Calamity Jane 6: The Hide and Horn Saloon (A Calamity Jane Western) Read online

  ‘Well now, ma’am,” drawled the man to whom the request was made, deciding the blonde must be well acquainted with the ways of cowhands to have phrased it in such a fashion. ‘I reckon, going deep and sore ’gainst the grain though it be, I can just about get that far a-foot when there’s free drinks at the end of the trail. Is it just the one bag you want toting?’

  ‘I reckon I can manage the reticule myself,’ the blonde confirmed, nodding at the somewhat larger than usual piece of feminine accoutrement in her right hand, and then nodding to five larger portmanteaus which had been taken from the boot at the rear of the stagecoach by the hostlers. ‘The rest can come down later. There isn’t any all-fired rush, though, so long as I get them before we close up tonight.’

  ‘I’ll have them delivered as soon as the stage is gone, ma’am,’ the agent promised, the last sentence having been directed at him. ‘Will that be all right?’

  ‘Any time that’s convenient for you. If I’m not there, I’ll have left word where I want them putting,’ the woman replied amiably, then returned her attention to her assistant. ‘We might as well head them up and move them out, friend.’

  ‘I’ll ride point for you, ma’am,’ the cowhand offered, amused by the employment of the traditional command given by a trail boss to set a herd of half wild longhorn cattle into motion.

  Despite the obvious disapproval of the Ladies Guild For Civic Betterment, belonging as he did to a section of the local population whose activities in town rarely met with their approbation, the cowhand showed no hesitation before accepting the item of baggage he was offered. He grunted as he felt its weight, which proved to be considerably greater than he had expected from the ease its owner had shown while handling it. Then, with the hostile glares of the “good” women bouncing unheeded from their backs, he accompanied her along the street in the direction of the Hide and Horn Saloon. Her stride was confident as, avoiding the less than smooth planks of the sidewalk, she strolled leisurely and surveyed her surroundings. Yet, while her gait was undeniably feminine, it had none of the blatant hip-rolling and buttock swaying locomotion to which members of the Ladies Guild for Civic Betterment could have taken exception as befitting only a “fallen” woman.

  ‘Happen you don’t reckon I’m being all nosey, ma’am,’ the cowhand remarked, after a few seconds. ‘But are you aiming to run the Hide and Horn all on your lonesome?’

  ‘Shucks, no,’ the woman replied. ‘Should they be of a mind to stay on and we find we can get along, I aim to keep whoever Maxie Higgins had working for him to do the lifting and toting for me. There’s no fun being a boss and doing all the work yourself. That’s not what bosses are for.’

  ‘Likely not,’ the cowhand conceded, guessing the decision over whether the blonde and the members of the staff could ‘get along’ would be made by her rather than them. However, having developed a liking for her and considering she deserved something more than just the service he was rendering in return for the free drinks which would be forthcoming, he went on soberly, ‘It’s allus been a real tough place, ma’am.’

  ‘Has, huh?’

  ‘Yes’m. Word has it’s how ole Maxie was finding it too much for him and’s been looking for somebody to take it off his hands.’

  ‘He found me,’ the woman asserted, but without any display of concern over what she had heard. ‘Only we didn’t exactly sit head to head and do any horse-trading before it changed hands. He said, “I’ll call”, I showed him my eights and sevens full and he handed over the title deeds like a gentleman.’

  ‘Likely he was pleased to see it go,’ the cowhand claimed.

  ‘Maybe,’ the blonde replied. ‘But I’ve won her and, comes what may, I’m aiming to stay with her no matter how tough a place she might be.’

  Two – It Belongs to Me Now

  While carrying on the conversation with the cowhand, the buxom blonde had been studying what could be seen of Vernon Street, Tennyson’s main thoroughfare. At first, due to the way this was laid out, the premises she had acquired were not in view. Nevertheless, she gave a nod expressing satisfaction with what she was able to see. Yet, to a casual observer, there did not appear to be any reason for her reaction.

