CALAMITY JANEWAY
A story of the Wild, Wild West
by
vanhunks
DISCLAIMER:
I'm certain TPTB of Climb the Highest Mountain didn't think of this scenario. I
just borrowed them from Provisions.
AUTHOR'S
NOTE: A
totally irreverent tale! This little story that has just taken on a life of its
own, is an AU Über story. Set somewhere around the 1870's of the Wild West,
I've taken to spoof some westerns and other movies, novels, apologies all round
to dramatists and composers whose named are mentioned here, and movie musicals
rolled into one. I've paid absolutely
no attention to details, canon, or historical accuracy, and yes, I did once tell
someone: "I'm an out of context sort of person".
The
idea came from a chance discussion with a colleague at work on that song Doris
Day sings: "Once I had a secret love" in the movie musical
"Calamity Jane". .
über:
Taking the characters - Janeway and Chakotay - out of their normal [Trek]
setting and placing them in another time and place.
SUMMARY:
No one messes with Calamity Janeway when she rolls into town. A word of wisdom
from Miss Kate: "Men! They're the varmints of the earth! Especially
Chakotay Angry Warrior Fleetfoot."
Rating: PG- 13 for off-side vocabulary and wild talk.
"Drink!"
"'struth,
Calams, I ain't gonna give." The man sat facing her at the small round
table. His nose was running and his face was red and bloated. He raised the
glass, spilled some gin, but managed to throw the rest down his throat. A loud
burp followed. A cautious laugh went up here and there, stifled as the woman
glared at them with fiery blue-grey eyes.
"Good.
You're one brave man, Pipe. Now, pour!"
She pointed to the bottle. An anonymous hand of an anonymous bystander poured quickly. The woman picked up the small glass, filled to the brim with gin. She looked at Pipe. Her lips curved into a smile, tugging up at the corner. One eyebrow lifted. Unidentified Pourer wondered how Calamity Janeway could be sober after fifteen drinks. She looked beautiful and alert. Not-Drunk, was what his Mama used to say. He looked quickly away from the woman before she gave him the skunk-eye. He didn't wanna be caught looking at a lady. Hell, she was the fastest dang gun in the West. Lady? What lady? She could draw a gun faster than a mad snake could spit. Anyway, he didn't want to be caught looking at what didn't want to be looked at. He heard about them varmints who got gunned down in the middle of the road right in front of the Sheriff's office, for just looking at her like she wanted looking at.
"You
were meant for me" stopped in mid-air as Pianoman Paris suddenly stopped;
his hands paused over the keys.
The
unhappy opponent leered at her.
"You
ain't gonna put that away, Missus."
Unidentified
Pourer wanted to warn the drinker. The lady didn't want no one calling her missus.
Didn't he see the notches on the butts of her Colts?
"Watch
me, punk."
She
raised the glass and threw the gin down in a single gulp. The empty glass went
down on the table top with a clank. She drew the back of her hand across her
mouth in a deliberate, slow swipe, not breaking eye contact with the man
opposite her. Pipe Gantry wished he'd never taken a bet with this one.
He
was red, puffy. He couldn't take another drink. He wanted to pee. There was no
doubt Pipe Gantry was drunk. Pipe Gantry was very drunk. The woman smiled, the
corner of her mouth lifting. She got him exactly how she wanted him and then
some.
"You
were meant for me" started again on the honky tonk.
"Hey,
Kid Paris, cut that, will you?" she said without breaking eye-contact with
the man opposite her. The music stopped abruptly. Calamity's palm pressed flat
on the table; the other hand was hidden from view. Unidentified Pourer knew the
Agenda of the Hidden Hand.
Please,
Pipe Gantry, he prayed silently, don't go messin' with the lady.
"Your
turn."
Pipe
Gantry's head lolled. The hand that reached for the glass freshly filled by
Unidentified Pourer, trembled as Pipe touched it. He looked beaten. He looked
like he wanted to give up before kissing the floor boards. She wanted to see him
kiss the floor. He was going to give up, the punk, the yellow livered coward. It
was always a thrill. The varmints who called themselves men thought they could
drink her under the table. Why, they fell for that time after time. Calamity
lived for the pleasure of seeing the look in their eyes just after they
swallowed the last drink. Surprise, surrender, humiliation before they fell over
backwards. It killed her every time... Served them right. She had a score to
settle. Good to keep the embers of hate glowing so she wouldn't forget. Let them
come and lay their bets. Pipe looked at her, ready to capitulate before hitting
the ground.
Calamity
rocked.
Why,
Pipe Gantry was going to give up, the coward. She wasn't gonna let him. Let him
say his piece. Just let him. She was ready for him. He wasn't gonna get away.
