by J. T. Edson
‘Why don’t you get Rudy Schanz to take me on?’ Stern suggested, feeling sure the blacksmith would expect more than a token appearance of work, regardless of what might be promised to the contrary.
‘It’ll cost me enough talking Gilmore into having you,’ the red head replied, suspecting the only way she could persuade the blacksmith to agree was by offering to supplement her brother’s wages. ‘Schanz would want me to hand over all your god-damned pay and, him being married, I can’t get around him the same way I can Gilmore. Now get the hell out of here and do as I told you.’
‘Sure, Wan’!’ Stern assented sullenly and turned to shamble away, muttering inaudibly.
‘What’ve you got on that tricky mind of your’n, Wan’?’ Wallace asked, being aware that the bouts of violent exercise acted as a stimulant to thought for his half-sister.
‘Do you think those two useless bastards downstairs would kill somebody?’
‘They’ve done it before.’
‘Would they gun down a woman?’
‘I shouldn’t reckon, knowing them, they’d give a shit whether it was a man or a woman, so long as they reckoned they could get away with it,’ Wallace assessed, and gave a nod as he realized what had been implied by the question. ‘You mean her at the Hide?’
‘I mean her at the Hide,’ Wanda confirmed. ‘Would they be willing to gun her down, knowing it’ll be Lloyd Bowman and not Collier who’ll be looking into why they did it?’
‘Hell, yes!’ the gambler declared. ‘After what she done to them last night and with that going for them, they’d be ready to take her down.’
‘Then go give them a couple of drinks and keep them remembering what she did to them while I get dressed,’ the red head instructed. ‘It’s time they did something to earn the pay I’ve—!’
‘Hey, Wan’!’ Stern called from downstairs. ‘Them two old bastards from the Hide’ve come asking about the old faro table.’
‘Tell them Leo took it with him when he lit out this morning,’ the beautiful woman replied. ‘Say I’ll have him send it back when we get his table passed down to us in Garnett, but not before.’
‘Sure, Wan’!’ the hulking man replied, having no idea why he was to supply such false information—the original table being in the storm cellar—but considering it advisable to do as he was ordered.
‘What’s the idea, Wan’?’ Wallace inquired.
‘Whether those two take her out or not,’ the red head answered. ‘It’ll make Lloyd’s work easier happen he can say she’d got crooked gambling gear on the premises.’
‘Everything’s going smooth as the skin on a baby’s butt, boss!’ Joseph Turner reported, running an appreciative gaze over the new owner of the Hide and Horn saloon as he met her at the door of the wide staircase she had just descended. ‘’Cept that everybody’s stopped to look at you. Which I can’t say’s I blame them for doing.’
‘Go on!’ Madam Bulldog replied, smiling and not unflattered by the response from her floor manager. ‘You’re only saying that ’cause it’s true!’
There was more than an attempt at ‘apple polishing’ behind the greeting given by Turner!
It was, in fact, a point of view shared by every man in the barroom!
No longer was the blonde clad in the demure attire in which she had presented herself to the citizens ever since her arrival at Tennyson!
Bare headed, except for the spray of white ibis feathers attached to her neatly piled blonde hair, Madam had on a gown made from shiny black satin which clung to her buxomly curvaceous figure like a second skin. Apart from what a later generation would call a ‘halter neck’ of no great width, it left bare her shoulders, arms and back to waist level. Its décolleté was lower and more daring than any worn by Wanda Higgins, even when setting out to offend the susceptibilities of the Ladies Guild For Civic Betterment. Slit up the right side almost to the hip, its skirt displayed her sturdy legs. They were encased in black silk stockings supported by frilly red garters and offered just a glimpse of the white skin between the stocking tops and whatever nether garments she wore, which were obviously not extensive. Silver high heeled shoes were on her feet. Although wearing more jewelry than she had up to now, it was neither excessive nor ostentatious and there were no rings of any kind on her no longer gloved hands. Seeming somewhat incongruous with such elegant attire, a black leather gunbelt of excellent design and with the ivory handled Webley Bulldog revolver in its cross draw holster at the left encircled her trim waist.
