by Len Levinson
They played cards, drank, held conversations. Two waitresses carried bottles to tables and cleared away the empties. The bar was against the far wall opposite the swinging doors, and Stone headed toward it, weaving among the tables, looking at the fanned cards in the hands of the gamblers. He thought he might play a game or two of cards later if he was still in the mood. There was nothing quite like a hot game of poker with stakes worth worrying about.
Finally he came, to the bar. It was three deep with men guzzling whiskey and talking in loud tones, gesticulating vigorously. Stone made his way through them and found a few inches of open bar. He thrust his arm through it in an effort to catch the barmaid’s eye.
“Whiskey,” he said.
Plucking down a bottle and a glass, she placed the glass in front of him and filled it half full of whiskey, then told him how much it cost. She was a blonde in a low-cut gown and looked as though she wasn’t getting much sleep.
She looked Stone up and down and took his money. She was taller and huskier than Marie, and Stone flashed on an image of Marie working behind a bar in a frontier saloon.
Marie had been a rich man’s daughter and never had done any work in her life. Her father gave her anything she wanted. Work would be a shock, but she’d survive, because underneath the satin and lace, she’d been tough and smart.
Something brushed his leg, and he looked to the floor. It was a big fat black pussycat nudging against him. Stone picked it up and put it on the bar, scratching in back of the cat’s ears, and the cat raised its head to let him do it. Static electricity from the cat’s fur crackled in Stone’s hand. He raised his glass and took another swig of whiskey.
“First time I ever seen him let somebody do that,” said the barmaid. “Who are you, anyway?”
“My name’s John Stone.”
“I’m Amy.”
They looked at each other, then somebody shouted, “Whiskey!” and Amy walked toward the other end of the bar.
Stone petted the cat. “I forgot to find out your name,” he said to it.
The man next to him grunted, “You talkin’ to cats these days?”
“Guess so,” Stone said good-naturedly.
“Any man who talks to a cat must be crazy.”
The man was tall and wiry with black hair and a black beard. He wore a dirty yellow shirt and brown cord pants, a six-gun in a holster slung low. Stone turned away and continued to pat the cat.
“Hey—I’m talkin’ to you!” the man shouted, grabbing Stone’s shoulder. “Don’t turn yer goddamn back on me!”
Stone wheeled and faced the man. “I came to this saloon to get a few drinks, and that’s all I want it to be.”
The man turned down the corners of his mouth in derision. “Is that so!”
Stone ignored the man and continued to pat the cat. Amy leaned over the bar. “Relax cowboy,” she said to the man in the yellow shirt. “We don’t want no trouble in here.”
“Relax your ass!” the man growled. “What the hell do I need to relax fer?” He looked up at Stone. “I don’t like you!”
“Maybe you should go home and sleep it off.”
“Sleep what off?”
Stone held out his hand. “My name’s John Stone. What’s yours?”
The man looked disdainfully at Stone’s hand. “What the hell do I wanna shake hands with you fer?”
Stone let his hand fall slowly to the side. Nothing would mollify the man. Here we go again.
The drunken man glowered at him, weaving unsteadily from side to side, his lips curled in contempt. “I think you’re a no-good lowdown son of a whore!”
Amy reached over the bar and grabbed the man’s shoulder. “Settle down, cowboy.”
“Hands off, bitch!”
The man flung her hand off him, then bared his teeth and charged Stone, rearing back his right hand, preparing to deliver a knockout blow, but he was too drunk and too slow. Stone threw a fast left jab that mashed the man’s nose and stopped him in his tracks.
The man blinked his eyes. He touched his hand to his nose and blood dripped from his fingers. Drinkers in the vicinity stepped out of the way. The cat jumped to the floor behind the bar.
“You son of a bitch!” the man shouted and raised his hands. “I’m gonna kick your ass!”