She wanted to see him eat flea dust.
"I'll
call it a day, Missus," said Pipe Gantry.
The
hand that had been under the table for the last seven drinks, held the Colt she
had drawn five drinks ago. The men gasped, some grinned when they heard the
familiar sound as she cocked her gun. A turn and a click, all with one finger,
they knew. Gantry was messin' with the missus. Everyone knew no one called her
missus... Not to her face, anyways.
They
knew where the gun was pointed under the table. Calamity Janeway purred. They
knew the sound. Low and soft and kiss-your-mama-goodbye dangerous.
"You
call it a day and I'll shoot your peepee off, punk. You'll be wanting to piss
through your nose."
The
glass seemed to float to Gantry's mouth and pour itself down his throat. For ten
seconds he
remained
motionless as the lethal liquor hit. They mixed pure tequila and gin for the
bet. Then Pipe Gantry choked and gasped. He clutched his throat. His eyes
popped. The next moment, Pipe Gantry keeled backwards over the thin backed chair
and thudded to the floor.
The
onlookers chorused and some Stetsons flew in the air.
"Hooray!!!"
"Hey,
Kid! Play somethin'," Calamity Janeway shouted over the heads of the
cowboys. She rose and walked round the table. Her boot landed hard on Pipe's
chest as she kicked him. He didn't move. The punk was snoring. She nodded to one
of the Anonymous Cowpokes.
"He's
sloshed. Better get him outside," she ordered. "Wash him in the
trough. Smells of varmint piss."
"Yes,
Ma'am! Aye, Ma'am!" four men chorused as they manhandled the hapless Pipe
Gantry and pitched him out of the Triple S.
"That's
gotten rid of him," she declared. Only then she tipped her Stetson so it
hanged against her back. Calamity shook her hair out. It fell about her
shoulders in bronzed-golden tresses. She wore a leather waist coat, coarse
trousers and boots with spurs. The men's eyes exploded. Calamity Janeway had a
head of hair that all of Sandrine's Other Girls dreamed of having. Rich golden
it was. She had a look that said:
"Hey, what you lookin' at? You like what you lookin' at?" That kind of
look.
"Dang!
I'd run me hands through them curls and smell them all day," a cowboy who
wished to stay Anonymous for the rest of his life, said.
She
swivelled round and glared at the man.
"Hey!
No shit-smellin' varmint who bathes once a year, gonna touch this hair,"
she hissed. Her hands hovered dangerously close to the Colts in their holsters.
"No,
Ma'am!" they chorused. No one messed with a gun totin' tiny terror like
Calamity.
One
cowboy who lounged at the bar counter touched the brim of his Stetson. He spoke
in a rough voice. "We hear strange things here in Goose Creek, Calamity
Janeway. We hear about the Indian what got you creamed good and solid."
Calamity
Janeway swung round to face the speaker. With his Stetson pulled low over his
head, she couldn't see his face, but that was okay, because...
She
pulled her gun faster than her cousin Ellery McIntyre could say his name. She
used to practice sharpshooting with him saying his name, and every time she beat
him to it, running ten cans off the tree trunk by the time he came to 'tyre'.
The
next moment, one Stetson flew high into the air and landed with a soft thud on
Pianoman Paris's bowler that was already on his head.
He
grinned broadly.
"Thanks,
Calamity!"
"My
pleasure, Paris."
She
ambled slowly towards the offending speaker. She had no problem seeing his face.
Boy, she thought. The man's face looked like an insect laid eggs all over it. No
wonder he had his Stetson low over his pimples.
"I
say, I might be wearing them men's trousers and boots and spurs and leather
jackets, but I ain't never had a face like that. What you do? Piss off the
Almighty?"
The
man shifted uncomfortably. Calamity Janeway's hands were never far from the
butts of her Colts. She was primed. Any move from him and he'd kiss his... No,
better still.
"I
could shoot every pimple off your face, Buster, but that be helping you with
your particular plight. I bet them ladies -
" she looked up the stairs where several girls were leaning lazily against
the balustrade - "wouldn't touch you with them pimples lining your
face."
"That's
right, Calamity Janeway," shouted Bella Torres with a fierce scowl on her
face. "We've been trying to get rid of him - "
"You
do that, Bella. You do that. Maybe Pianoman Paris can play you a song."
"That
weasel? He's been playing 'You were meant for me' all day! Hey, Paris, your Mama
teach you only one toon?"
Calamity
Janeway laughed. She kicked Pock Face against the shin. "You be
careful," she hissed, then turned away from him. She walked with daring
arrogance towards one of the tables in the corner.