Nothing about the attractive and attention drawing appearance presented by the blonde gave a hint of how busy she had been all afternoon!
Returning to the saloon after the meeting with Wanda Higgins and her attorney, Madam had collected the brown pigskin valise from the safe in her private office. Taking it to the Cattlemen’s Bank, she had deposited the large sum of money it contained and had made arrangements for an even greater amount to be transferred from a similar establishment in Fort Worth. Having told the owner, Gavin Standish, of certain plans she had for improving her business and securing his support for part of them, she had had lunch with the reporter for the Tennyson Times. Annoyed by his treatment at the hands of the red head, the offer of information later notwithstanding, he had decided to give the blonde the better of the coverage he would be presenting to his editor. Her conferences with Saul Bernstein, Otto ‘Dutchy’ Schmidt and Thel Whitwell had proved equally productive and, hearing what was wanted from them, they had gone away further convinced her presence in the town would be beneficial to them.
The tailor had started work, measuring those of the gambling staff who could not find a better than passable fit amongst the black shirts and trousers Madam had brought with her. Showing an equal enthusiasm, the builder had taken dimensions for equipping a room in which the gamblers would change before commencing operations, with facilities for them to leave their valuables locked in individual boxes. He had also satisfied himself that he would be able to fit the douche bath she had requested, although doing so would entail adding another room to her living accommodation on the second floor. Not only had the storekeeper been able to supply her immediate needs, but he had also been promised that much of the saloon’s future requirements would be purchased through him instead of—as had been the case with the previous owner—obtained direct from distributors or via a rival establishment in the county seat.
With the arrangements for future improvements completed, Madam had set about making preparations for the business of the evening. Her hope that she would be able to exchange the faro tables had come to nothing. She felt sure that a lie had been told as the reason for Leo Wallace being unable to change them, but she had not taken the matter further. There were sufficient clean decks of cards, aided by the entire stock from Whitwell’s store, and honest dice available for all the games to be run as she required. Furthermore, a supply having arrived two days earlier—although not being displayed on the shelves—there was enough beer and liquor of various kinds to satisfy the needs of any normal flow of customers.
The last tasks carried out by the blonde before changing into her present attire had had to do with a project which she hoped to bring to fruition in the not too distant future. Reading the message and the names to which it was addressed, the telegraph operator at the Wells Fargo depot could not hide his curiosity and interest. Admitting she had high hopes that all the well-known personalities with whom she was communicating would accept her invitation, she had no doubt that—rules to the contrary notwithstanding—he would inform his cronies and they, in turn, would spread the news around the town. With that contingency in mind, she had sought out and informed Town Marshal Tune Collier of her intentions and explained the strict rules she meant to enforce to ensure the good behavior of everybody concerned. Admitting these should have the desired effect, he had wished her well with the enterprise.
The house men are looking elegant,’ Madam remarked, glancing around at the various gambling games. ‘How’re they settling i
n?’
‘Well enough,’ Turner replied. ‘Anyways, I don’t reckon any of them’re likely to try anything for the first couple of nights or so at least.’
‘Likely not,’ the blonde admitted, but her manner suggested caution.
‘Anyways, unless they fetch along their own,’ the floor manager went on, There isn’t a marked deck, crooked dice or useable slick cup in the house for them to try flimflamming the customers.’
‘Howdy there, Madam Bulldog, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes—or any other kind,’ Joshua Gilmore greeted, coming over before she could say her thoughts were not upon the customers being flimflammed by the house men. Extending his right hand and running a lascivious gaze over her, he went on, ‘I hear tell’s how you’re fixing to run a game here like the Big One at the Silver Bell in Cowtown.’
‘I’ve asked some of the crowd I’ve played against there to drop by and give it a whirl on my ground,’ the blonde admitted, accepting the offered hand for a briefer shake than was intended by the blacksmith.