Stone gazed wearily at the man and leaned against the bar, not bothering to raise his fists. The man roared and charged, throwing a punch at Stone’s head. Stone dodged to the side and hooked a hard left into the man’s stomach.
The man’s eyes goggled and his tongue stuck out. Doubling up, he keeled over, falling in a clump to the floor where he gurgled and groaned at Stone’s feet. Then he began to vomit.
Stone tossed a few coins on the bar and walked toward the door. Outside, he rolled a cigarette and crossed the street, heading for the sheriff’s office.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. A stout man with a badge on his shirt sat at a desk in front of an American flag. He wore a tan suede vest and was cleaning a six-gun.
“What kin I do fer you?” the man asked.
“You the sheriff?”
“I’m Deputy Jones. The sheriff is off tonight.”
Stone took out his picture of Marie. “Ever see this woman?”
Deputy Jones looked at it. “Can’t say that I have. Who is she?”
“Friend of mine.”
“What’s she done?”
“She hasn’t done anything. Where’s Miss Molly Nickerson’s restaurant?”
“To the left on the other side of the street.”
Stone walked out of the sheriff’s office and stopped to let two riders pass, then he crossed the muddy street. On the far side, sitting on a bench, were Wayne Collins, Joe Doakes, and Georgie Saulnier, the three miners.
“Howdy, boys,” Stone said.
Stone passed them by, wondered what they were talking about, and surmised it wasn’t anything good. They were the three sleaziest characters on the wagon train. Farther down the block, he saw Stewart and Martha Donahue with their oldest son, Cornelius. Stone touched his finger to the brim of his hat as he passed them, then somebody fired a gun across the street, and Stone reflexively dropped to his belly on the boardwalk.
A drunken cowboy was on the other side of the street, shooting his six-gun into the air. Stone got up and dusted himself off. He saw the big sign straight ahead: NICKERSON’S RESTAURANT. The front of the restaurant had white gables and a white door. He stepped inside and saw white wallpaper with a pink fleur de lis design on it. Men and women sat at the tables, shoveling food into their mouths.
Stone hung his hat on a peg and sat at a table against the wall. Tobacco smoke was thick in the air, and a man on the other side of the room laughed heartily. Stone was looking forward to a peaceful meal, then he’d return to the saloon for a few more drinks, maybe even a card game.
The waitress brought a menu and Stone looked it over. Roast chicken was listed, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a chicken. The waitress returned to the table, and he told her that’s what he wanted.
Stone smoked a cigarette. It felt good to be back in civilization. It reminded him of the days when he went to dinner parties in stately mansions with refined gentlemen and gracious ladies.
A woman in an orange gown entered the dining room via the kitchen door, and Stone assumed she was Miss Molly Nickerson. Her long auburn hair was piled on her head, and she was in her thirties. She flitted from table to table, talking with her customers, and laughter followed wherever she went. Her earrings flashed in the light that streamed through the windows. Finally she reached Stone’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
“Who might you be?” she asked.
“John Stone.”
“I’m Molly Nickerson. This is my place. You Taggart’s scout?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He told me about you. Said you were a crazy son of a bitch.” She narrowed her eyes and looked him over. “Not a bad lookin’ feller, either. He
said yer lookin’ for yer great lost love.”
Stone took the picture of Marie out of his pocket. “Ever see her?”
“Oh, she’s pretty,” said Molly, looking at the photograph. “Looks like a nice girl, but I’m sorry to say I don’t think our trails have ever crossed.”
She handed the picture back, and he tucked it into his pocket.
“What if you never find her?” Molly asked.
“I’ll find her.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Taggart said yer the fastest gun he ever seen. I could use a man who’s fast with a gun, and who’s got some grit. You wouldn’t be interested in a regular job, would you?”
“Doing what?”
“Workin’ for me, helpin’ me handle the customers. If there’s any trouble, you take care of it. I’ll pay you more’n Taggart’s payin’ you, and I know what he’s payin’ you: not much. You’ll get room and board, too. If yer as smart as I think you are, you’ll take the job.”
