flowing through her hands.
“I swear, sweetie,” the redhead shook her head in amused awe. “You do that better than half the dealers on the Mississipp’.”
Burdetta had worked the riverboats and she taught Jonica all the tricks of the trade. How to bluff like an expert. How to read the other player’s eyes, face, tics, mannerisms, body language to see if they were bluffing or not. How to slow-play a hand to reel the sucker in for the kill. How to spot cheaters. All the tools that separated a good poker player from a great one. Jonica took to it all like a duck to water. Burdetta even taught the girl how to play fast and loose with the rules. How to mark a deck and spot one already rigged. How to bottom deal. How to palm a card without getting caught. But Jonica didn’t need to cheat. She was just that good. Pretty soon, she was beating everyone in the house, including Burdetta.
But cookies, cake and cards were the furthest thing from Jonica’s mind today. She wanted her momma. But her momma was busy. Her room door was closed. So the little girl waited. The door finally opened. One of momma’s friends came out, patted the little girl on the head and strode down the hall. Jonica ran into the room and climbed on the bed where her momma was resting. The girl was too distracted by her own problems to notice the paleness of her momma’s face and the dark circles under her tired eyes. In one solid rush of words, she recounted everything that had happened at school.
Her momma listened silently, softly stroking her daughter’s brown hair. Finally she spoke. “Jonica, cher, you listen to your mere, hear? You gonn’ sometimes hear folks callin’ you names. Callin’ your mere names. Names what aren’t very nice. Don’t you pay them no nevermind, now. Names are words only. They don’t hurt your mere. So you don’t let them hurt you none, jolie catin.”
“But those words sounded so mean, mere! An’ the way Airy Belle said ‘em, I just knowed they was somethin’ bad!”
“They just words, baby. You show ‘em they don’t hurt. You show ‘em you strong. Just like your mere is strong.”
Her mere WAS strong. But not strong enough to fight the sickness growing inside her that took her life less than a year later. As Jonica stood over her momma’s grave surrounded by the weeping women who were like her family, the little girl fought back the tears. She wanted to show her momma that she was strong too. And Airy Belle Vermette was a liar. Momma was a saint. Not a whore. Whatever that was.
The stew had arrived. Miss Peccavi and the other two girls ate in silence as they listened to Jonica. The Cajun girl unconsciously twisted a chunk of bread in her hands as she resumed her tale.
“After Momma died, I couldn’t live at the house no more. Much as they all wanted me to. I was sent to the foundlings home and there I stayed for three years until I lit out on my own. Used everythin’ I learned from Burdetta and got me a job dealin’ on the Magnolia Blossom. But they let me go when they found out I was only fifteen. Since then I been movin’ from place to place playin’ poker. I just turned thirty so I been at it pretty near half my life. About, oh, a year n’ a half ago, give or take, I was in a game down in Colorado, at the Square Deal Saloon in Julesburg. A couple salesmen, a local rancher and a foreign lady from someplace called South Africa, I think she said. Owned a gold mine there or somethin’. None of them was very good but they all took losin’ in stride. Until … ”
“You cheated. I won that hand. You cheated.”
The words were said calmly and deliberately, not loud with anger. But one look at the eyes of the tall pretty woman would be crystal clear evidence that she was boiling mad inside and was trying real hard to keep her composure. It was obvious that she was a lady of means, or at least was doing her best to give that impression. She wore a fashionable elegant brocade traveling suit trimmed in black lace and taffeta ruffles, her perfectly coiffed brown hair was pulled back in a French bun.
On the table in front of her were five cards, upturned. Seven of hearts. Seven of spades. Seven of diamonds. Queen of diamonds. Five of clubs. Trip sevens. Three-of-a-kind.
Jonica pushed the brim of her black hat up with her slim forefinger and looked at the other woman. Her eyes were colder than the North Sea. Her cards were spread out in a line in front of her. All red. All hearts. A lovely flush.
Jonica’s response was equally calm, equally quiet, equally forceful. “I don’t cheat.”
The brown-haired woman stood up. She was a good seven inches taller than Jonica, who remained seated. The three men quickly pushed their chairs back, watching the show with a mix of expectation and wonderment. Disagreements over poker hands were common but one between two women was as rare as being dealt a Royal Flush.
“You had to have cheated. There is no way you could have beaten my hand if you didn’t.”
Her voice was a bit louder this time, with a biting edge to it. A definite testament to her rising anger. Jonica still sat there, the gambler’s “poker-face” masking any emotion she may have been feeling. In the same flat tone as before, she answered, “I didn’t have to cheat. You’re such a bad poker player there was no need for me to cheat, even if I wanted to. Which I didn’t.”
There were those who witnessed what happened next who later said they’d never seen anything like it in Julesburg or anywhere else. It all happened so fast. One second the tall well-dressed brunette was standing there facing the seated pretty gambler. The next they were a snarling spitting slapping kicking hair-pulling ball of fury, rolling around on the dusty dirty floor. Gamblers, cowboys, drunks, bar girls alike all got the hell out of harm’s way, giving the fighting women a wide berth. The brunette was not only taller and heavier, she was also frothing in fury and was hell-bent on punishing Jonica for the grievous slight she felt had been perpetrated on her.