  The town did not seem to be any more impressive, or noticeably better favored, than numerous other such small communities which dotted the vast open range country from the eastern boundary of Texas to the Pacific Ocean. Building materials might differ according to the climatic conditions and terrain of each specific region, ranging from stone and logs in the north to pure adobe or a mixture of adobe and wooden planks in the south. There would undoubtedly be different names on, or even varying designations given to, the same kind of business premises. However, the basic layout and services which were offered remained much the same, even if they were not found in identical locations.

  Somewhere in the community there would probably be at least one bank, hotel, undertaker’s parlor, doctor’s surgery, gunsmith’s and saddler’s shops, general store—which frequently served as post office in smaller places—livery barn, saloon or similar place of entertainment, perhaps a brothel—albeit, discreetly situated beyond the view of the more respectable citizens’ dwellings—offices for civic authorities and the local law enforcement agencies, the latter generally being accommodated in the jailhouse. There would also be places of worship available for those who followed certain religious creeds, but these were less often in evidence upon the main street which was generally given over to civic and commercial enterprises.

  Having advanced sufficiently along Vernon Street, the woman turned her gaze to the frontage of the Hide and Horn Saloon. Two stories high, it appeared to be a substantial structure. While in need of some painting, its wooden planks showed no sign of neglect nor unrepaired damage caused by exposure to the elements. A veranda with a chest high guard rail went all around the second floor, allowing the occupants of its rooms to step out and enjoy a breath of fresh air instead of having to walk downstairs and leave the premises.

  On the ground floor, a set of double doors—closed at that moment—gave admittance to the barroom. The big front windows were painted white over their lower halves, reducing the chance of minors becoming corrupted by watching their elders enjoying the various pleasures within. The big sign board attached to the guard rail of the veranda bore a somewhat garish illustration depicting a herd of longhorn cattle on the trail. As these half domesticated creatures had helped Texas to grow ‘from hide and horn’ out of the serious financial problems which had resulted from having supported the South in the War Between the States, this accounted for the name of the establishment. [4]

  After having surveyed the exterior of the premises which she claimed to have won, the blonde examined its immediate surroundings. Considering the ambitions she had in mind for her acquisition, she decided these too met with her approval. In her experienced opinion, the saloon could hardly have been erected in a better location.

  Either by accident or design, Vernon Street had been widened until it formed what the local people called the Square; despite it being closer to an oblong in shape. As the immediate neighbors to the left and right of the saloon were buildings which housed the County Land Agent and other civic offices, and the Cattleman’s Bank, neither was likely to have residents upon the premises at night from whom there might be protests over being disturbed by sounds of revelry from the barroom. Although the Fortescue Hotel was directly opposite, it was about a hundred yards away. Sufficiently far, in fact, to reduce the chances of complaints being made by the guests about the noise. Furthermore, providing her plans went as she envisaged, the blonde was confident good relations would ensue due to the owners benefitting from the quality of certain customers she was hoping to attract. There was no church nearby, nor other buildings which gave indications of serving as places of worship for less established creeds (from whom exception might have been taken as to the pleasures she would be offering). At the north side on the eastern end of the Square was the jailhouse,
serving as a repository for those who broke the law or merely disturbed the peace by having celebrated not wisely but too well.

  ‘Who’s the great seizer hereabouts, friend?’ the woman inquired, after having concluded her scrutiny.

  ‘The what, ma’am?’ asked the cowhand.

  ‘Come on now, you know who I mean,’ the blonde stated with a grin. ‘Or, happen you don’t, being a right law-abiding gent, who’s the lawman, constable, town marshal, county sheriff, or whoever keeps house down to the pokey.’

  ‘Lloyd Bowman’s county sheriff, ma’am,’ the cowhand replied, amused by how the question had finally been posed; although his tone indicated he did not hold the official about whom he was speaking in very high regard. ‘Only he’s down to Garnett, which being the county seat, most of the time we don’t see much of him up here, nor want to. Tune Collier’s town marshal. Happen you’ve heard of him?’

