September's Dream

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  * * *

  In the morning, Aggie Whelan clumped out to the kitchen in her familiar britches and work boots. September had already mended the miner’s shirt and sewn buttons on the other miner’s jacket, as well as mending two of the saloon girl’s dresses. Draped over the porch rail, they fluttered in the breeze like bright sails.

  "What’s this?" Aggie demanded.

  "Mending. For some extra money," September said casually.

  "Yeah?" Aggie surveyed the scene with her hands on her hips. "I don’t care what you do in your spare time. Just don’t let it get in the way of your chores, or you’re out on your ear. Understand?"

  September nodded. "I did this on my own time, Aggie. I won’t let it interfere with my work."

  "See that you don’t." She sniffed the air, then peered in the oven. "What you got baking this early in the day?"

  "Pies. When I was in Mueller’s Store last night to buy my sewing supplies, I noticed some jars of blueberry preserves his wife put up. I figured the miners will pay good money for something sweet."

  Aggie studied her through narrowed eyes. "And just how did you figure to pay for all this?"

  "I started an account at Mueller’s Store. I’ll keep track of what I owe you for the pie dough. You can deduct it on payday. Then I’ll square it with Mr. Mueller." She gave the woman a radiant smile. "And the rest is profit."

  The big woman looked at her with new respect. "You could be onto something. There’s a heap of men in this town doing without a woman’s comfort. Maybe they’ll even pay more for homemade blueberry pie than they will for stew."

  September nodded. "I’m counting on it."

  "But you intend to sell them in my grub tent." The woman’s eyes glittered as she calculated. "So you’re cutting in on my profits." She pinned September with a hard gaze. "I’ll let it go, long as you’re willing to split fifty-fifty."

  September whirled from the stove. "That isn’t fair. I do all the work and you grab half the profits."

  "What’s fair is you have a place to sleep, thanks to me. And if I didn’t have that grub tent, you’d have no place to sell your pies."

  September considered. "Sixty-forty. I bought the blueberries and did the work."

  Aggie’s lips thinned. "Fifty-fifty. And I’ll buy the next batch of supplies."

  "And help me bake?"

  Aggie chewed her hp. This kid was sharper than most. Reluctantly she relented. "Okay. But if I catch you falling down on the chores I hired you to do, the deal’s off."

  "Don’t worry, Aggie," September laughed. "I can keep up as long as you can." As Aggie crossed the room, September cleared her throat. "Aggie, what do you know about someone called Snake?"

  The woman turned. "Snake Rawlins?" Her face darkened with anger. "He owns the biggest saloon in town. He’s quick with a gun. I’ve heard about a lot of shootings in Snake’s place, but the law never charges him. Seems he always has a lot of witnesses on his side. He’s thought up more ways to con a miner out of his gold than anyone in this town. And believe me, there are a lot of thieves in Skagway."

  "Why is he called Snake?"

  Aggie laughed. "There’s so many rumors, take your pick. I heard he won that saloon by plunking down a thousand dollars and betting he could turn up snake eyes on one toss of the dice."

  "And did he?"

  The older woman shook her head. "Beats me. All I know is after just one day in Skagway, he owned the place."

  "What are the other rumors?"

  "Some say he greases his hair with snake oil. It sure is shiny." Her eyes glittered. "And of course, some say he’s called Snake because he’s the slipperiest man in Alaska. All I know is, he’s the most charming rascal this town’s ever seen." Her voice lowered. "But don’t let that charm fool you. I’ve heard he rules his girls with an iron hand. And if anybody starts a gunfight in Rawlins’ Saloon, Snake finishes it. He’s mean. No doubt about it." She looked sharply at September. "Why’d you ask?"

  September shrugged. "I did some mending for his girls. One of them mentioned Snake." She picked up a pot and headed for the stove. "It’s an odd name."

