July, 2011

Issue #22

Women of Action
By Willy Whiskers; Constable of Calliope Nevada.

Savanna Sal ran the Peachtree saloon in Calliope Nevada. She had a lively clientele with many would-be suitors among the cowboys and miners who washed the dust from their throats standing at her bar rail. Well-formed and taller than most women, Sal liked pleated dresses that hid a great deal. She had a scar that ran from her right ear across her cheek that she covered with an abundance of makeup.

Each man got a sweet smile and a peck on the cheek, though her heart belonged to Long Jim: gambler, sometimes gun-for-hire and notorious womanizer who held court at a corner table of the Peachtree.

Jim was the handsome sort with a set jaw, thin handlebar mustache that he waxed several times a day and a high-crowned Stetson that accentuated his lean, lanky frame. Favoring a shoulder holster as he felt it preserved a cleaner look when striking a pose at the bar, he carried a white bone-handled nickel plated .38 which he often polished with the ornate silk handkerchief that usually resided foppishly in the upper pocket of Jim’s frock coat.

Catercorner across the street from the Peachtree was the professional house of Betsy Lovey. Betsy, who actually did come from Savanna Georgia — as opposed to Sal who did not — was the most prominent madam in the town and Sal’s long time rival for Jim’s affections.

Madame Betsy was an average woman in height, figure and beauty, as most folks are, but she had a head for figures and could strike a bargain better than any horse trader. This made her one of the richest women in the territory with interests in mines, ranches and railroads. Still, she was not one to show off and contented her days tending to her girls and pleasing her customers.

One fine spring morning Betsy woke early and from her bedroom window saw Long Jim standing on the second floor walkway outside Sal’s private room, enjoying a cigar. Betsy had dabbled in Jim before and knew all of his angles, but seeing him there — as the sun peeked over the hills illuminating his face — created a desire deep inside. In that instant, she decided to take Jim away from Sal, once and for all.

Quickly changing into a sheer gown, she stepped out onto her own balcony. As she struck a pose of her own that accentuated her best features, she coyly waved at Jim, beckoning him over. With a devious devilish grin, Jim glanced into Sal’s room to make sure she was still asleep. He then lightly descended the stairs at the side of the saloon and swaggered across the empty street to Betsy’s place.

Few happenings in Calliope escaped Sal’s attention. As crafty as Betsy was in business, Sal matched her in intrigue. Aside from booze and good times, Sal’s forte was information; who met who behind the cow shed, where to find this body or that, and all territorial goings-on arrived at her door. Her pet name for the Governor was “Sweet Little Joe”. So, thanks to her network of spies, Jim’s early morning assignation was not as secret as he would have liked. She decided that Betsy’s affront could not stand. The situation did not improve when Jim came in that afternoon.

“Where were you this morning? Was surprised you not being there when I got up,” Sal asked.

Jim smiled broadly with a little chuckle, “Oh, I had some business, but I’m here now. Where’s my kiss?”

The matter festered for a few more days with each woman conniving ways to dispose of the other. Playing the friendly snake, Sal thought about inviting Betsy over for afternoon tea then poisoning her cup. Betsy scanned her visitors for a likely assassin to surprise Sal one dark night. No matter how deranged the plans, neither of them were satisfied as they were both women of action.

So it came to pass that late one morning Jim accompanied Betsy as she shopped at the town’s several mercantiles. Sal saw them through the shop window and decided this was her opportunity. Betsy stepped out onto the sidewalk with Jim following behind, his arms full of packages.

“Jim’s mine, clear off!” Sal snapped.

“Clear off yourself, you old harpy. He’s mine and he’s goin’ to stick” answered the working girl, pointing her finger an inch from Sal’s nose.

Sal pulled a pocket pistol from her crinolines and sent an errant shot at Betsy’s head. Her rival pulled two derringers from her own hiding places and fired them both.

Amazed at her good fortune at not being hit, Sal needed a better location and bolted for the safety of her saloon. Betsy pursued, firing as she ran. Busting through the saloon doors, Betsy saw Sal behind the bar and dodged her fire by diving behind a table. Bang, bang, bang, bang, they traded fire though neither one drew blood. Amid the pistol reports and gun smoke came a silly, sadistic laugh. Behind the swinging doors stood Long Jim applying a fresh pinch of mustache wax and sporting such a smile his face was likely to split. Two women making such a fuss over him amused him greatly.

Sal and Betsy looked at each other crouching in their embarrassing and most unladylike manner. Suddenly clarity overcame them. They could be real and true friends if one difficult impediment they shared could be removed. Pointing their guns at the swinging doors, they blew their troubles away.

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