Scratch shrugged and ambled over to a chair elsewhere in the lobby. He was easygoing enough that it was difficult to rile him. He sat down and kept an eye on the stairs, while Bo walked up to the hotel’s front windows and looked out at the men gathering in the street.
Many of them had probably been in the crowd that had greeted the ladies earlier, he thought. He saw some cowboys he recognized from Rance Plummer’s SJ crew. A lot of laughing and backslapping was going on as they waited to get another look at the five young women who had the settlement in such an excited state.
Scratch called his name quietly, and when Bo turned around, he saw that his friend was on his feet again, hat off and held in front of him. Bo followed Scratch’s gaze up the stairs and saw Cecilia, Rose, and Beth descending, each of them looking fresh and beautiful as a daisy.
As had happened when Jean and Luella came down, all the men in the hotel lobby stopped what they were doing and stared in admiration at the ladies.
Forbes Dyson said, “Excuse me,” to the pair he was with and stood up to make his way toward the staircase.
Bo and Scratch beat him there this time, however. With his hat in his left hand, Bo reached up with his right hand to Cecilia and said, “Allow me, Miss Cecilia.”
Her hand was cool and smooth as she took his.
“Thank you, Mr. Creel,” she said.
Scratch put his hat back on and held out both arms to the side as he said, “Ladies?”
Smiling, Rose and Beth linked arms with him, Rose on his right, Beth on his left. Bo wasn’t sure he had ever seen Scratch grin quite so big. They all started across the lobby toward the others. The men who were in their path took their hats off and got out of the way, opening a passage, as if a royal procession were going through.
Forbes Dyson wasn’t pleased that the Texans had claimed escort duty for the other three young women. Bo could tell that by the resentment that smoldered briefly in Dyson’s dark eyes before he covered it up and smiled.
“I have a table reserved for us at Harbinson’s,” he said. “Shall we go?”
“By all means,” Cecilia murmured.
Dyson took Luella’s arm. Jean took Bo’s other arm, opposite Cecilia. Dyson and Luella led the way toward the door.
Jack Bouma stepped out first, though, with his right hand hovering near the butt of his Colt. Bo figured that was almost always the case. Men who lived by the gun had to be ready to draw all the time.
Bouma’s presence made the men outside draw back slightly to give him room. That made it easier for Dyson and Luella and the rest of the group to follow him. They angled across the street toward a building with brightly lit windows.
Harbinson’s was no trail-town hash house, Bo saw as they entered the restaurant. He had seen fancier places in Denver and San Francisco and New Orleans, but for a mining boomtown in New Mexico Territory, it was pretty doggone impressive, with hardwood floors, paintings on the walls, crystal chandeliers, and white silk tablecloths instead of the blue-or red-checked coverings that most cafés used.
There was no counter with stools in front of it and a menu chalked on a board behind it, either. Instead, a man in a red jacket and brocaded vest over a white shirt greeted them and showed them to a large round table in the back of the room.
To get there, they had to go past other tables, where men in expensive suits sat dining. These well-fed hombres sported beards or muttonchop whiskers. They had glasses of wine next to their fine china plates, and fat cigars smoldered in ashtrays.
Bo knew wealthy mine owners and businessmen when he saw them. Forbes Dyson might be right at home here, but a couple of footloose Texans like Bo Creel and Scratch Morton were definitely out of place.
The good thing was that Bo and Scratch never let anything like that bother them. They had their freedom, which, to their way of thinking, put them ahead of those rich galoots.
When they reached the table, Dyson held Luella’s chair for her, then did the same for Cecilia and Beth, while Bo and Scratch helped Rose and Jean get seated. Somehow, Dyson managed to arrange things so that he wound up sitting with his back to the wall, between Luella and Cecilia. Bo and Scratch had to sit next to each other, with their backs to the door. Jack Bouma was nowhere to be seen.
“I’ m glad we ain’t plannin’ on playin’ cards,” Scratch said under his breath. “I’d be leery of drawin’ aces and eights.”
“What was that?” Beth said. She was seated to Scratch’s right.
