The Gamble (I) (6 page)

“Is that a challenge, Miz Downin’?”

“It’s a fact!” she spat. Agatha found she detested his Southern drawl. She detested even more the cocky way he settled the Stetson on his head and fixed his lazy grinning eyes on her, taking his sweet time about leaving.

Gandy had come into the shop contrite. He was now amused. He studied the bridling female in the subdued blue dress with its high, tight collar and its stern, tied-back skirts. He’d taken her for an old woman when he’d first seen her. Upon closer scrutiny, he discovered she wasn’t really old at all. Younger than himself, probably. Slim, well shaped, and with a spark of conviction he grudgingly admired. Her hair held a surprising glint of red, with the window light behind it. She had a magnificent jawline. Clear, clear skin. Unyielding green eyes as pale as sea spray. A damned pretty set of lips. And a lot of old-lady ways.

But she certainly wasn’t old. Put a feather in her hair, paint a little crimson on those lips, loosen up a few springy ringlets in that hair, teach her to sing a bawdy drinking song, and she’d look as good in the saloon as Jube or Pearl or Ruby. He withheld a silent chuckle, imagining how aghast she’d be if she knew how he was picturing her.

“I’ll take it as a challenge. Y’all do everythin’ in your power t’ shut me down. March, make banners, sing—whatever it is you temperance workers take it into your heads t’ do. And I’ll do whatever is necessary to attract customers to the Gilded Cage.”

“You think it’s a game, don’t you? Well, it’s not. Miss Wilson doesn’t play games, She’s here on a mission.”

“I know, I know.” He held up both palms and acknowledged blithely, “She’s aimin’ t’ clean me out, too.”

“She most certainly is.”

“Well, then, I’d best get back to work and prepare for the war, hadn’t I, ladies?” He touched the brim of his hat and bowed. “G’day, Miz Downin’.” He turned and approached
Violet, who’d remained by the curtained doorway, looking as if he’d just complimented her on her underwear. “Miz Parsons,” he said softly, taking one of her blue-veined hands and raising it slowly to his lips. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Violet’s eyeballs threatened to roll in their sockets. Looking on, Agatha’s did.

“Violet, see the landlord out, will you!” she snapped. “Then leave the front door propped open. The place suddenly reeks of stale cigar smoke.”

Gandy turned, grinned, nodded, and left.

When Violet reappeared, she flopped into her work chair, fanning her face with a handkerchief. “Did you see that, Agatha? He kissed my hand!”

“Perhaps you’d best check it for twin punctures.”

Violet’s euphoria would not be dampened. “He actually kissed my hand!” she repeated breathily.

“Oh, Violet, will you act your age!”

“I am. I have a weak heart, and I’m having terrible palpitations.”

Agatha seethed. Oh, that Gandy was a shrewd manipulator. He knew a besotted old hen when he saw one, and he didn’t pass up any advantage.

Violet half lay against the edge of the worktable, exaggerating his Southern accent.
“Y’all do everuhthin’ in yoah powuh tuh shut me down...
Have you ever heard anything so wonderful in your life? When Mr. Gandy talks, I swear I can smell magnolia blossoms right here in Proffitt, Kansas.”

“All I smelled was stale tobacco.”

Violet popped up. “Oh, Agatha, you have no romanticism in you. He smelled like bay rum, too. I remember my papa used to wear bay rum.”

“Your papa didn’t operate a saloon, nor was he kicked off the riverboats for having cards up his sleeve.”

“Nobody knows that for sure about Mr. Gandy.”

“Oh?” Agatha inquired with asperity. “You mean there’s something
the girls
haven’t been able to verify?”

Suddenly, Violet spied Agatha’s dress and petticoat on the worktable. She laid her hand on them almost reverently.
“He paid to have these washed. Imagine that.”

Agatha sniffed.

“And he offered to buy you supper.”

Agatha sniffed louder.

“And he came in here especially to apologize for everything.”

Had she sniffed any harder, Agatha might have sucked in some stray threads and choked herself. So she preached instead. “Oh, he’s an oily-tongued dandy, all right. But with the help of Drusilla Wilson and the women of Proffitt, Kansas”—Agatha raised one hand and pointed toward heaven—“I’ll wipe that insufferable grin off his brown hide!”

