by Gwen Bristow
As for Silky himself, he had not escaped interference. His gambling room was closed, and the saloon was allowed to stay open only from noon till six. As the Angelenos slept through half the afternoon, this order cut off a large slice of income. Silky and Florinda were as angry as the Angelenos. But they obeyed, lest Gillespie lock up the place for good.
Garnet agreed that the captain was foolish. But she could not help being glad she was having a chance to get used to the bar by working in the daytime at first, instead of starting with those noisy evenings she used to hear from upstairs. She went to work as soon as she was well. During the bar-hours Isabel took care of Stephen. Isabel did not admire Gillespie, but Garnet and Florinda paid her well and Isabel said she would rather work for Yankees than get married.
Florinda had not exaggerated Garnet’s value to the bar. The marines had been stationed at Mazatlán and they were used to Mexican girls, but two real live Americans were something else again. The boys spent as much time in Silky’s Place as their captain would let them. They were a rowdy but good-natured bunch, and Garnet found her work less unpleasant than she had feared. But now and then she heard rumblings of rebellion that frightened her.
It was an afternoon late in September. From her place behind the bar, Garnet greeted two marines who had just come in. “May I serve you, gentlemen?” she asked.
They grinned at her with a yearning admiration. “You sure do look pretty today,” said the marine named Bill.
“Mighty pretty,” said the marine named Pete. “Them flowers on your dress, and your eyes—say, what color are your eyes?”
“Some people call them gray. Some say hazel. Don’t you want to order? It’s getting late.”
The two marines agreed that they’d better order. “That bottled earthquake the Mexes drink,” said Bill. “I never could say it.”
“You mean aguardiente?”
“Gee, listen to her, rattling it off like a native. How does it go? Aggadenty?”
Garnet poured the drinks. “Why don’t you just say Mexican brandy?” she asked smiling. “We’ll understand.”
“Now that’s what I call a smart girl,” Bill said to Pete. “She ain’t a Mex, we ain’t Mexes, how come we got to talk Mex? Talk United States, that’s good enough for me. Say, Garnet.”
“Yes?” she said. It still felt odd to have strange men call her by her first name, but she was getting used to it.
“You sure are pretty. Do you paint your cheeks?”
Garnet said she didn’t. She wiped up some drops of liquor on the bar and pretended not to hear their next few comments, which concerned her figure and not her face. When they asked her what she would be doing after the bar closed, she answered that she would be busy taking care of her baby. She tried not to make her reply too curt. But though she was doing her best, she had not yet acquired Florinda’s ability to keep them at bay while at the same time keeping them in good-humor. A little farther along the bar, a group of marines bantered with Florinda.
“… a girl like you, Florinda, away out here at the end of the world! How’d you get here anyway?”
“Why I’ve always been here. I was the first white child born in this settlement. No, that’s not quite enough, you still owe me seven cents. Oh, now what a shame!” she sympathized as he spilt the liquor down the front of his coat.
“You jiggled my elbow!” he accused her.
“Well, you shouldn’t have tried to pinch me. Behave yourself and you won’t get into trouble. Yes, sergeant? Whiskey, yes sir, right away.”
At Garnet’s end of the bar, Texas stood leaning on his elbow. Texas was sober again. His spree had been a rather bad one, but Garnet pretended she did not know it. Texas had said he was sorry for leaving her that day—he had meant to have just a couple with the boys, didn’t know how they happened to hit him so hard—but remembering Florinda’s advice, Garnet had taken his apology lightly. “Why Texas, everybody was drinking too much that day. Isabel came up to wait on me, and anyway, I was up very soon afterward.”
Though Texas had not been drinking lately, he often came and stood at the bar, watching Garnet like a bodyguard. She liked having him there. He asked her for a glass of water, and as she brought it he glanced along the bar and back at her, shaking his head.
“I hate to see you in here, Miss Garnet,” he said.
“I’m all right, Texas. Really I am.”
“Don’t they bother you?”
“Not too much. I’m learning to handle them.”