“I thought you and Taggart were friends.”
“We are friends, but I need a good man to help me out.”
“Should be a lot of good men passing through here.”
“I need someone who’s smart, honest, good-looking, and hell with a Colt. That combination ain’t easy to find.”
“I’m on my way to Texas.”
“Ain’t nothin’ in Texas ’cept Injuns and cows. You could make a good livin’ here, build up yer stake in case you want to buy a place of yer own someday.”
She took a silver cigarette case out of her purse and removed a cigarette that already had been rolled. Placing the cigarette in her mouth, she leaned across the table so Stone could light it with a match.
Her gown was low-cut, and Stone saw the tops of her opulent breasts. Stone figured there’d be more to the job than what she said. He could probably sleep in her bed, too, if he wanted.
“Let me tell you something, John Stone,” she said. “I just made you an offer that any other man in this room would’ve jumped on like a dog jumps on a bone.”
“I’m going to Texas.”
She blew smoke into the air. “Yer the customer, and the customer is always right. Where’s yer dinner?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Should’ve been here by now. I’ll check on it. If you change yer mind about the job, you know where to find me.”
Molly Nickerson walked toward the kitchen, shaking her rear end from side to side. Stone realized what he’d just given up. No more riding through Indian-infested country for low wages and sleeping on the ground at night. I could be living in luxury.
But if he worked for Molly Nickerson, he’d have to toe the mark. She wasn’t the kind of woman who fooled around. If she paid him, she’d think she owned him.
His waitress appeared through the smoke, carrying a dish covered with half a chicken.
“Anything else?”
“Whiskey.”
The waitress receded into the smoke. Stone sliced into the chicken, and it was like cutting through butter. He placed a piece of chicken into his mouth and realized Molly had a first class cook in the kitchen. I could eat like this all the time.
Stone knew what it was like to eat well all the time. His family had owned slaves who’d turned out fabulous meals three times a day. He’d been horrified by the food at West Point, but it was eat it or starve. Trail food was trail food, not bad if you wanted roast meat or bacon and beans all the time.
A bulky, squarish figure came toward him through the jumbled tables. It was Taggart, his hat in hand and a grin on his face.
“Reverend McGhee and Fenwick said they’d watch the wagons, so I come back to town for more of Miss Molly’s grub. Figured you’d be here by now.” Taggart sat at the table and looked at the chicken on Stone’s plate. “Think I’ll order me that.”
At that moment there was a shriek on the other side of the room. “Taggart, you old varmint!” cried Molly Nickerson.
Taggart stood up and she ran into his arms. Everybody looked at the commotion. Taggart patted her ass.
“You meet my scout yet?” he asked.
“Offered him a job, but he wouldn’t take it.”
Taggart looked at Stone. “I’m touched by yer loyalty to the wagon train, my boy.”
“He don’t care about yer damn wagon train,” she said. “He’s thinks that girl in the picture might be in Texas.”
“You mean,” Taggart said to Stone, “if it wasn’t for that woman in yer pocket, you would’ve left me?”
“It was an awfully handsome offer.”
“You’d just leave me stranded here in the middle of nowhere?”
“The town is full of men who’d be happy to work for you.”
“Nobody’s loyal anymore.” Taggart shook his head sadly.
A waitress scurried up to Miss Molly Nickerson and whispered in her ear.
“Excuse me,” Molly said.
She rose from the table and headed toward the kitchen. Stone guessed they were running out of something, or maybe the stove had broken down.
Taggart filled his glass with whiskey. “Actually, if it was me, to be perfectly honest with you, I would’ve accepted her offer. I once had a woman who took care of me for a while, and it was real nice. ’Course, that was a long time ago.”
“Who was she?”
“A sportin’ lady. It was back in San Francisco, when I used to play cards for a livin’.”
“You were a gambler, Taggart?”
“For a time.”
“You must’ve been hell in those days.”