“Oh, nothin’,” he said.
Bo was glad Scratch didn’t explain how that combination of cards was known as the dead man’s hand, Bill Hickok having been holding it when Jack McCall shot him in the head up in Deadwood a few years earlier. The Texans had had their own brush with trouble in Deadwood after that.
“I made arrangements to have a bottle of the finest wine sent over from the Silver King,” Dyson announced. “It should be here soon. Harbinson has some decent wine, but this bottle is from my private stock. It comes all the way from Paris.”
“That’s quite impressive, Mr. Dyson,” Jean said.
“Well, just because we’re tucked into an out-of-the-way corner of New Mexico Territory, that’s no reason we can’t still enjoy all of life’s pleasures.”
Dyson managed not to smirk when he said that, but Bo thought he probably had a hard time of it.
Dyson went on, “Fine wine, the best cigars from Cuba . . . the prettiest ladies from Four Corners, Iowa . . . We’re blessed to have such things in Silverhill.”
“Being the prettiest girls in Four Corners might not be saying that much,” Rose said. “It’s not a very big place.”
“I think it’s saying a great deal.” Dyson smiled. “Ah, here’s the wine!”
The same red-jacketed waiter who had brought them to the table arrived with the wine. He opened the bottle and filled several crystal glasses. When everyone had a glass, Dyson raised his and said, “To the ladies, who, by gracing us with their mere presence, have lifted Silverhill to a whole new plane of existence!”
“You’re embarrassing us with your flattery, Mr. Dyson,” Cecilia said.
“On the contrary,” Dyson insisted. “It’s not flattery if it’s true, and no truer words have ever been spoken than those that praise the beauty of you ladies.”
Scratch whispered to Bo, “He sure does love to hear himself talk, don’t he?”
Bo couldn’t argue with that.
He had never cared for wine, and private stock from Paris or not, this particular vintage didn’t impress him. It just tasted like vinegar to him, as all wine did. But he drank it politely, and he had to admit that Harbinson’s put on a good feed. The steaks the restaurant served were perfect, tender and juicy, and the fixings that came with them were tasty, as well.
As they were eating, Bo was aware of the other diners in the room watching them. Those men had a stake in how successful Silverhill was. This so-called “mail-order bride tournament” idea Dyson had come up with, loco though it might be, had brought a lot of people into town, and those people had already spent quite a bit of money, Bo figured. Over the next few days, they would spend even more.
Of course, all the hoopla was a distraction, as well. Bo wondered if the men who worked in the mines were keeping up with their jobs, or were they sneaking off to town to take part in the festivities?
The mine owners would probably be glad when the whole thing was over.
When they had finished eating, the waiter brought snifters of brandy. Dyson leaned back in his chair, swirled the brandy around in his snifter, and said, “I suppose we should talk about everything that’s going to happen over the next few days.”
“We haven’t determined that anything actually is going to happen,” Cecilia pointed out. “At this point, all my friends and I have agreed to do is listen.”
“Of course. As I said earlier, we plan to have a poker tournament, which will start tomorrow morning and last as long as it takes to determine a winner, a shooting competition, a strength competition
, a boxing tournament, and a horse race. Five events, five beautiful prizes.”
“We’re not prizes,” Cecilia snapped. “We’re human beings.”
Dyson nodded and said, “Of course. I phrased that badly. But I hope you understand just how excited the men here in town are, as well as all those who have come in from other parts of the territory. Many of them have already signed up to compete, some in more than one contest.”
“Are they paying entry fees to sign up?” Bo asked.
“As a matter of fact, they are. But if you think I’m doing this simply to make money, you couldn’t be more wrong, Creel. I want to help Silverhill grow into a real town, a town that will last, and you know as well as I do that the first step is to have more fine, upstanding female citizens, such as these ladies. Women always bring civilization with them wherever they go.”
Bo knew enough history to realize that Dyson was right about that. Men were more likely to keep tighter reins on their barbarian natures when decent women were around. But he still didn’t like the idea that these five young ladies were considered prizes to be won, and there was no getting around that, either.