  As she hurried about her morning chores, Aggie watched her closely, hoping to find something to complain about. Secretly she admitted to herself that September Malloy was just about the best bargain she’d ever stumbled onto. But the girl was too ambitious to stay in debt to her for long.

  * * *

  When September arrived at the grub tent that day with the miner’s clothes neatly sewn, there were six other miners waiting with shirts and pants that needed mending. Doing some quick mental calculating, she realized that she could easily earn enough to pay for a room at Aggie’s and give up the tedious chores which ate up so much of her precious time. With the morning chores out of the way, she could do twice as much sewing and earn even more.

  The pies were a huge success. As Aggie had predicted, some miners were willing to do without stew just so they could afford the luxury of a slice of blueberry pie. For most, it had been months since they’d tasted anything that reminded them so much of the home they’d left behind.

  Gathering up the empty pots and tins, September pushed the cart along the dusty trail. In the gathering darkness, she fretted over the decision she would have to make. It would cost her seven dollars a week to rent a room at Aggie’s. Seven precious dollars. But she needed a room of her own and more time each day if she wanted to keep up with the demand for her sewing talents. Deep in thought, she paused at Rawlins’ Saloon to drop off the purple dress she had mended.

  Snake Rawlins was standing near the bar, keeping one eye on the faro game in the corner. He glanced up idly as the girl entered the bar. With one glance he could tell she’d never been in a saloon before. Her head swiveled left and right as she looked over the men playing poker. Her head came up sharply at a burst of raucous laughter from the faro table. Nervously moving through the crowds, she headed for the back room.

  Leaning his back to the bar, Snake allowed his gaze to trail slowly over her. The black wool dress covered more than it revealed. But he could make out high, firm breasts and a waist small enough for a man’s hands to span. As she walked, her hips swayed in an almost rhythmic movement. That walk could drive a man crazy.

  On an impulse, he jammed a cigar in his mouth and followed her.

  The brassy-haired woman was wearing nothing but a corset and a flimsy flowered wrap. She stood with one foot on a chair, straightening a lacy stocking. At September’s knock, she called out, "Come on in."

  September paused in the doorway, embarrassed to have caught a stranger in the act of dressing.

  "I’ll wait out here," she said, backing away.

  "Hell, kid. Come on in. I see you brought the dress."

  As September closed the door, Snake stopped it with his foot before it closed completely. With her back to him, September was unaware of his presence.

  The woman looked over the dress carefully, testing each seam. Satisfied, she hung it on a rack and reached down the front of her robe, extracting a handful of bills. September tried not to stare.

  "Two dollars for that one, or three?"

  September swallowed. "Three. I had to go over every seam."

  Handing her the bills, the woman said, "When you bring back the rest of the dresses, I’ll have some more. Snake wants you to repair everything in the closet."

  "Thanks. I appreciate the work." September cleared her throat. "And pass the word. I’ll take all the jobs I can."

  The woman nodded. "You’re a lifesaver, kid. I hate sewing almost as much as I hate this lousy town."

  "Then why do you stay?"

  "’Cause Snake says there’s big money to be made here. And I intend to get my share." She laughed. "Some of these miners haven’t seen a woman for months at a time. Believe me, this old body looks pretty good to a love-starved prospector."

  "You don’t mind them staring at you?"

  The woman threw back her head and laughed. "That’s part of my job, lettin
g them look."

  September’s gaze roamed the flowered kimono which hugged the ample curves of the big woman. The low-cut neckline revealed freckled skin and drooping breasts. Her arms, beneath the short sleeves, sagged in little pouches of flab. Her stomach, even with the aid of a corset, bulged below a thick waist.

  "What if they want to do more than look?"

  The woman seemed to stare beyond September, toward the door. Her voice was suddenly stern. "I’d advise you not to ask too many impertinent questions, girlie. Stick to your sewing."

