The Dolan Girls

by S. R. Mallery

  Downstairs in the parlor, things were unusually jovial. As she walked down the steps, Cora could hear Madam Ana announce to Minnie and the leftover crowd that Shakespeare was being performed in a neighboring town the following week and wouldn’t they all like to go?

  She wasn’t really surprised by Pete’s enthusiasm or the cheers erupting from the doves. After all, he lived and breathed Shakespeare, and the ladies were always up for any side trips. But when Minnie performed a little Irish jig, she grinned. Maybe a little excursion would be good for them all.

  * *

  It couldn’t have been a better day for Shakespeare. December crisp, and the first streak of light bringing with it a sunny lull to the otherwise dreary sleet and snow. Thomas had left for Omaha, and Ana’s household was all a bustle.

  “Come on, Cora, get a move-on!” Minnie called out from the parlor, high-keyed.

  Cora heard her but didn't respond until Minnie poked her head into their room.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be coming.” A pale, flushed Cora wheezed, sitting on their four-poster bed, still in her chemise.

  “What do you mean? I never heard of such a thing!” Minnie planted her hands on both hips.

  “I feel a bit under the weather, is all. You should go on without me.”

  “I know you, Cora Dolan. You’re just feelin’ blue about your Thomas gone for a few days. Well, this trip will do you good. Take your mind off of him.”

  “It’s not because of him, Minnie, I swear! I just don’t feel well, that’s all.”

  Shrugging, Minnie left, muttering, “Suit yourself.”

  Five minutes later, Ana paid a visit to feel Cora’s forehead. “No fever. Still, you shouldn’t be here alone. Pete is going to stay vit you.”

  “No! He shouldn’t have to do that! I’m a grown woman, you know.”

  Ana laughed. “Says he can perform better than any Shakespeare actor and besides, I tell him he could have glass or two of free likker because he stay here.” She rubbed her hands together. “It’s all settled, then. Rest up, kotik, and vee’ll see you this evening.”

  Ten minutes later, Cora made it over to the window in time to watch them all exit in a cloud of female chatter, generously sprinkled with laughter and bonhomie. Two horse and buggy teams had been readied and as was her custom, Minnie, armed with a borrowed muzzle-loader rifle, was all set to draw up the rear. As the group trotted off, Cora staggered back to bed, expelled an expansive breath, closed her eyes, and slept for several hours.

  Fully rested and feeling better, she woke to the sound of Pete in the parlor, rummaging around, the clinking of glasses prominent, the popping of a bottle uncorked barely audible. With her energy somewhat returned, she put on an old, simple gingham dress and wandered into the main room to investigate.

  There he was, searching through the liquor cabinet, his gray, bushy beard sticking out sideways like two flying carpets. As soon as he heard her enter, he swiveled around.

  “Well, my girl,” he said, “here we are together. Alone. But as Percy Shelly would say:

  …The pale purple even

  Melts around thy flight;

  Like a start of heaven

  In the broad daylight

  Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight…”

  Cora smiled. The very best part of Pete had always been his recitations, certainly a rarity in this barren land, and the main reason why she treasured his elocution lessons, even though Minnie called her an ‘odd stick’. Then she frowned.

  “Pete,” she said, watching him swill down three full shot glasses, one after another. “What time is it? Mrs. Ana told me you were only going to drink a little.”

  “What’s a few more going to hurt, eh?” He patted his right pants pocket. “Fact is, everything is in apple pie order, seeing as I brought my trusty protection. You are safe with me, my girl, mark my words.” Pulling out his small Colt pocket revolver, Cora got nervous.

  “What’s that for?” she cried.

  “Mrs. Ana said you shouldn’t stay alone. Fair is foul and foul is fair. We hover through the fog and filthy air. Macbeth, don’t you know.”

  She tried to nod, but as she watched her ‘protector’ guzzle four more whiskey-filled shot glasses, she burst out, “Pete! I think you’ve had enough liquor, no matter what Shakespeare would say!”

  He laughed. “I do believe Mr. Shakespeare would most definitely approve of my drinking. Indeed, it is my understanding he tossed back quite a bit of alcohol himself in his day.”

