by Pamela Morsi
As he saw them making ready to leave, he hurried to get ahead of them. Accepting his change from the waiter he asked, "Do you happen to know the date today?"
The waiter looked up curiously. "Why, it's the seventh I believe, sir."
Taking a bill from his stack of change he handed it to the waiter. "Could you write that date on this bill for me?"
The waiter complied with a befuddled shake of his head. Pathkiller smiled and gave the man another bill as a tip. He knew the waiter would remember the incident and would easily be able to recognize his writing on the bill when the case came to court.
Pathkiller stepped outside and leaned against the building rolling a cigarette as Henry Lee and Hannah came out of the restaurant and headed leisurely down the street. As he watched them he almost felt pity for the young couple, so obviously in love, but he quickly pushed it back. Love was a transitory foolishness that could be deadly for a man on the run.
The Ambrosia Ballroom was a warehouse converted to a dance hall, or as the proprietress Hattie Byron preferred to call it, a salon. Mrs. Byron, whose late husband was killed fighting the big fire of '89, maintained a degree of respectability among the townspeople. But her business—which brought together cowhands, college boys, and ne'er-do-wells to mingle with lonely widows, merchants' daughters, and women of dubious reputation—was viewed by the community with a great deal of suspicion However, Mrs. Byron never allowed the personal morals of her friends and neighbors to deter her in the acquisition of money.
She knew Henry Lee Watson by reputation only, but when a long-legged, darkly handsome young man with a freshly scrubbed farmgirl on his arm arrived, she knew that must be him and promenaded over to introduce herself.
“Mr. Watson." she offered him a bright smile and her hand. Henry Lee took it in his own and began to lift it to his lips. With a sidelong glance at Hannah, he decided simply to shake it. "We are so happy that you've come to our little party." She smiled tolerantly at Hannah. "Is this the new Mrs. Watson I have heard about?"
Henry Lee introduced Hannah and poured on the charm. Hannah was amazed as he put on his positively devastating smile and set out to dazzle Mrs. Byron.
Hannah looked up to see a familiar face. Harjo was dressed like a railroad baron and shiny as a new penny, making his way, with his hesitant limping gait, over to them.
"Watson, my friend, it's good that you came," he greeted, slapping Henry Lee on the back. "And you, ma'am, also," he said bowing to Hannah. "Marriage must agree with you, you grow more lovely each time I see you."
Hannah blushed at the compliment. It still felt strange to be the recipient of such flowery talk, but she was beginning to like it.
"Why don't I take your lovely wife for a spin around the floor, while you two discuss a bit of business," Harjo said taking Hannah's arm and leading her away. She glanced back to see Henry Lee watching her. His eyes were warm with affection, but there was worry also and Hannah wasn't quite sure why.
"I didn't realize that my husband had business with Mrs. Byron."
Harjo raised his brows. Obviously Henry Lee had still not told his wife about his whiskey business. But she certainly was not going to hear it from him. He laughed and brushed off the question.
"A businessman, like your husband, sees every introduction as an opportunity for business," he said to her. "Now let me try out this bad leg on a slow tune so that I don't tread on your feet too badly."
"Oh, Mr. Harjo," Hannah said, embarrassed. "You needn't make the effort on my account. I don't dance, of course, my father would never approve."
Haijo smiled down at her. "But, Mrs. Watson, it no longer matters whether your father approves. You are a married woman now, it's your husband's approval that you must seek."
The truth of this statement gave Hannah pause. Of course, it was true. Only her own conscience and the wishes of her husband need concern her. She was no longer the preacher's daughter and if she cared to dance, she certainly had a right to do so.
With a heady sense of freedom, Hannah offered Harjo a bright smile. "How correct you are, Mr. Harjo, I do need only to concern myself with my husband. I assume you know his feelings in regards to dancing."
Harjo smiled at her, liking her tentative steps toward adventure. "Your husband, ma'am, is an excellent dancer and loves to wear the finish off the floor. I think it is safe to say that he would be interested in a woman who could dance a step or two."