“Miss Garnet,” said Texas, “I wish you were clean out of town. We’re liable to have trouble. That damn fool Gillespie—”
“Please, Texas! Not here.”
Nobody was allowed to talk about Gillespie at the bar. If any of the marines chose to defend their captain with their fists, that was all right with Silky, but he didn’t want it happening in his saloon. The place was allowed to do business only on condition that it stayed orderly. Texas gave a shrug, but he ceased his comments. Mr. Bugs McLane came in with Mr. Collins, the clerk from Mr. Abbott’s store. Garnet poured drinks for them, and professed to admire the marines’ attempt to warble a Mexican song they had brought up from Mazatlán. Through the singing she heard a little sound from the kitchen.
“Stephen is awake,” she said to Florinda. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Florinda smiled and nodded, and Garnet went into the kitchen. The baby’s basket stood on the wall-bench. Isabel had just picked him up. While Garnet sat down to nurse him, Isabel went to the fireplace and helped herself to beans from the pot on the hearth-stove.
Garnet pressed Stephen’s soft little body to her bosom. She was so glad she had him. Sometimes, in spite of all she could do to keep cheerful, such a wave of loneliness swept over her that her heart felt as barren as the desert. Without her baby it would have been even worse. When Stephen had finished she cuddled him back into his basket, then went to the table to drink a cup of chocolate with Isabel. She and Florinda and Silky would eat their supper later, after they had closed the saloon. Garnet poured another cup of chocolate and took it out to Texas.
Silky was making an entry in the credit book and Florinda was pouring fresh drinks for Collins and McLane. As Garnet set the cup in front of Texas she heard a brush of elbows on the bar to her right, and turned her head. She started. Leaning on the bar, his hands clasped around a cup of whiskey, was Charles.
Charles was dressed in mourning. He had on a fine white shirt and a black coat and trousers, and he carried a tasseled black hat under his arm. Thrust under his belt were white leather gloves embroidered with black silk. He looked rich, but it was not possible for Charles to look imposing. His brown face had so many little lines that Garnet thought of a monkey she had once seen at Barnum’s Museum. His small brown hands, linked around the cup, were hard and knuckly, and the veins stood out on the backs. As on the first time she had seen him, Garnet was reminded of something creeping and unhealthy. Then again, as on the first time she had seen him, she saw his eyes.
His eyes, brilliant and deep-set, were fixed on her. His look slid over her with a slimy contempt. She had never known anybody who could put as much contempt into a look as he could; she almost felt it, like a worm crawling over her body. As his eyes held her, she saw that the drink he was holding was not the first he had had this evening. She was surprised, for she had never known him to drink much. Without even a formal greeting, Charles said,
“I want to talk to you.”
She did not want to talk to him, but she did not know how she could avoid it. “About what, Charles?” she asked.
“I should prefer,” said Charles, glancing around the room in disgust, “that we have less company. Where can we go?”
“The bar closes at six,” she answered. “After that I can take you into the kitchen.”
The marine named Bill, by now somewhat the worse for aguardiente, sidled along the bar and gazed at Charles. “Hi there, pizen-face,” he said.
Charles ignored him, but
Texas put his hand on Bill’s arm. “I wouldn’t be disrespectful, son. The gentleman is a good friend of Captain Gillespie’s.”
Garnet had no idea whether or not this statement was true. But Bill subsided, leaning his head on his hand and grinning at nothing in particular. Charles finished his whiskey. As he set the cup on the bar his eyes came to rest on Florinda. At leisure for the moment, Florinda stood back from the bar. It was the first time Charles and Florinda had ever had a good look at each other. At the rancho their one conversation had taken place in the dark hall, and after that Florinda had kept out of his way, so that they had exchanged only a few passing glimpses. Now they looked each other over with mutual distaste.
Charles pushed his cup across the bar. “Fill this up,” he said curtly.
Florinda took a bottle from the shelf, but she did not pour. “You haven’t paid for the first one, Mr. Hale, and you’ve put no credit on the books.”