“Still am.” Taggart sipped some whiskey. “You know, Miss Molly don’t offer jobs to people every day.”
“You trying to get rid of me?”
“No, but she don’t hire just anybody. I’ve knowed her for a long time, and she’s only had a few men here.”
“What happened to them?”
“She throwed ’em all out after a while.”
“She’d probably throw me out after a while, too.”
“Prob’ly.”
The waitress brought Taggart’s chicken, and he cut open the breast and, placing a piece into his mouth, chewed like a cow.
“By the way,” he said, his mouth full, “the first place I went looking for you was the saloon, and they was talkin’ about a fight they had in there. The feller who won fit yer description. Was it you?”
“Wasn’t much of a fight.”
“The feller you punched is from the Circle Y, and his buddies’re mad. They’re probably gonna be a-lookin’ fer you, so be careful. You’d better stay outta that saloon, but I guess the first thing you’ll do after leavin’ here is go back there.”
“That’s what I’d intended. Haven’t spent much time in saloons lately.”
“Don’t look for trouble, boy. Someday you’ll meet somebody faster’n you.”
“A man’s got a right to take a drink if he wants to. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
“Somebody’s got to watch yer back, you damn fool.” They ate heartily, and the chickens before them were picked clean to the bones. For dessert they had large wedges of apple pie and hot black coffee. Stone rolled a cigarette and Taggart lit a cigar. Miss Molly walked toward them, sitting at their table, crossing her legs.
“Change yer mind?” she said to Stone.
“No, ma’am.”
“I could’ve used you.” She turned to Taggart. “How about you?”
“Can’t leave my wagon train.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why the hell not? You think them people give a damn about you? If they find somebody who’ll move ’em cheaper, they’ll run in a minute.”
“I won’t be workin’ wagon trains much longer,” Taggart said. “I want to settle down on my ranch in Texas. Don’t think my woman would appreciate me workin’ here for you, Miss Molly.”
She leaned toward Taggart and put her arm around his shoulders, pressing her breast
s into his arm and kissing him on the cheek. Then she looked at Stone. “I can understand Taggart’s reason,” she said, “because he’s got somethin’ in Texas a-waitin’ for him, but you ain’t got nothin’ a-waitin’ for you, John Stone. Let me tell you somethin’: Life is like a dogsled. If yer not the lead dog, the scenery never changes. I’m a-givin’ you a chance to be the lead dog, but you ain’t smart enough to take it.”
“Maybe I’ll come back to you someday,” Stone said.
“You don’t take it now, you ain’t gittin’ it, ever.”
“Got to go to Texas.”
“Why is it the good men don’t want me, and the bad ones’re comin’ out of the woodwork?” She looked around her noisy restaurant, and a customer was arguing with a waitress. “Got to git back to work.”
She rose from the table and walked toward the irate customer. Taggart puffed his cigar. “Can’t figger you out,” he said to Stone. “Sometimes I think yer smart and sometimes I think yer dumb.”
Stone smoked his cigarette and thought of how nice it would be to sleep in a clean bed every night, but Marie was out there someplace, and he had to find her.
“Let’s hit that saloon,” he said to Taggart.
“Not only are you dumb, but yer loco to boot. I’m tellin’ you, the boys from the Circle Y are liable to be there, and that’ll spell trouble in anybody’s book.”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
“I’m comin’,” Taggart said. “Yer like a little kid—can’t leave you alone or you’ll git into trouble.”
They paid their check and headed for the door. Miss Molly Nickerson sashayed toward them, kissed Taggart’s cheek, then held out her hand to Stone.
“Nice meeting you,” she said. “Just remember what I told you about that dogsled.”
Taggart opened the door, and they stepped outside into the cool night breeze. Stone looked down the street and saw the bright lights of the saloon illuminating crowds of men on the boardwalk drinking whiskey out of bottles.
“Don’t like the look of it,” Taggart said.