The gambler’s black hat had gone flying when the woman lunged at her, tipping her chair over backwards, sending them both to the floor. Now the brunette’s wildly clutching fingers were snarled deep in Jonica’s hair and she was slamming the gambler’s skull into the hard wooden floor. Jonica’s head was pounding and she knew she had to do something before the crazed bitch battered her unconscious. So she slashed the brunette’s face with her finely manicured nails (a gambler needs to pamper and take care of her fingers and hands, after all), gouging angry red furrows into her cheek from her eye down to her mouth.
The woman screeched wildly, clutched her face with both hands and jerked back, rolling off the dazed gambler. Jonica quickly scrambled to her feet and kicked the woman hard in the side. But there was still plenty of fight left in the tall brunette. She grabbed the shorter girl’s boot with both hands and pulled hard, sending Jonica crashing to the floor on her butt. The little gambler cried out from the stinging pain shooting through her tailbone. The bigger woman dove on top of her, knocking Jonica flat. Her fingers clawed at the writhing squirming woman under her, ripping at her clothes and tearing a couple buttons from the gambler’s red brocade vest. Jonica flailed away wildly, smacking the brunette’s face with hard punches as she yanked her hair free of the French bun.
The woman let out a loud hissing snarl of pain and fury as the Cajun yanked out a nice-sized clump of her hair. She struggled to straddle the thrashing gambler and clamped both hands around Jonica’s neck. The Cajun’s eyes grew wide as the grip tightened and she felt herself being slowly strangled. She let go of her attacker’s hair and grabbed at her wrists, pulling hard to get them off her neck. One of the men who had accompanied the South African to the Square Deal, a short butterball with glasses and a derby hat, tried to cheer her on with a loud supportive “That’s it, Miss Kayla! You’ve got her now!”
A bargirl muttered nervously, “Somebody maybe should get the marshal.”
“Naw,” a cowpoke replied, eyes glued on the action. “I say let ‘em settle it betwixt themselves.”
Kayla, the brunette, shifted to get a better position on top of the gambler as she fought to keep a tight grip on her throat. As she shifted, Jonica brought her knee up hard into the bigger woman’s back. The brunette stiffened, her hands flew up, and Jonica used the opportunity to send a hard mean desperate punch up flush in the startled brunette’s mouth. Kayla gasped as her snarling teeth clamped down on her tongue, drawing a thin trickle that oozed out of her mouth.
Coughing and gasping, her face red, Jonica pushed the woman off her. As Kayla fell backwards, the gambler sent the heel of her right boot hard into the woman’s chest. Kayla gave a strangled cry and fell backwards. Jonica rose to her knees. The blank “poker-face” mask had disappeared. Her face had a look of blind rage. Angry purplish-red marks were visible on her neck from Kayla’s strong strangling fingers. As Jonica rose to her unsteady feet, Kayla started to sit up. She grabbed at a broken whiskey bottles that had fallen off a table. Jonica wasted no time. A quick kick sent the jagged bottle flying. A second kick landed on the seated woman’s jaw. Kayla’s eyes crossed for a brief second, she let out a low groan, her body gave a shudder and she slumped to the floor unconscious, her long legs twitching slightly.
Breathing hard, Jonica leaned on the table. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the derby-wearing butterball, his face suffused with hate, start to lower his right arm. He saw that the gambler was unarmed and reached for the holstered gun on his hip. Quick as a flash, with a flick of her wrist, a tiny Derringer pistol on a spring release rig appeared from the ruffled cuffs of her white shirt into the Cajun girl’s right hand.
“I don’t think that’s a real smart idea, mister,” she hissed quietly.
Butterball’s hand froze in mid-air, his face a mix of impotent anger and frustration. His mouth worked until finally he managed a blustery bluff. “That tiny pop gun would never stop a man cold.”
Jonica leveled him with a cold look and even colder smile. “It will if I put a bullet through his heart. And I can. And I will.”
His other companion, a tall cadaverous looking man with a face full of old acne pockmarks, muttered, “It’s no good, Ponka.
After one final baleful glare at the gambler, Ponka and the other man moved to the now moaning Kayla, carefully picked her up and carried her through the batwing doors out onto the boardwalk. Jonica breathed a quick sigh of relief and scooped up her winnings.
The Cajun girl ate a forkful of stew. The others were finished, even the cat who was purring sleepily in Laurie’s lap. The silence was broken by a quiet giggle from Marie.
“Now tell her the funny part,” the blonde insisted.
The Australian woman was curious. “What’s the funny part?”
Jonica grinned. “Well, truth be told, she was right. I DID cheat. But only because she cheated first. An’ she cheated real bad too. I saw her palm that third seven. I was surprised no one else caught that. An’ there was no way I was gonna let that bitch beat me with a rigged hand.”
Miss Peccavi nodded. “Sounds about right to me.”
TO BE CONTINUED
(Up Next: Marie Bouchard's and Laurie Benteen's history)