‘Poker Alice, Madame Mustache, Pappy Ben Maverick, among others,’ Gilmore listed. ‘Now that’s the kind of company I’d admire to sit in with!’
‘It’s open to anybody who’s willing to go along with the house rules,’ Madam claimed, deciding never to send any confidential messages in the care of the Wells Fargo telegraphist unless she had made him sure of the penalty for such indiscretion.
‘House rules?’ the blacksmith repeated, glancing at the group of his cronies who were hovering within hearing distance and to whom he had boasted that he would win over the blonde as he had many another woman, married or single.
‘You have to let me know how much loss you can stand, show proof that you’re good for it and put two thousand dollars in the Cattlemen’s Bank as surety against your good behavior, not only in the game, but everywhere in town.’
‘Hell, I live here. That last won’t apply to me!’
‘It applies to everybody, no matter who they are or where they live,’ Madam declared and decided she could exaggerate a trifle under the circumstances. ‘Gavin Standish and Tune Collier are only two I’ve told about it who float their stick along with me on doing it that way.’
‘Is that how they run the Big One?’ Gilmore inquired sullenly, forgetting that he had frequently told his cronies of his regular participation in the famous poker game.
‘Just about,’ the blonde confirmed. ‘But the idea of having the surety against good behavior is all mine.’
‘That being, it’s all right with me,’ the blacksmith asserted and put on what he fondly imagined to be a friendly and charm filled smile. ‘Only how’s about you and me talking some more about it over drinks and dinner?’
‘Drinks?’
‘There ain’t nothing I know’s better for getting folks all friendly and sociable.’
‘By golly, you’re right at that!’ Madam declared, much to the surprise of Turner who had expected a refusal. She noticed the nudges and glances passing amongst Gilmore’s cronies and nodded towards the wide staircase to the second floor. ‘We could go up to my rooms for it, unless you’d sooner use somewhere else.’
‘Your rooms will do fine!’ the blacksmith accepted, delighted by the apparent ease with which, it seemed, he would be able to make good the claim to his cronies that he would seduce the blonde as well as Wanda Higgins on the same day; the latter having succumbed as part of the deal to give the impression of his having hired Moses Stern.
Allowing Gilmore to take her by the arm, Madam told a waiter to accompany them to the sitting-room of her accommodation. Once there, she ordered food and the best whiskey in the house to be fetched for them. With these delivered and the waiter dismissed, nothing was seen or heard of them for over two hours. Then the door through which they had disappeared was opened. Looking upwards from the table they were occupying, Gilmore’s cronies received a surprise.
They had been discussing what they believed he would be doing after having plied her with alcohol until she could not resist. However, showing no sign of intoxication or the dishevelment which would have accrued from being subjected to the behavior they had anticipated, it was she and not the blacksmith who emerged.
‘Hey, fellers,’ the blonde said, having returned to the barroom and crossed to the table where the ‘sports’ were sitting practically open mouthed in their amazement. ‘You’d best go tote your amigo home to bed, he can’t take his liquor nearly as well as he thinks.’
Twelve – “Eleven Dollar Bill”
‘What do you reckon about Matt MacDonald?’ Madam Bulldog inquired, nodding towards the busy vingt-un table.
‘I don’t reckon he’s forgot or forgiven you for knocking him down that first night,’ Joseph Turner replied, looking in the same direction. ‘But he’s not said, nor done, anything I could complain about and, seeing as how those fancy duds you’ve got the gamblers wearing don’t let him sneak any of the cash into his pockets for his-self, I can’t see him ringing in a deck of readers when all he’ll be doing is making money for the house.’
It was Saturday and the fourth evening of the Hide and Horn Saloon being owned by the blonde. Despite the questions she had put to the floor manager, all in all, she had no complaints over the way things had gone. Not only had she been informed by Turner that business was showing an improvement over that done under the proprietorship of Maxwell Higgins, but most of the people to whom she had sent messages had replied, accepting her invitation to participate in a poker game for high stakes and under similar rules to those of the Big One at the Silver Bell Saloon in Fort Worth.