“How is this going to work, exactly?” Rose asked. “When a man wins one of these contests, does he get to pick and choose a bride from those of us who are left?” She rolled her eyes and added, “I wouldn’t want to be picked last.”
“Rose!” Cecilia said. “That’s terrible.”
Rose shrugged and said, “I just want to know what the plan is.”
“Actually,” Dyson said, “we’ll wait until all five winners have been determined, and then they’ll sit down with the five of you to work things out. No one will be forced to enter into any arrangements that aren’t agreeable to them, I assure you.”
Beth said, “This whole idea of being mail-order brides is sort of a business arrangement, Cecilia.”
“I suppose,” Cecilia agreed grudgingly.
“But there’s nothing wrong with a little romance going along with it,” Luella added.
Scratch said, “Pardon me for buttin’ in here, but you said some fellas have signed up for more than one contest, Dyson. What happens if an hombre wins more than one?” Scratch chuckled. “You don’t intend to allow a fella to have more than one wife, do you, like the Mormons?”
“I will not go along with that,” Cecilia said.
“If that happens, we’ll work something else out,” Dyson said. “Maybe give the fellow a cash prize and allow whoever finished second to sit in on the meeting with the ladies. But we’ll deal with that when and if it actually takes place.”
“You’ve put some thought into this,” Bo said.
“And with good reason. This is the biggest thing to happen so far in Silverhill’s relatively brief existence. And it may be the biggest thing that will ever happen in Silverhill.” Forbes Dyson leaned back in his chair, with a look of extreme self-satisfaction on his face. “I assure you ladies, no one in this part of the country will ever forget what’s going to happen in Silverhill over the next few days!”
CHAPTER 26
The Silver King was the biggest and busiest saloon in Silverhill and, therefore, likely the best, Philip Armbruster reasoned as he paused in front of the batwing doors. From the looks of the place, the best source of information he was likely to find, too.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the fumes of tobacco smoke, whiskey, and beer that mingled with the less pleasant aromas of cheap perfume, unwashed flesh, vomit, and human waste.
All the smells blended into a potent mix, which floated out of the entrance onto the boardwalk before the night breezes dispersed it. That distinctive miasma was the same from the Bowery in New York to the Barbary Coast in San Francisco and probably in other towns around the world.
It was the smell of a saloon.
After that moment’s hesitation, Armbruster gripped the tops of the batwing doors and pushed them aside. He walked into the Silver King, knowing that in his suit, hat, and spectacles, he might be a bit out of place among the cowboys, miners, and freighters who had crowded into the place. But there were enough townsmen in the saloon that he didn’t stand out too much, he realized as he looked around.
If the smells were something of an assault to the senses, so was the racket. A piano player pounded the ivories in a corner, but the talking and laughter were so loud, Armbruster couldn’t hear the music well enough to tell if the man had any talent or not. Quite likely, it was limited at best. If he was any good, he was a diamond in the rough.
The sound of cards being slapped down on green felt, the rattle of dice, and the whir of a spinning roulette wheel formed a counterpoint to the music, as if they were all instruments in this orchestra of vice and depravity.
The Silver King had long hardwood bars on both sides of the room, each manned by a pair of bartenders, who hurried back and forth, pouring drinks and sliding mugs of beer to their thirsty customers.
The games of chance were in an area to Armbruster’s left, surrounded by a wooden railing and elevated a couple of steps from the level in the rest of the saloon.
Bordering that area, in an L shape, was the part of the saloon filled with tables, where men drank and laughed and fondled the feather-covered rear ends of serving girls, who wore scandalously low-cut outfits short enough to reveal stocking-clad thighs and calves. The sight of all that female flesh on display was enough to make Armbruster swallow hard.
Beyond the tables, in the rear of the room, was another raised area, where the piano was located. It was big enough to serve as a stage whenever entertainers came in and put on a show. It was a dance floor, too, and several roughly dressed men were taking advantage of the chance to stomp around awkwardly with saloon girls in their arms while the slick-haired maestro in the corner provided the music.