On the other side of the wall, LeMaster Scott Gandy stalked into the saloon, sending the doors flapping wildly behind him. “Jack, make up a sign!” he bellowed. He bit the end off a cigar, spit it into the cuspidor with deadly accuracy, and blew the first smoke ring with equally deadly accuracy; it appeared to wreath a florid nipple on the nude behind the bar. He narrowed one eye on the nipple and the ring, as if taking a bead down the bore of a Winchester. “We’re goin’ t’ have a picture-namin’ contest. The man who tags our rosy-breasted li’l lady here gets the first dance with Jubilee when she arrives!”

And so the battle lines were drawn.

On Sunday, Reverend Samuel Clarksdale of Christ Presbyterian Church was upstaged in the pulpit by Drusilla Wilson whose message was concise and inspiring: Those who stood by and watched a loved one chained to the evils of alcohol without helping when they could were equally as guilty as if they themselves had placed the bottle in the loved one’s hands.

When Sunday services ended, Miss Wilson was greeted effusively by the women in the congregation. Many squeezed her hand heartily, some with tears in their eyes. Many did the same to Agatha Downing, thanking her in advance for providing them with a gathering place.

Agatha outfitted herself for the meeting in a stiff-necked dress of somber brown, her bustles lashed firmly behind her, skirts tied back so tightly her steps were considerably shortened. She was ready well before seven, so she went downstairs and dusted the countertops and lit the lanterns. Dusk had not quite fallen when she opened the shop door to greet Drusilla Wilson. As usual, the woman was ready with a firm handclasp.

“Agatha, how nice to see you again.”

“Come in, Miss Wilson.”

But before stepping inside, Drusilla glanced toward the door of the saloon. “You’ve seen what we’re up against, I imagine?”

Agatha appeared puzzled, then stepped onto the boardwalk herself.

The swinging doors were thrown back. The painting
behind the bar could be viewed from an oblique angle along the left wall. On the boardwalk out front stood that wretched Southerner, dressed to the nines, with a smoking cheroot in his mouth and one elbow draped on a double-sided billboard announcing:

NEW LADIES IN TOWN

NAME THE PAINTING BEHIND THE BAR AND WIN THE FIRST DANCE WITH

MISS JUBILEE BRIGHT

THE BRIGHTEST GEM OF THE PRAIRIE SOON TO APPEAR AT THE GILDED CAGE WITH HER JEWELS

PEARL AND RUBY

He thoughtfully allowed Agatha time to read it before tipping his hat and grinning slowly. “Evenin’, Miz Downin’.”

Oh, he had gall. Standing there smirking and drawling. She’d like to knock that sign out from under him and send him sprawling!

“Y’all expectin’ a pretty good turnout, are ya?”

“Most certainly.”

“Not as good as mine, I’ll wager.”

“Have you no decency? It’s the Lord’s day!”

“None whatsoever, ma’am. Got t’ have the welcome mat out when that first herd hits town. Could be any minute now, for all we know.”

She lifted one eyebrow toward the sign. “Jubilee, Pearl, and Ruby? Polished gems, I’m sure.” She could see them already—lice-carrying, diseased whores with singed hair and fake moles.

“Genuine, all three.”

She snorted softly.

He puffed on his cigar.

At that moment a tall lanky mulatto with deepset eyes and kinky black hair rolled the piano near the door. He was so thin he looked as if a gust of wind would blow him over. “Time to make some music, Ivory?”

“Yessuh.”

“Ivory, I don’t believe you’ve met Miz Downin’, our next-door neighbor. Miz Downin’, my piano man, Ivory Culhane.”

“Miz Downin’.” He removed a black bowler, centering it on his chest as he bowed. Replacing the hat at a rakish angle, he inquired, “What can I play for ya, ma’am?”

How dare these two act as if this was nothing more than an afternoon ice-cream social! Agatha had no wish whatever to exchange pleasantries with the pimp saloon owner, nor with the man whose infernal plunking kept her awake night after night. She gave the latter a sour look and replied tartly, “How about ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God’?”

His teeth flashed white in a tea-brown face as he smiled widely. “’Fraid I don’t know that one. But how ‘bout this?” With one fluid motion Ivory seated himself on a clawfooted stool, revolved it to face the keys, and struck up the opening chords of “Little Brown Jug,” a song recently composed by the “wets” to rile the “drys.” Agatha drew herself up and swung away.

When the ladies began arriving the two were still there, Ivory’s songs filling the street with his musical invitation, Gandy with his nonchalance and grin intact, excreting Southern charm like so much musk from a muskrat. He greeted each lady who came along.