  Standing up, he straightened his tie and let forth a litany of Wordsworth, Shelley, Shakespeare and the newer bard, Walt Whitman.

  With a hefty sigh, Cora returned to her room to first make the bed, then lift up their mattress, where she had stashed her latest Buffalo Bill dime novel.

  * *

  Wes had also spent part of his day drinking, holed up over at his favorite haunt, the local hurdy-gurdy dance hall saloon, where, for just a fifty-cent piece, the girls sure knew how to give a cowboy a rousing romp, while lady singers belted out the likes of Old Dan Tucker and Buffalo Gals.

  Dressed in far flashier outfits than Madam Ana’s doves, they seemed to pay no heed to a fellow getting corked up and carrying on. While Ana’s establishment maintained a certain decorum in their parlor, here, unbridled debauchery was the norm.

  Ruffled skirts, petticoats more colorful than a rainbow, and boots covered in tassels were as common as toys on a Christmas morn. While Ana employed at least one bouncer to maintain order between the girls and her customers, the saloon gals carried pistols or daggers in their boots, and truth be told, at that close range, they had never missed a target yet.

  Low-cut bodices, breasts spilling out like soft pillows, and bared, rounded shoulders mimicked some of the nearby hillocks covered with soft mounds of snow. Bright-colored silks and chiffon ruffles bombarded the senses as fancy garters adorned tempting female legs to such a degree that men didn’t know if they were coming or going, until it was too late, until their week’s pay was gone, or they’d lost every penny in a card game fueled by card sharks.

  Wes’ favorite gal was Inez, and whenever he entered, customers knew better than to come in between the two of them. But a dreadful head cold had incapacitated her, and she was missing from the scene that day.

  “Where’s Inez?” he demanded, his voice slurred by alcohol.

  The bartender chuckled, then stopped when Wes stood up and wobbled over.

  “Where’s Inez?” he repeated.

  “Wes, she’s sick as a dog today. There are many other lovely gals here today. Take your pick!”

  Wes spat into a nearby spittoon. “They ain’t worth a mouthful of cow chips! I want Inez!”

  A portly man in a pinstripe shirt and tattered old vest spoke up. “Hey, you, come on over. I know’d gist what you’re goin’ through! Have some ‘coffin varnish’ with me! Don’t worry, I’m payin’.”

  “You know what I’m goin’ through, huh?” Wes plopped down and grabbed a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. His voice cleared a bit, although his face dribbled sweat.

  “Yup. I had a hankering for some, well, you know. Had skedaddled over to Madam Ana’s, but when I got there it was all closed up. Closed up dead as a bone orchard, it was. There was a note on the front door. Said they’d all gone to see a Shakespeare play in Braintree, or some such stuff.”

  “Closed up like a cemetery? No one was there?” Wes took another quick swig.

  “Pretty much, but I ain’t no coffee boiler. I got spunk, I tell you. I took action.”

  “Yeah? What’d you do?” Wes asked, a wicked grin crossing his face.

  “I went around back and noticed some movement inside. Someone was home––no one regular, mind, just a young girl reading a book.”

  Wes leaned in, intense. “A young girl reading a book?”

  “Yup, a young girl. Hey! Where ya goin’?” he called out as Wes banged open the swinging doors.
>
  * *

  Cora couldn’t get over the escapades of Buffalo Bill. Did he really do everything that was mentioned in these novels? It couldn’t be. Why if he did, he must have been superhuman! Wouldn’t I just love to meet him, if only to ask him some questions, she mused, blocking out Pete’s increasingly half-seas-over state of mind.

  Did he really save one settler wagon train after another from certain death at the hands of the Indians? And once he saved the day, did he really scalp all those Indians, and then hold them up for audiences to see as he toured the country?

  Suddenly, the house seemed so silent, so still. More quiet than it had ever been.

  “Pete?” she called out, placing the dime novel down beside her. There was no answer. She shook her head. Probably out cold, like always.

  She leaned back against the pillows and picked up the book again. Concentrating on Buffalo Bill, she soon forgot all about Pete’s drinking.

  Then she heard it, just outside her door. Step-slide-step.

  “Alone at last,” said Wes, half growling, half gloating.