As she had promised Town Marshal Tune Collier, during the first interview in the offices of Aloysius P. Scrope, Madam had run her property in an exemplary fashion. Although still compelled to use the specially adapted faro table, having failed to contact Leo Wallace—who she knew had left for Garnett with Wanda Higgins, albeit later than was implied when she had sent her swampers to the house to arrange for the exchange—she had ensured all gambling on the premises was operated with complete honesty. She had also insisted upon high standards of conduct from her employees, male and female, whether in or outside the saloon.
Possessing a knack for treating them all in an equally friendly fashion, which nevertheless did not extend to permitting liberties to be taken at her expense, the blonde had gained respect and admiration from the majority of her customers. Her attitude tended to keep trouble to a minimum and, so far, only one thing had threatened to disrupt the pleasant atmosphere she had created.
Arriving during the next evening after his failure to get drunk and seduce Madam Bulldog, Joshua Gilmore had been informed there would be no further acceptance of invitations to have ‘drinks and dinner’. Nor, in view of how the first attempt had turned out, was he inclined to try and bring about a change of mind. Instead, he had sought revenge by joining a game of poker in which she was playing. Finding her vastly more competent than the man from whom he had won the blacksmith’s shop, he might have been grateful that table stakes [20] were in force. As it was, he had lost all the inconsiderable sum he was carrying and left the table in a bitter mood. However, possessing a broad streak of caution, he had been too wise to make his resentment known by physical aggression. Leaving the barroom, he had not been back again. Nor, out of sympathy for him—or more likely not wishing to arouse his animosity—had any of his cronies continued to give custom to the Hide and Horn Saloon.
In addition to improving what a later generation would call her ‘image’ where the saloon was concerned, the blonde had wasted no time in setting about gaining acceptance by the community in general. Although she had not mentioned the matter, Scrope had made the true facts generally known and had discredited a rumor that she had forced Wanda Higgins to quit her house. He had also established that, although he had pointed out she was not legally bound to do so, she had insisted upon settling bills which Maxwell Higgins had left owing to various local business men. Without having been approached, she ha
d made donations to both of the town’s churches. She had said that she would not attend either, but would keep her premises closed on Sundays and religious holidays. From what she had been told by her attorney, she had made a favorable impression on the incumbent of each place of worship.
Even if there had not been sufficient time for Madam to have gained the unqualified approbation of the Ladies Guild For Civic Betterment, she had skillfully avoided antagonizing them. While none would have expressed approval openly, they admitted amongst themselves that—no matter how she dressed inside the saloon—she took care never to offend their susceptibilities in public. Unlike Wanda Higgins, whose attire and manners had frequently bordered upon the risqué, despite ostensibly being a “good” woman, the blonde was always clad and behaved in a decorous fashion when off her premises, insisting her female employees took an equal care to do so.
Despite the gambling staff apparently having accepted the strictures she had imposed, the blonde had been wary. However, of them all, only Matthew McDonald had struck her as being worthy of deserving her attention. There was nothing she could put her finger on, but an instinct she had learned to trust warned her that he was the most likely to make trouble in some way. Nor, regardless of his having carried out his duties at the vingt-un table adequately, could she dispel the feeling.
‘You’re right about that,’ Madam admitted, then nodded to where Scrope, the banker and three other businessmen were entering. ‘Anyways, here come my pigeons. I reckon we’ll use that table over there, Joe.’
‘Sure thing, boss,’ Turner assented, noticing in which direction his employer was pointing. ‘Will you be needing me?’
‘Only happen one of those good old boys catches me dealing seconds,’ the blonde answered with a smile.
For all her apparent acceptance that all was well there, the floor manager saw Madam was selecting the chair nearest to and offering a good view of the vingt- un table. What was more, as she commenced a low stake—yet skillfully played—game of poker with the newcomers, she devoted some of her attention to it without making the scrutiny obvious. There were five players, four cowhands and a lean and poorly dressed town dweller. However, regardless of his attire which suggested he was far from affluent, the latter had a fair amount of money in front of him.