  ‘I’ve heard something about him,’ the woman admitted, despite sensing she had been expected to disclaim all knowledge.

  ‘He’s not so well known’s some,’ the cowhand asserted, deciding the blonde had spent more time around Texas than her accent suggested. ‘As well as being marshal, he acts as deputy for Bowman, with ole Pockets Hoscroft backing his play.’

  ‘And what do you reckon of Town Marshal-cum- Deputy Sheriff Tune Collier?’ the woman asked, genuinely interested in receiving his opinion.

  ‘He’s as square’s they come and they don’t come no squarer,’ the cowhand declared, in a tone far different from that he had used when speaking of the county sheriff. ‘Treats everybody fair, which’s more’n some do with us cow-nurses. And it’s not just ’cause he’s scared to do otherwise. Should the need come, he’s tough enough.’

  ‘Huh huh!’ the woman grunted, her manner showing appreciation, despite the non-committal response. Then she gave a shrug and went on, ‘Oh well, I reckon I’ll soon enough be meeting him. First off, though, I conclude it’s time for me to take a closer look at what I’ve won.’

  Crossing the sidewalk along which she and her companions had been walking, the blonde gripped the knob of the closed front doors. On turning it, she discovered the main entrance was neither locked nor bolted. Pushing the door open, she stepped into the main barroom of the Hide and Horn Saloon. Having crossed the threshold, she paused and gazed about her with an even greater interest than she had shown while studying the outside of the building.

  At first glance, a new owner—even one who had gained possession of the premises as a result of incautious betting on the part of the previous proprietor—might have found the view somewhat depressing!

  There was not a single paying customer present!

  On either side of the long mahogany counter, which the blonde noticed bore a gloss indicating it had recently been polished, two waiters and the only bartender on duty were idly matching throws with five dice from a glass tumbler instead of the more usually employed leather cup. A dozen female employees were present, but hardly occupied gainfully. Clad in brightly colored dresses—which left arms, shoulders and the upper half of the bosom exposed to view—ending just below kneel level, they were sitting around one of the tables not equipped for gambling which was covered with the remains of the meal they had been eating.

  The mirror behind the bar showed no reflection of business being done, but its surface had obviously been wiped recently to keep it clean. The same applied to the glasses which were waiting to be filled. However, despite the evidence of care having been lavished upon this most important area, only a few bottles of liquor stood on the capacious shelves. Elsewhere, the doors which gave access to the rooms at the rear and afforded exits at the sides of the building were all closed. Nobody was ascending the wide staircase, nor coming down from the indoor balcony and accommodation on the second floor.

  To the left side of the barroom, not far from a door upon which was inscribed in white paint: PRIVATE, Maxwell L. Higgins, Prop., the faro layout had a green cloth covering its top which was traditionally decorated by a tiger. Elsewhere, the vingt-un and chuck-a-luck outfits stood idle and unattended. Nor was the wheel-of-fortune on its stand against the right side wall being spun by an operator. In fact, nowhere was there any sign of whoever might be employed to handle the gambling portion of the business.

  However, regardless of the dearth of activity and profitable business, the newcomer was not unduly depressed by what she saw. Possessing considerable experience where such matters were concerned, although this was the first time she had actually been the proprietor, she concluded things would soon liven up once news of her arrival and claim to ownership was spread. Unless she missed her guess, as soon as they had dealt with whatever business had taken them to the Wells Fargo depot—or learned such news as was brought by the driver and shotgun messenger, particularly with regards to the latest developments at the State capital—a good proportion of the men who had witnessed her descent from the stagecoach would make for the saloon to see how she intended to run it and if she had been telling the truth about her status.

  Furthermore, regardless of the lengthy absence of the previous owner, the blonde could detect no evidence of neglect. The fact that the stock behind the bar appeared to be less than was desirable did not strike her as being of any great importance. In fact, she considered anything which remained would be in the nature of a bonus for she had arranged for fresh supplies to arrive in the next day or so. With the exception of the table being used by the girls, everything was clean and tidy. This suggested the employees had been adequately supervised by the man left in charge by Maxwell Higgins.