  She jumped up off the bed and ran into the farthest corner, her breath coming in sharp waves, her shoulders hunched forward.

  “Pete’s here, Wes. Please g-g-go.”

  “G-g-go?” he said, moving toward her, as he made fun of her stutter. “I don’t think so, Cora. As for Pete, I tied him up tight as a hog. Face it, girl, it’s time for you to know what it’s like, what it’s really like to be had. By a man!”

  He removed his gun belt and carefully pulled out his six-shooter––the one with several notches carved into its handle. Each notch, according to Thomas, a reminder of an animal maimed or killed. Carefully, he rested it on the side table and fingering his mustache, took a step forward as he started unbuttoning his vest.

  “Guess I can put another notch on my gun after this, huh?” He moved toward her.

  Instantly, she angled past him to race out the door and through the house, screaming at the top of her lungs, her hair flying behind her, eyes bulging out of their sockets. She could hear him behind her, always behind her, not by his heavy breath, but by his snorts, grunts, and a faster and faster step-slide-step. Every time she managed to escape his reach, she knew full well he was letting her escape. That was his true pleasure––a slow, steady, perverse hunt.

  As she reached the kitchen, she could hear Pete’s muffled cries off in the distance, but she had no time to worry about him. Her only thought was about finding some kind of weapon.

  Suddenly, Wes had caught up with her, and as he shoved up against her body, his hands closed around her neck. His glazed eyes focused on her face, his strength, even in such a roostered state, strong as an ox. But he was sloppy. He took one hand off her neck to stroke her virgin cheek, and she seized the moment. Reaching to the right, she grabbed a large knife, the one she had used just the other day to help Mrs. Ana chop up some turnips.

  With all her might she tried to stab him but missed, and as they tussled for the knife, she felt his rancid breath on her face, heavy and liquor-soaked. He was beyond control, beyond anything but his animal instincts. Flinging away the knife, he drew back and smacked her face so hard she flew across the room and landed on the floor in a crumpled heap. Stunned, she tried to raise her head, but he hit her again and again, using words she’d never heard before.

  “P-p-p-p-lease, I…” she tried, but he knelt over her like a wild bull, victorious as he pressed his knees against her arms.

  Head throbbing, senses dulled, she started drifting off as if in a dream, with only the haziest awareness of Wes as he unbuttoned his pants.

  * *

  The trip to Braintree seemed a tad longer than the return to South Benton. Mentally drained from the high-toned Shakespearean language, all the women sat in silence for the better part of the ride home. According to Minnie, it was ever so fine, but for the rest of them, including Madam Ana, they were simply looking forward to getting a good night’s sleep.

  Approaching the back of Madam Ana’s, Minnie looked over toward the kitchen and back quarters. “That’s strange,” she noted.

  “Vat’s that, Minnie?”

  “The kitchen’s lit, but the rest of the downstairs ain’t. I wonder…”

  From inside, a man’s voice rang out. “Serves you right, Cora Dolan!”

  Like a shot, Minnie pulled the muzzle-loader out of its saddle sheath, charged over to the back door, and entered. Inside, it was quite dark, but off toward the parlor she thought she heard something. Someone was trying to call out a few words, but they sounded eerie, stifled somehow. Step by cautious step, she headed toward the kitchen, shouldering her loaded rifle and straining to hear anything.

  All of a sudden, she heard a man grunt with satisfaction. “Well, you ain’t so special anymore. Not for Thomas, not for anybody!”

  Minnie wasted no time. Running into the kitchen, ready to do battle, she stopped, horrified. There was Wes, his pants down around his ankles, standing over an unconscious Cora, the top of her gingham dress in shreds, with a thin trickle of blood seeping from between her legs. Catching sight of Minnie, he instantly yanked his pants on.

  “You son…of…a…bitch!” Minnie straddled the floor with both feet and aimed her rifle. Just as she clicked the trigger, Wes ducked, his right shoulder taking a slight graze.

  Dropping the useless one-shot weapon, she leapt over to him and tried to claw at his fleeing body, swearing revenge, but he was too quick. He ran out of the house, panting, and using the dark night as cover, disappeared from sight.