“Evenin’, ma’am,” he said time after time, touching his hat brim. “Y’all enjoy your meetin’, now.” His grin was especially dashing for Violet and the delegation from Mrs. Gill’s boardinghouse. “Evenin’, Miz Parsons. Nice t’ see y’all again, and your friends, too. Evenin’, ladies.”

Violet tittered, blushed, and led the way next door. She was followed by Evelyn Sowers, Susan White, Bessie Hottle, and Florence Loretto, all of whom had a personal stake in the goings-on at the Gilded Cage Saloon. There were others, too. Annie Macintosh, sporting a bruise on her left cheek. Minnie Butler, whose husband had a yen for the gaming tables. Jennie Yoast, whose husband made the rounds of all the saloons every Saturday night and sometimes was found sleeping on the boardwalk on Sunday mornings. Anna Brewster, Addie Anderson, Carolyn Hawes, and many
others whose men were known to have exceedingly limber elbows.

Attending the meeting were thirty-six women, most of them eager to stamp out the evils of the ardent spirits; a few were merely curious about what “those fanatics” did when they got together.

Drusilla Wilson personally greeted each arrival at the door with her hostess at her side. The meeting began with a prayer, followed by Miss Wilson’s opening statement.

“There are four thousand rum holes spreading death and disease through all ranks of American society, vile dens that respectable people abhor from a distance. Your own fair city has become blemished by eleven such chancres. Many of your husbands are wooed away from home night after night, robbing your families of their protectors and providers. The human wreckage caused by alcohol can come only to tragic ends—in hospitals, where victims die of delirium tremens, or in reformatories such as Ward Island, or even asylums such as that on Blackwell Island. I’ve visited these institutions myself. I’ve seen the creeping death that preys upon those who’ve begun with a single innocent drink, then another and another, until the victim is abysmally lost. And who is left to suffer the effects of intemperance? The women and children—that’s who! From half a million American women a wail of anguish is sounded over an otherwise happy land. Over the graves of forty thousand drunkards goes up the mourning cry of widow and orphan. The chief evils of spirits have fallen on women. It is eminently fitting that women should inaugurate the work for its destruction!”

As Wilson spoke, the faces in the audience grew rapt. She was earnest, spellbinding. Even those who’d come only out of curiosity were becoming mesmerized.

“And the saloons themselves are breeding places for the vermin of this earth—gamblers, confidence men, and
nymphs du prairie.
Let us not forget that Wichita, at its most decadent, sported houses of ill repute with no less than three hundred painted cats! Three hundred in a single city! But we cleaned up Wichita, and we’ll clean up Proffitt! Together!”

When her speech ended, the crowd voiced a single question: How?

The answer was concise: by educating, and advocating prayer and willpower. “The W.C.T.U. is not militant. What we achieve, we shall achieve by peaceful means. Yet, let us not shirk our duty when it comes to making that destroyer of men’s souls—the barkeeper—aware of his guilt. We shall not destroy the vile compound he sells. Instead, we will give his clientele something more powerful to lean on—faith in his God, his family, and hope for his future.”

Miss Wilson knew when to evangelize and when to cease. She had them aroused now. To bag them for the cause, all she needed were three or four gut-wrenching stories from their own lips.

“You’ve all been at home growing impatient for this day. Now is the time. Bare your hearts to your sisters who understand. They’ve suffered what you’ve suffered. Who would like to rid themselves of their grief first?”

The women exchanged furtive glances, but none came forward.

Wilson pressed on. “Remember, we, your sisters, are not here to judge, but to support.”

Through the saloon wall came the cry of “Keno!” And from the piano, “Over the Waves.” Thirty-six self-conscious women all waited for someone else to start.

Agatha’s teeth and hands clenched. Her own agonizing memories came back from her past. She considered telling her story at last, but she had held it inside for so long she was unable to bring it forth. Already an object of a certain amount of pity, she had no desire to be pitied further, so she held her silence.

The first to speak was Florence Loretto. “My son...” she began. Every eye settled on her. All was silent. “My son, Dan. He was always a good boy when he was young. But when my husband was alive, he used to send the boy down to the saloon to fetch his whiskey. Claimed he had a touch of the rheumatism and hot toddies took the pain out of his joints. That’s how it started. But by the time he died, he was liquored up more than he was sober. He was a grown man, but Dan... Dan was young, and he’d
found out he liked the atmosphere at the saloon. Now he’s dealing cards right next door, and I... I...” Florence covered her face with one hand. “I’m so ashamed, I can’t face my friends.”