  September nodded, then turned away. A shadow flickered across the doorway. Footsteps could be heard beyond. As she made her way through the saloon, she felt her flesh prickle, as if someone had lightly brushed her skin. Glancing around, she saw no one close enough to touch her. But at the bar one man, taller than the others, stared at her as if he could see clear through to her bones.

  Picking up the handles of her cart, September plodded back toward the boardinghouse. There were all kinds of people in this dirty little town, she realized. And all of them were trying to figure out ways to earn money.

  * * *

  Aggie saw it coming. Every day September brought home more mending, until the pile took up too much space in the cramped kitchen. On payday, September gave Aggie the news. She wanted to rent a room, at a dollar a day, and pay for her meals as well. That meant Aggie had to find another down-and-out straggler to take on September’s chores.

  September agreed to continue to bake the pies, with Aggie’s help, because the profits were too good to pass up. But someone else would have to haul them across town to the grub tent and sell them. September had her hands full with the baking and sewing.

  Aggie gave September a bedroom on the first floor, at the corner of the house, just off the parlor. It was a small room, with a bed, a rocker, and a small chest, on top of which rested a pitcher and wash basin. The room had its own door, which opened to the back porch.

  September continued to rise at dawn and start the pies before tackling her mending. For a day or so she even began to entertain ideas about settling down in Skagway, buying her own little house, and becoming the town seamstress. Everyone she talked to warned her that winter was closing in. And with it, the snows that clogged the trails and made traveling impossible. At least until spring, she thought, she might be content to eke out a living with her sewing. That was before she made the mistake of going to Rawlins’ Saloon one afternoon.

  Over her arm she carried six dresses for two of the saloon girls. Their rich colors added bright spots of color to the drab surroundings.

  As September stepped inside, the men in the corner poker game looked up, then continued their game.

  September approached the bar. The bartender paused in the act of wiping a glass.

  "I’m looking for Daisy and Annie," she said.

  He shrugged. "They’re sleeping upstairs."

  She was surprised. She hadn’t known they all lived here. "Can I leave these dresses here?"

  He glanced over her head to the man standing across the room. At his nod, the bartender said, "You can hang them up in the back room."

  She turned, and the man fell into step behind her. As she put a hand to the door, his hand reached over hers to open the door. Surprised, she turned an angry face to him.

  He was tall, with shoulders nearly as wide as the door. He wore his jet black hair slicked to his head. He wore a fancy velvet coat, with a big chain draped across the front. Her gaze was drawn to his face.

  He was almost handsome, in a dark, sinister way. A jagged scar ran from his left eyebrow to his jaw. His eyes were gray, almost opaque. A thin mustache added to the satanic look. His lips were thin and curled back over white, even teeth when he smiled. September decided she didn’t like his smile. It made him look as if he knew something. Something important, which no one else knew or understood. To September, he was too fearsome to be handsome. But he was definitely a man who thought himself attractive to women.

  September looked away as he boldly stared at her. "I was told to hang these back here."

  Lighting a lantern, the fancy-garbed man set it on the table and indicated the back of the door.

  "Hang them over there."

  September did as she was told, then turned. The man was standing very close to her, peering at her strangely.

  "What’s your name?"

  She backed up a step, and felt the rough wall brush her back. "September Malloy."

  "September. That your real name?"

  She nodded.

  "Take off that shawl."

  "What?" Her heart began a wild tattoo in her chest. Her mouth went dry. She glanced at the door.

  Seeing her look, he assured her, "I’m not going to touch you, girl. I just want to see what you look like. Now take off that shawl."

  "How dare you!"

  "I’ll dare anything I choose." A leer tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I own this place."

  So this was Snake.

  He indicated her head. "Show it."

  Hesitantly, she slid the shawl from her head to her shoulders. At the sight of her pale hair pinned neatly at her nape he muttered, "My God." Aloud, he said, "Let your hair down."

  "No." She pivoted on her heel. "I’m going."

  As she gripped the door he caught her roughly by the arm. "I told you. I own this place. Everyone here does as I say. Let down your hair."