Armbruster shoved those thoughts aside. He was here for a reason, and he didn’t want to let Jaime Mendoza down.
Disappointing Mendoza was a good way to get killed.
The bar to Armbruster’s left was full, but he spied a few open spaces at the bar to his right and headed in that direction, being careful not to bump into anyone as he weaved through the tables. These Westerners were touchy about such things—“proddy,” they called it—and he didn’t want to offend anyone and draw attention to himself.
Mostly, he didn’t want to wind up in any kind of fight where he might easily be hurt or even killed.
He eased into one of the open spaces and rested his hands on the bar’s front edge. Neither of the red-jacketed bartenders seemed to notice him. He waited a few moments for one of them to come over and ask what he wanted. When that didn’t happen, he raised his right hand and cleared his throat.
Still no response. They probably hadn’t heard him over the hubbub in the room. He cleared his throat again and then said, “Excuse me.” When that didn’t do any good, he raised his voice. “Excuse me!”
The man at his right elbow chuckled and said, “That ain’t gonna do you any good, son. Looky here. This is the way you do it.” The man’s callused hand slapped down sharply on the hardwood. He gave a piercing whistle and then bellowed, “Hey, drink juggler! Get your ass down here.”
The closest bartender walked over with a scowl on his face.
“What do you want, Seamus?” he demanded. “You’ve still got beer.”
“Yeah, but my friend here don’t.” The man slapped Armbruster on the back hard enough to make him bend forward toward the bar for a second. “What’ll you have, son?”
“B-beer will do just fine, thank you,” Armbruster said as he tried to catch his breath.
“You heard the man,” Seamus snapped.
The bartender nodded, grabbed a mug off a shelf, and started filling it from a tap. When the foaming amber liquid began to overflow, he set the mug on the bar in front of Armbruster.
“Four bits,” the bartender said.
Armbruster was reaching for his pocket when Seamus tossed a coin onto the hardwood.
“Ain’t see
n you around here before, so the first one’s on me. My way of sayin’ ‘Welcome to Silverhill.’ You are new in these parts, ain’t you?”
“Yes. I just got here this evening,” Armbruster replied. “I appreciate the gesture.”
“Glad to do it. Drink up, son.”
Armbruster lifted the mug, which left a ring of foam and liquid on the bar, and took a cautious swallow. He wasn’t really all that fond of beer, but this one tasted surprisingly good, he discovered, and it was bracingly cold, as well.
“Pretty good, ain’t it?” Seamus asked. “Dyson don’t skimp on the booze.”
“Is that the bartender’s name?” Armbruster asked. “Dyson?”
“Oh, hell no. I don’t know that varmint’s name. Forbes Dyson is the fella who owns this here saloon. Big man in Silverhill.”
Armbruster nodded and said, “I see.” He drank some more of the beer, then set it down and stuck out his hand. “I should introduce myself. I’m Philip Armbruster. One l in Philip.”
Seamus seemed to him the garrulous sort, a likely source of information.
The man’s big paw fairly swallowed up Armbruster’s hand. He said, “Seamus Donnigan is my name. Sounds Irish as the day is long, I know, but I was born in this country, in Chicago. Worked on the railroad for a while, then came out here to try my hand at mining.”
Donnigan looked like a miner. He was half a head taller than Armbruster and had shoulders that an ax handle might not be able to span. Rust-colored bristles covered his slab of a jaw, and a thatch of hair the same shade stuck out from under the battered derby jammed down on his head. He wore a flannel shirt, canvas trousers with suspenders, and laced-up work boots.
“What’s your line of work, Phil?” Donnigan went on.
Armbruster didn’t see any point in concocting an elaborate lie. That would just give him something to keep up with. He said, “I’m a newspaperman.”
Donnigan’s shaggy red eyebrows rose. “You don’t say! Silverhill’s got a newspaper. The Enterprise. You gonna try to get a job there?”
This was the first Armbruster had heard about a newspaper in Silverhill, but since it existed, he might as well play along with Donnigan’s assumption.
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