With a curl of his lip Charles tossed her a Spanish doubloon, worth fifteen dollars. It was an obvious gesture of disdain to remind her that he could buy every bottle on the shelf if he wanted to. Garnet felt like throwing the money back into his face. She must have looked like it too, for as the coin rattled on the counter Texas laid a hand on her wrist, shaking his head. Garnet caught her breath. But Florinda, with a coolness that Garnet envied, picked up the doubloon and pushed the bottle into Charles’ hands.
“Take it all, Mr. Hale, and thank you. I’ll write down the extra credit.” She dropped the doubloon into the cash-box, opened the book, and on a fresh page she made a note of one gold doubloon less one bottle of whiskey, credit of Mr. Charles Hale.
Without comment, Charles poured a drink. Bill the marine drained the last of his aguardiente and grinned hazily at Garnet. “Who’s the pizen-face?” he inquired.
“Be quiet, Bill,” she said.
“Last round, gentlemen,” Silky called.
There was a flurry of orders. Under cover of the final drinks Florinda whispered to Garnet, “If you want to take him back to the kitchen now, dearie, I’ll clear up.”
“No you won’t. If he wants to talk to me he can wait till I’m ready. I’m not going to leave you to do the work.”
“Six o’clock, gentlemen,” said Silky.
Sometimes he had trouble getting them out, but this evening there was a sergeant present who did the job for him. Evidently the sergeant knew Charles was a person of importance, for he made no effort to have him leave with the others. Florinda came through the side doorway into the front half of the room and began fastening the shutters. Silky picked up the ledgers and cash-box to check the day’s business, and Garnet piled the cups on a tray. Indicating the bottle in front of Charles, she said,
“I can put that on the shelf, marked with your name. Or do you want to keep it?”
“I’ll keep it,” he returned shortly, and picked it up. Garnet took the cups into the kitchen, came back and washed off the bar, and finally said, “You can come in here now, Charles.”
They went into the kitchen. Silky already sat at the end of the table near the fireplace, and Mickey was bringing him his supper. Garnet told Isabel she could go. Charles stood looking down at the basket.
“So this,” he said, “is Oliver’s child.” He drew down the covers. Stephen made a little sleepy protest at being disturbed, and Garnet put out her hand to cover him again. “I’m not hurting him,” Charles said. He gazed at Stephen a moment, and nodded in satisfaction. “A fine healthy child,” he said. Garnet rearranged the blankets. When she had tucked them in Charles said, “Come over here.”
He led the way to the end of the table away from the end where Silky was. Garnet sat down on the bench, facing him. Florinda came over and asked,
“Can we give you some supper, Mr. Hale?”
“No,” said Charles, “but you might bring me a cup.”
She went to get it, and Charles gave a long look around the room. The shutters were closed, and there was no light but the fire and two candles on the table.
“So this,” he said to Garnet, “is what you have chosen. And these are the friends you prefer.”
“Charles,” she demanded, “what do you want with me?” Charles glanced contemptuously at Florinda, who was setting a cup before him. Florinda asked,
“Shall I leave you now, Garnet?”
Garnet thought she might as well get it over with. Charles was not drunk yet, but he was going to be if he kept on with that straight whiskey, and she wanted him to say what he had to say, and go. “Yes,” she said to Florinda, “get your beans while they’re hot.”
Florinda went to the other end of the long table and sat by Silky.
Garnet heard them talking to each other, and the soft padding of Mickey’s shoes as he served them. Charles poured a drink. When he spoke to her, his manner seemed less stiff, as though he were trying to win her consent rather than command her obedience.
“Garnet,” he said, “I came to get you out of this place.”
“Thank you, Charles,” she returned. “But I don’t want to leave.”
Charles shook his head. “I can’t believe you want to stay here,” he urged. “You—forgive the trite old word, but there’s no other—you are a lady. Won’t you come back to the rancho and live like one?”
She thought, It’s no use explaining why I won’t come back. He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand even if he hadn’t touched that liquor. Aloud she said, “I don’t want to come back, Charles.”
“Garnet, you can’t go on working at that bar. Don’t you hate it?”