  Her eyes widened. "Why?"

  "Because I’ve never seen hair like that. I mean, not real hair."

  She laughed, a short, nervous laugh, to cover the rising hysteria. "It’s real."

  His voice lowered. "Let it down."

  She glanced at the offending hand. "First, let go of me."

  "Why you impudent little . . ." He raised a hand, as if to strike her.

  She never flinched.

  He found himself staring into hard, cold eyes. Arching an eyebrow at her boldness, he dropped his hand to his side.

  She reached a hand to the clips holding her hair in a neat knot. As she removed the pins, it tumbled about her face and shoulders, falling nearly to her waist.

  For long moments he studied her. The hand at his side formed a fist. His voice was tight. "How’d you like to work for me, September?"

  "No." Her voice rose. "I don’t do . . . I’m not . . ."

  He watched the color flood her cheeks. He kept his tone even. "I meant as a singer."

  She swallowed. "I can’t sing."

  "What? Everybody can sing."

  "I can’t. Never could carry a note."

  He grinned. If his smile was frightening, his grin struck terror in her heart.

  "It doesn’t matter. Those hungry miners won’t care if you can’t sing. Think you could stand on stage and say the words?"

  "That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. Why would you want me to do that?"

  He studied her through narrowed eyes. "You mean you really don’t know?" Seeing the innocence in her eyes, he shook his head. "No. That’s the remarkable part of it. You don’t know, do you, September?"

  "Know what?" She felt confused.

  "Nothing." He shrugged. "You’ve got a great, husky voice. It’s different from most women’s. And that hair." He seemed to be talking to himself. "A man could get lost in it." He studied her, deep in thought. "Come here."

  As he reached for her hand, she looked at it, then up at him. "I said, don’t touch me."

  Puzzled, he nodded compliance. "Okay. I won’t forget again."

  He led the way across the room. Hanging along the wall were rows of fancy gowns.

  "Take your pick. Which one would you like to wear on stage?"

  "I don’t think you heard me, Mr. Rawlins."

  "Snake," he interrupted.

  "Snake. I take in sewing. I mend your girls’ dresses. I don’t sing. And I don’t stand on stage looking silly."

  "Not silly, September. Stunning."

  At the unexpected compliment, the room seemed suddenly too quiet.
r />   "How much do you earn sewing?"

  She thought a moment. "I’ve just started. But I’ve already earned thirteen dollars this week. By next week I think I can double that."

  "How’d you like to earn one hundred fifty dollars a week?"

  Her eyes grew round. She licked her lips and stared at him. He met her look directly.

  "You’re teasing me, aren’t you? This is a joke."

  He jammed his hands deep in his pockets and walked to the door. Pulling it open, he said, "When it comes to money, I never joke. Pick out a dress that fits you, September, and be here tomorrow at eight o’clock. You’ll see whether or not I’m joking."

  "But—"

  "And pick up some sheet music from my piano player. Memorize the words to about five songs."

  "I told you, I can’t—"

  "Yeah. I know. And I told you. Just memorize the words."

  He walked out the door and closed it firmly behind him. For long moments, September stood staring at the door. So that was Snake Rawlins. What in the world was he up to? And why was she standing here even considering his proposal? It was crazy. And so was he.

  She stared at the colorful gowns, feeling her heart begin to pound. Her palms were sweating. She felt her stomach begin to churn. Imagine her standing on stage in front of a bunch of strangers, reciting the words to a song. Snake Rawlins was just plain crazy. She ran her fingertips along the lush silks and satins. One hundred fifty dollars a week. Crazy. A little laugh bubbled in her throat. And so was she.

  Chapter Seven

  "Aggie." September looked up from the pies she was arranging on the kitchen table. "Do you have a washtub big enough to take a bath in?"

  "’Course I do. Why?"

  "I want to take a bath this evening."

  Aggie turned to stare at her. "Why? It isn’t Saturday night."