  Lounging at the “sober” side of the counter, and announcing he had three kings to beat, the bartender glanced towards the front entrance as he realized somebody had entered. Tall, burly in a firm fleshed and solidly muscled way, he was in his mid-thirties. He had black hair parted down the middle, a luxuriant mustache and a cheerful cast of features. Clad in a collarless light blue shirt, black trousers and Hersome gaiter boots, the white apron about his waist was clean. Surprised by what he saw, he performed what members of the theatrical profession called a “double take” and hurriedly laid aside the glass. Noticing his reaction, his opponents and the girls were induced to follow the direction in which he was staring and they too gazed in puzzlement at the newcomer.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ said the taller of the waiters, clad—as was his companion—in much the same way as the bartender. Having recovered his wits before anybody else, he had drawn his own conclusions from the sight of the cowhand who was carrying a brown pigskin valise and standing just behind the blonde. Suspecting she was being subjected to the kind of practical joke for which members of that hard riding, hardworking and harder playing fraternity were noted, he went on, ‘I reckon you must’ve got brought to the wrong place. The hotel’s across the Square out there. This is a saloon.’

  ‘Well now,’ the woman answered, starting to walk forward with purposeful strides. ‘I hadn’t got around to figuring it was anything other than a saloon and I for sure don’t need to go to any hotel. Maxie Higgins told me he kept rooms set out as living quarters right here.’

  ‘You know Maxie, ma’am?’ the bartender inquired, his voice deep and having the accent of a Texan, as he threw an involuntary glance at the second floor balcony and then to one girl in particular at the table.

  ‘We met up one night in the Silver Bell at Fort Worth is all,’ the woman replied, halting and placing her reticule on the counter.

  ‘Just the one night, ma’am?’ queried the shorter and older waiter, jumping to conclusions and thinking this was a remarkably short acquaintance to have elicited an offer of accommodation.

  ‘Just the one was enough,’ the blonde declared, showing none of the resentment or annoyance which the implication behind the question might have produced. ‘And I surely hope he was better at running this place than he was at playing poker. Not that it matters how he used to run it, anyways.’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ the m
an behind the counter put in. Being a keen student of character, he concluded there was more, much more in fact, to the newcomer than appeared on the far from unimpressive surface. He also could not reconcile a person such as he suspected her to be, having formed the obvious kind of relationship with Maxwell Higgins. ‘But did you say, “used to run it”?’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ the blonde confirmed. ‘And, no matter how he ran it, likely I won’t be doing it that way.’

  ‘How do you mean, ma’am?’ the first waiter to speak inquired. ‘You won’t be doing it that way.’

  ‘It means just like it sounds,’ the woman stated, aware that everybody present was paying great attention to what she was saying. ‘Seeing as how it belongs to me now, I’ll be running this place from today.’

  ‘It belongs to you?’ queried the shorter waiter, throwing a glance at the bartender. ‘Hot damn, ma’am, do you mean Maxie don’t own it anymore?’

  ‘That’s just what I mean, nothing more and nothing less,’ the blonde confirmed. ‘Any time a feller bets his saloon on a flush against somebody who’s holding a full house, you can lay all you’ve got that it’s going to change hands as soon as he calls.’

  ‘Maxie did that again’ you, ma’am?’ asked the man behind the counter, remembering something he had heard about the establishment at which the newcomer claimed to have made the acquaintance of Higgins.

  ‘Sounds almost like you reckon he was way too slick a poker player to do it, friend,’ the woman said dryly, but without animosity, waving her gloved left hand towards the reticule. ‘Anyways, I’m not asking you to take nothing more than just my word on it and wouldn’t be expecting you to. I’ve got the deeds to the place in here, signed over to me all neat and legal, along with letters explaining things for Counselor Aloysius P. Scrope, attorney at law, and Joe Turner—!’