She took a deep breath and made herself speak calmly. “I don’t like it, Charles. But you must know why I’m working there.” He said nothing, and she went on, “Oliver left thirty-eight dollars on deposit with Mr. Abbott.”
Charles looked her over. In the flickering light she could see that his eyes were getting vague, the eyes of a man who had already drunk too much. But his voice was steady. “I am holding Oliver’s property,” he said, “in trust for Oliver’s son. When the boy comes of age, I shall be glad to take him into partnership with me at the rancho.”
“And in the meantime?” asked Garnet.
“In the meantime,” he replied, “I shall administer the Hale property as I see fit.”
“Do you think I’m too stupid to take care of his share of it?” she asked. She wondered why she had asked it. Charles had poured another drink, and he tossed it down before he answered.
“Do you think,” he said, “that I’d trust you with Oliver’s property after the evidence you have given of your tastes? And leave you free to bring up Oliver’s child among rascals and prostitutes? I have better plans for that boy, if you haven’t.”
Garnet clenched her jaw. She was both tired and hungry, but at the moment she was not aware of being either. She was simply thinking that Charles was even more repellent drunk than sober. He did not stop drinking, but he did catch hold of his temper and make another effort to persuade her.
“Come back to the rancho, Garnet. You can live there in cleanliness, in comfort, in dignity. The boy will have his own dogs and horses, his own servants. His friends will be boys of the leading families, native and American.”
Charles’ tongue was getting thick. He was speaking slowly, separating his syllables with care. There’s no use answering him, Garnet thought. But he’s not going to get my child.
Charles continued, “There is going to be trouble in Los Angeles. The people are on the verge of revolt.”
Garnet knew this. If she had had anywhere to take refuge except Charles’ rancho, she would have gone gladly. But not there. If Charles ever got hold of Stephen he would never let him go.
Charles was watching her over the rim of his cup. His eyes wobbled as he tried to fix them on her face. What strange things liquor did to people’s eyes. When he spoke again his words were thick.
“You, of course, can do as you please,” he said. “But I want Oliver’s child on the rancho. He has a right
to a decent life.”
“A decent life!” Garnet repeated scornfully. “Is that what you think you gave Oliver?” She did not know why she had said that. But she was so tired of his hate and contempt, and his passion for domineering. She was so tired of everything.
“You,” said Charles, “can damn well shut up about Oliver.”
His hand shook as he lifted the cup. Garnet heard Silky say something about checking the supplies for tomorrow. He went into the front room. Florinda got up too, and went to the door leading to the stairs. “Call me if you want me, Garnet,” she said over her shoulder.
Charles paid no attention to her. He glared at Garnet, trying to focus his blurry eyes.
“Oliver was my brother. He was my brother, till you came.” His voice was like the growl of an animal. “You! Telling him to go back to the States, telling him never to see me again. Getting in the way, keeping him from making a good marriage in California, driving him to his death.” He pushed himself back from the table, and tried to stand up, holding to the table with both hands. As he glowered at her his lips pulled back from his teeth. Garnet drew away from him, startled and frightened by his look of malevolence. Charles laughed, bitterly and evilly. “You thought you had left me nothing at all of him, didn’t you? But there is something left of Oliver. He had a child. I looked at his son just now. His son is strong and healthy, like Oliver. And you are trying to tell me you can keep that child away from me and make him grow up like a savage. You say—you—”
The whiskey had been gaining on him. Now it struck him like a club. Crumpling down on the bench he dropped his head on his arm.
Garnet sprang up. If she had thought before that Charles was no fit guardian for a child, now she knew he was not. How he hated her, she thought as she looked down at him, as crooked ugly creatures nearly always hated those who were straight and well. And if she let him, he would destroy Stephen’s moral power as he had destroyed Oliver’s, so that Stephen, like Oliver, would pay for his strength by being forever dependent on Charles’ weakness. Cold with loathing, Garnet moved along the bench, away from Charles, to where Stephen lay asleep in his basket. She took up the baby and held him in her arms.