"Well then, Mr. Harjo, I'm counting on you to teach me, because I don't know even one step and have never been on a dance floor before."
"You have come to the right man, Mrs. Watson. As a poor dancer with a gimp leg, I have managed to compress dancing into about three easy moves that get me through most music. I will be happy to demonstrate my meager abilities."
The man was as good as his word and a surprisingly talented teacher. The two of them made their way to an uncrowded area of the floor and Hannah discovered that for a man with such a noticeable limp while walking, Harjo danced with a rustic grace. His explanations of the moves were simple and concise, and in only a few moments Hannah found herself dancing, albeit somewhat clumsily, for the first time.
It was fun and free, like the flight of a bird. Hannah twirled in his arms delighted at her newfound abilities. She could not imagine how this could be a sin and she thought it a shame that she hadn't tried this diversion before.
She imagined other women that might have come to this place with her husband. They would be women that he had sought out, women that he had found attractive and interesting. Hannah felt herself becoming jealous of those faceless females. They had received the attention of Henry Lee because he admired them. She received it because she had trapped him into marriage.
She was as capable as any other woman, she could be whatever Henry Lee wanted. She was sure of it. If he wanted a woman who dressed fancy and danced with him, she could learn to do that. There wasn't anything that Hannah had tried to do in her life that she hadn't succeeded at in some fashion. She didn't expect it to be simple.
After several semi-graceful turns around the floor both Hannah and Harjo were slightly breathless.
"Do you think they might have a dipper of water or such around here?" Hannah asked her escort.
"We can certainly try to find some," he replied, leading her toward the far corner of the room where a stairway could be glimpsed through a doorway.
An native man seemed to be guarding the doorway and stepped in front of them blocking the entrance.
"You looking for something?"
"I'm looking for something to drink," Hannah answered before Harjo had an opportunity to open his mouth.
"You got money?"
Hannah was surprised at the question. Water was not usually for sale in the territory, it was considered only neighborly to offer it freely to anyone.
"Mrs. Watson . . Harjo began, but Hannah interrupted him. Her thirst should not be quenched at the expense of a friend.
"My husband is over there with Mrs. Byron," she said pointing Henry Lee out to the man. "His name is Henry Lee Watson and I'm sure he will be glad to pay you."
The man looked at Henry Lee and then at the woman and Harjo. He laughed inexplicably. "Yes, I suspect that he is good for the money." He reached back into the doorway behind him and handed Hannah a quart jar, filled to the brim.
"Thank you," she told him primly and turned away with her nose slightly in the air.
"Mrs. Watson," Harjo touched her arm and drew her aside. "I don't believe that this is what you think it is."
Hannah looked at the contents of the jar. Even through the blue glass, it was obviously clear liquid.
"It's not water," Harjo explained, hoping that she was not going to make a scene. "You've just purchased a quart of whiskey."
"Whiskey!" Hannah's exclamation was desperately whispered. She looked at the jar as if it had suddenly turned into a snake, and then quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen her. "Oh my heavens! What will I do? What will Henr
y Lee think of me?"
Harjo seemed at a loss for words for an instant, then he smiled broadly. "I think, Mrs. Watson, that your new husband is as tolerant of whiskey as he is of dancing."
"Do you think so?"
"I know so."
Hannah considered for a moment, remembering the evening when he had come home liquored up. He obviously had occasion to drink, although he had promised never to get drunk again. She felt a blush spread through her as she remembered his wild behavior that night, how he'd ripped open her nightgown and kissed her with his tongue in her mouth. Did the liquor make him act that way? She had heard that it gave courage, maybe it gave desire also.
Without another thought she slipped the lid off her jar and brought the fiery contents to her lips. She took a good gulp. The liquid widened her eyes and burned her throat, she was shocked at how terrible it tasted.
"It's awful!" she said, surprised.
Harjo's mouth dropped open, stunned at her action. The irony struck him as funny and he laughed gleefully at Hannah's dislike of her husband's fine corn liquor.