She
counted. Six…five...four...three...two...
A
heavy silence descended on the saloon. The men waited, held their breaths. The
ladies' bosoms heaved in anticipated fear.
Pianoman
Paris ducked and winced. He got pinched by his own armbands handed to him by his
Pappy the Admiral. The rest of the patrons ducked. No one had seen Pock Face
move, and no had had seen the split-second reaction from Calamity Janeway as she
drew her gun with lightning speed, flipped it behind her without turning to look
at Pock Face, and aimed for his face. The bullet grazed a pimple.
A
gasp went up from the onlookers.
"See?
Told you I'd shoot a pimple off your face. Now," she continued as she
pulled up a chair while looking at the scary-faced youngster who sat there
holding a metal mug too big for his hands. She grinned when she saw it.
"Now, no one mentions that darned Indian again, you hear me?"
"I
swear, Calamity Janeway, I said nothing," the young cowboy spluttered. He
pressed his hat deeper over his head. Calamity wanted to laugh. The kid drowned
in his hat. Maybe it belonged to his dead papa who lost his life in a duel.
"Say,
Calamity, we know you don't like men. Them be varmints, right?" said Kid
Papa's companion, just as young as the Kid, fresh-faced and untried. Why they
tried out the world by sitting in the saloons and messin' around with her? The
Companion was brash. It was time his fellow cowboys educated him and sent him
packing to his Mama's ranch. .
She
grabbed Kid Papa's giant metal mug.
"What
you drinking? Ghost Pee?" she asked as smelled the cheap ale. Then she
brought the mug down hard on the table and cheap wine splattered all over Kid
Papa and his companion.
"Men...
Hate the varmints!"
The
men who stood at the tables watching their friends play poker, moved to make way
for Calamity Janeway as she stalked out, pushed the saloon doors and left them
to bang against the face of the cowboy who followed her out. There, on the
sidewalk, she brushed down her pants, touched her Colts, touched the broad shiny
buckle, then flipped her hat back on her head.
She
looked to the side and shrugged. Pipe Gantry still lay drunk as a drunk monkey
in the horses' trough. He wasn't gonna wake up any time soon. Good for him. She
gave a low whistle, and the horse whinnied as she heard Calamity's call. She
untied the rein from the wooden pole and in a swift, smooth movement mounted her
horse.
"You
be good now, Delta Lady," she whispered to her horse. Her spurs dug into
its flanks and in the next instant horse and rider rode off into the sunset,
down the dusty street of Goose Creek. The Sheriff looked at the vanishing
horsewoman and shook his head.
When
Calamity Janeway rode into town, there was always a man in the trough by the
time she rode out.
Inside
Sandrine's Select Saloon - the Triple S - the patrons breathed a sigh of relief.
Even Pock Face was none the worse for wear as he wiped the blood where the
pimple had been moments before. He had been stupid enough to try and outdraw
Katie Janeway of Echo Creek, Montana. Pock Face leaned against the counter,
tipped his hat over his eyes to look inscrutable and growled.
"You
ain't messin' with that one again," Tuhbe Truman said. "I was thinkin'
she should have treated more of them pimples, so that thee without a blemish
be.. "
"You
gonna gimme a gin, Tuhbe?" he asked, still trying to look inscrutable.
"Tuh
be," Tuhbe said as he started to fill the glass, "or...not tuh be...
That is the question. Here, let me fill your cup."
Pianoman
Paris, the blue-eyed, blonde haired sharpshooter turned pianoman on account of
his having lost his head when he shot his three friends accidentally, burst out
laughing. He played "My baby don't care for me" and tried to wipe the
tears from his eyes. Bella Torres smiled back and said:
"You
in love with Calamity Janeway?"
"Bella
Torres, I'll take my chances with you. That - that crazy virago, she needs
someone else to tame her."
He
launched into the next tune, titled "I hate men!"
"We
hear the Indian tried, but he got busted by her!" Bella Torres laughed. She
slapped one of the buxom girls good-naturedly on her buttocks.
"I
heard that too! She got mighty pissed when she heard him profess his love for
her and in the next moment he admitted he won her in a poker game."
"A
game the Indian rigged, we hear."
"He
should never have said it! What was he thinking?"
"She
could have been tamed by now!"
Bella
Torres couldn't stop laughing.
"He
won her in a poker game! Can you believe that!"
"Don't
ever let her hear you say that, Bella Torres," Pianoman Paris warned her as
he started into 'Anything you can do I can do better'. "Don't ever let
Calamity Janeway hear you say the Indian won her in a poker game..."
***