  * *

  By midnight, the sheriff appeared. “Now ladies, calm down, calm down!” he said. “I promise you, we’re gonna search high and low for that bastard!”

  Madam Ana let out a loud snort. “Since ven do you ever help us, Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Inwood sighed. Dealing with Wes’ crime was one thing, tackling the overwhelming hostility in the room was quite another. There goes my Saturday night lovin,’ he thought as he assessed his next move. Better be good to these ladies.

  “Would anyone happen to know Wes’ hideout?” he finally asked. Nothing.

  Becky cleared her throat. “What about his stepbrother, Thomas?”

  “Becky!” the madam exclaimed. “You know Thomas is innocent. He’s nothing like his stepbrother.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but what about Thomas?” The sheriff asked, coming over to the voluptuous Becky and practically falling into her ample cleavage. “Where was he earlier tonight?”

  “Right now, he’s out of town and don’t you dare blame him!” Minnie snarled from the doorway.

  Everyone swiveled around. The sheriff shifted his stance.

  “Where you been, Minnie?" he asked, noticing the girl’s blazing eyes and right hand stained with several drops of blood.

  “Taking care of my sister, of course!”

  Nodding absently, he faced the crowd again.

  “We’re gonna have justice in this town one way or the other,” he said. “People are demanding it, and if Thomas knows anything about Wes’ whereabouts, I’m sure as hell gonna find out. Frankly, I have no choice. I heard tell, through my deputy, that there’s a vigilante forming right now as we speak, and they’re out for blood. Wes or anyone in his family, it’s all the same to them!”

  Madam Ann stared at him for a moment. “Ven did this happen?”

  Sheriff Inwood sighed. “Seems some of the menfolk can’t abide a girl getting hurt, no matter what house she lives in.”

  “Interesting. Vell, that’s all vee have tonight, Sheriff. You should go now so we can help our Cora.”

  As soon as the law officer left, she stood up and quickly turned to Becky. “Now go to Pete like da vind. Tell him I need to see him right avay. Go, GO!”

  One look at her employer’s face, and Becky knew better than to disobey; and within minutes a distraught Pete was holed up with Ana and Minnie behind closed doors. Heads together, the three of them stayed deep in conversation, all through t
he girls’ chatter and the angry crowd gathering over at the Sheriff’s.

  “According to Cora, Thomas went for some supplies for Mr. Preston,” Minnie said.

  The madam nodded. “Go, then, Pete, ask that old man Preston vhere he is. Do it for Thomas. He cannot come back here, it’s not safe.”

  “Madam Ana, Minnie, I feel so terrible,” he sobbed. “If only I hadn’t been drinking.”

  “No time for that, Pete. Vhat’s done is done. Now, go to Thomas. Do it for him.”

  “And do it for Cora. She mustn’t see Thomas maybe gettin’ himself killed!” an exhausted Minnie added, no longer able to fight back her tears.

  * *

  The next day, outside the Omaha Inn, Thomas was saddling up his horse when Pete appeared from out of nowhere and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Thomas, we need to talk,” was all he said.

  “Pete! What in the world? What’s wrong? Tell me!”

  “Not here, not now. Let’s ride out of town a ways first.”

  “Tell me this instant!” Thomas demanded as he leaned forward, one neck vein throbbing.

  “Outside of town first,” Pete replied, his usual literary ‘pearls of wisdom’ conspicuously absent.

  Two miles out, beneath an old oak tree, Pete was trying to control a distraught Thomas. “I know, son. I know it’s hard, but it wouldn’t do any good to get yourself killed, now would it?”

  “But I have to see her, I have to!” An odd expression washed over his face. “How is she? Did he…?”

  “Yes, Thomas, he did,” Pete replied, his eyes welling up. “That poor girl’s had enough bad luck to fill a lifetime. I doubt if there’s room for any more.”

  “I should be there for her! Look, I’m not Wes.”

  Pulling out his handkerchief, Pete blew his nose. “Of course, you aren’t, but the townspeople are looking for justice and revenge. Believe me, they’re in no mood to quibble about which brother did it! Besides, she’s just too shaken, too fragile to see anyone right now. Trust me, Thomas, you just can’t go back there.”