"I believe it's an acquired taste, Mrs. Watson. Hardly anyone likes it on the first drink, you simply must keep at it," he told her, his eyes shining with wicked amusement.
She took another small drink. It didn't burn nearly so much as the first one.
"My father would definitely not approve of this. Do ladies actually drink this?"
"Oh, yes indeed, frequently. They say it is for medicinal purposes, but they do drink it. Not to excess, of course."
"Of course."
She was silent for a moment, then asked somewhat tentatively, "Do the ladies my husband has escorted in the past usually partake of liquor?"
Harjo thought of the other women he had seen with Henry Lee, high-priced whores and sassy saloon girls all of whom willingly consumed at least their fair share of any whiskey available.
"Well, actually, Mrs. Watson, most of the women he has escorted in the past have imbibed rather freely." Harjo did worry that his friend would not appreciate having his wife classed in the same group with his former girlfriends. "I do think, however, that ladies consume rather sparingly."
"I'm sure," Hannah agreed. They stood together at the edge of the dance floor, Hannah still holding her quart jar and Harjo trying to keep his humor in check. What a great joke it was going to be when Henry Lee discovered his wife, whom he was afraid to tell that he was in the whiskey business, had purchased whiskey from him.
Wisdom, however, being the greater part of valor, Harjo decided that it was best that he was not present when Henry Lee discovered the joke.
"I do apologize for deserting you," he said. "But I've just seen a friend across the room that I must speak with. Will you be all right waiting for Henry Lee?"
"Certainly," she said. "I'll be fine."
Left to her own devices, Hannah watched the dancers on the floor, some graceful and poetic, others merely exuberant. She felt slightly uncomfortable, and, at a loss as to what to do while waiting on her husband, she found herself taking casual little sips from the quart jar. It gave her something to occupy her hands and a reason to be standing alone to the side. She decided that Harjo was absolutely right. It was an acquired taste. It still burned a great deal, but she thought the whiskey was actually quite pleasant.
In fact, she thought, the whole evening was quite pleasant. She began to sway to the music. She wanted to sing and dance, float around the room. At that she caught herself.
"Now Hannah," she admonished herself. "You can't just go floating around the room." The idea was so funny she began to laugh and couldn't seem to stop. Covering her mouth with her hand, as if to lock in the hilarity that was struggling to escape, she hiccupped. With a little polite cough to cover she took a couple more sips from the jar. She looked across the room and smiled at Henry Lee, who was headed her way.
For the first time that he could remember, Henry Lee regretted the time he had been forced to spend on business. Mrs. Byron was a very astute negotiator, and had refused to purchase one drop of corn liquor. She would not be associated with the whiskey trade. She was willing, however, to allow it to be sold out of her back room for a small fee. Twenty-five percent was what she had considered a small fee. Henry Lee had been furious at that offer. Already the liquor was being sold, so he was caught, but he was unwilling to take all of the risk of bringing the whiskey to the middle of the territory and receive the same amount as if he had stayed home. The bargaining had gone on forever and Henry Lee's eagerness to get it over with so that he could be with his wife did not work in his behalf. He finally agreed on fifteen percent, paid in advance, but vowed that he would never take the risk involved to ship into Muskogee again. It just wasn't worth it.
He was surprised to see Hannah standing by herself, with Harjo nowhere in sight. He hurried over to her. When he was only a few feet away, he saw the mason jar in her hand. It stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked her directly in the eyes. She was smiling so warmly, so sweetly and swaying so unaffectedly to the rhythm of the music. It was obvious that Hannah Bunch Watson was tipsy.
Henry Lee had years of experience with inebriated females and knew that any false moves could create an embarrassing scene. Smiling sweetly he moved to his wife's side and took the whiskey jar out of her hand.
"Did Harjo buy this for you?" His voice was so sweet that Hannah missed the undercurrent of anger in it.
"No, you did!" she answered, laughing at what seemed, for some reason, terribly funny. "I told the man that you were my husband and that you would pay him for it."
"Indeed, I will."
He placed the half-empty whiskey jar on the window sill behind him. "Did Harjo share any of this with you?"
"Oh no, he had something else he had to do. I've just been watching the dancers."
Henry Lee nodded fatalistically. A half quart of corn liquor was a good deal for someone who was not familiar with it.
"Have you ever drunk before?"
"Oh no, my father would never have approved." Hannah found that rather funny also. "But it doesn't matter about my father anymore, I only have to please my husband now." She smiled at him so radiantly that Henry Lee's anger seemed to wilt in the face of it.
"Harjo told me that dancing and drinking are diversions that you like. I want to learn to do those things that you enjoy." She grabbed his hand eagerly. "Come and let me show you what I've learned already. Harjo has been showing me how to dance and it is just wonderful."
Henry Lee could no longer remember why he was supposed to be angry. Hannah's dancing was far from perfect, but her natural ability coupled with the lack of inhibition derived from the drink made it easy for Henry Lee to lead her through several difficult steps. He enjoyed teaching her and he loved holding her close.
She did not seem frightened of him at all now. He decided that perhaps Harjo had unexpectedly done him a great service. They would dance. He would hold her close. She would grow accustomed to his touch. And later, when she was still warm and relaxed from the liquor, he would teach her another dance. One that was done, prone, on the bed sheets. He smiled and whirled her around pressing her as close as was decently possible in public.
Neemie Pathkiller had slowly made his way around the room watching every possible entrance and exit. It was clear that both Hattie Byron and Watson thought themselves so safe that neither was overly concerned with getting caught. The liquor was being sold, more or less openly, through the back stairway. He leisurely made his way to the doorway and spoke to the man making the sales.
"Give me a quart," he told him offering the bill with the date written across it. Pathkiller took his jar and moved over to a window near the far side of the room He'd already alerted Tom Quick. The marshal and his men were waiting for a sign from Pathkiller. As soon as they knew that Watson had picked up the money they were going to storm the place and arrest him.
Pathkiller watched the couple swirling together on the dance floor, neither even slightly aware that th
eir pleasant evening was about to have a very unpleasant ending. It was almost too easy.
* * *
For over an hour Hannah had felt like the princess at the ball. And she danced with the most handsome, most dashing, most charming prince who ever lived. She felt absolutely wonderful. Henry Lee held her so close she could feel the heat from his body and more than once she felt his lips in her hair. She wished all the other people could just disappear and she would simply stand in the middle of this candlelit ballroom and hold the man that she loved.
Into her beautiful dream, the man who sold her the whiskey appeared at Henry Lee's side. “Just want you to know that we can square up whenever you're ready," he told Henry Lee.
Henry Lee nodded and said he would be with him shortly.
"He certainly is concerned about getting paid," Hannah commented. Henry Lee smiled, now amused at what had happened.
"Are you about ready to leave?" he asked, and then pulled her close. Leaning down to whisper into her ear, he added, "We can stay longer and dance if you like, or we can head back to the hotel."
Hannah blushed prettily, but the whiskey had given her enough courage to overcome her natural modesty and she nodded.
Henry Lee led her to the side of the dance floor, and asked her to wait while he went to transact his business alone. Hannah stood for a moment watching the dancing round her, then she noticed her half-empty jar of whisky sitting on the window ledge. Having been reared with he adage "waste not, want not," Hannah retrieved her it and finished the contents in one fiery swoop. She batted her eyes to combat the tears. She felt dizzy for the first time and decided that she had better stay close to Henry Lee. She turned and started in his direction.
They counted out Henry Lee's money. "Thirty-eight gallons made 152 quarts, minus the one that your woman took equals 151 quarts sold."
"Thanks," Henry Lee said, giving the grinning salesman a cut for his trouble. Taking his money, Henry Lee folded it, carefully attached it to his money clip and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. Watching from across the room, Neemie Pathkiller immediately went to the window and slammed it shut. Henry Lee had just turned to find Hannah at his side. She was giggling and weaving a bit and he started to make a comment about not leaving a moment too soon when a commotion broke out near the entrance of the ballroom.
