The Adventures of Dixie Dandelion

by R. H. Burkett

  ****

  The Siding stank like a drawer full of dirty socks and looked like a stomped on ant hill. Folks, mostly men, crawled out of every nook and cranny and swarmed the boardwalks and streets. I weaved Joe through the crowd and searched for the livery.

  “Nope,” the bowlegged stable master said and spit a stream of tobacco between Joe’s front hooves. “Ain’t seen no Buckskin horse. Talk to Big Mike. Ain’t nothin’ goes on in this town he don’t know about.”

  Except for the mustache that drooped like a soggy haystack around his upper lip, Big Mike Donovan could’ve been Papa’s double. I liked him on the spot.

  “No, lass, I haven’t seen a man or horse that fits that description. Sorry.”

  Disappointment: wilted, leafy brown.

  Worry must have crawled across my face because Big Mike cocked his head to one side and studied me hard.

  “Need a job?”

  Didn’t see that coming. “What kind?”

  “The honest, hard-working kind. Cooking. I ramrod a rail crew. We work in shifts around the clock which means we eat twenty-four hours a day. Two of me biscuit-rollers got in a gunfight over a crooked poker game. Shot themselves full of holes, they did, and straight into Boot Hill. Left me in a hella’ of mess. You interested?”

  I couldn’t go back to the wagon train and had no place to go. Why not? Yet, I hesitated.

  “You can cook, can’t ya’?

  “Sure.”

  Guilt over telling a small lie: eggshell white.

  “Good. It’s settled then. By the way, what’s your name, lass?”

  I was a murderer and a horse thief, but no fool. Either one could get me lynched with no questions asked. Sure wasn’t going to tell my real name.

  “Dixie. Dixie Belle Dandelion.”

  He removed his hat with an exaggerated gesture and bowed at the waist. I laughed.

  “Well, welcome to Six Shooter Siding, Miss Dixie Dandelion.”

  Hope: Bright, jonquil yellow.

  Chapter Two

  Jackson tossed another log on the campfire. Sparks of orange and yellow spit at the blackness then disappeared with a snap. He leaned back against the saddle’s cantle and drank the last cup of Arbuckle’s before turning in. Doubt he would sleep well. Bluebonnet eyes would haunt his dreams.

  Margaret Katelyn O’Shea. Name was bigger than she was. Very pretty. Feisty. A rebellious spit-in-your-eye spirit as proud as the land of cotton itself.

  “Like it or not, little darlin’, Dixie is the only name what fits.”

  His voice bounced off the trees and brush, echoed small in the prairie’s vastness. A falling star darted across the heavens. He followed its trail. Felt a loss when its brilliance flamed out. His thoughts returned to her…just like her namesake, the Old South, Dixie had fallen into big trouble.

  Whitaker would come for her. No doubt about it. It was only a matter of time.

  He’d never cottoned to Whitaker or Cantrell and believed all the complaints received by the Pinkerton Agency about their bamboozling sod busters headed to California. Now he could add murder to the list. Always figured of the two, Whitaker was the brains and the worst. But how to prove it?

  He should’ve stayed. Watched over her. He couldn’t take the chance. He had to meet Donavon in Six Shooter before the big man came looking for him blowing his cover as an undercover Pinkerton. He crossed his fingers. Maybe he’d get back before Whitaker made his move. But just in case, he’d left her an ace-in-the-hole. Joe.

  Joe was a scrappy bangtail who could run the legs off a deer. If she could make it to the picket line and head north, Joe would get her to Six Shooter safe and sound. He’d warned Donovan to keep an eye peeled for her.

  Cup empty, he settled in for the night. Wasn’t like him to get mixed up in something like this. He’d sworn never to care again. To never allow himself to get close. But he found himself wanting to wrap this girl in his arms. To shield her from all harm. Why? He tipped his Stetson forward over his eyes and grumbled.

  “Because I’m a sucker for bluebonnets and prairie dandelions, that’s why.”

  Chapter Three

  “Choppy, choppy. Choppy, choppy.”

  I stared at the little man not understanding a word he said.

  Behind me, Big Mike laughed. “Stop ya yammerin’, you dang fool Chinaman. This here be Miss Dixie Dandelion. She’ll be working the morning shift.” He turned to me. “Miss Dixie, meet Lin Chow, me number one cook.”

  I extended my hand. Lin Chow bowed low at the waist. My hand dropped, and I gave a slight nod.

  “Berry busy, Big Boss Man. Must hurry. Chop. Chop.”

  Lin Chow was the strangest man I’d ever seen. His face looked as if someone had taken a piece of charcoal and drawn a thin line of hair on either side of his nose and curved it around his mouth to frame a sketched-in scraggy pigmy-goat beard. He scurried around like a tiny mouse with slippers on its feet. A tight pigtail running the length of his back wagged from side-to-side and reminded me of a black cougar tail switching back and forth.

  “What sort of Indian is that?”

  Loud laughter boiled out of Big Mike. “Hey, Chow! Miss Dixie thinks you’re some kind of Indian.”

  Scampering back to us, Lin Chow grinned up at me. His eyes only slits in his pale yellow face.

  “Ah, Missy Dixie, you funny rady. Chow no Indian. Chow Chin-ee.”

  Still confused I scratched my head. “What tribe is that?”

  “A Far Eastern one,” Big Mike said between guffaws.

  Chow’s laughter sounded like a barnyard full of chickens. His up-side-down teacup hat fell to the ground and rolled to my feet. A snip of a nose wrinkled when he picked it up.

  “Missy Dixie smell like horse. No work for Chow until clean.”

  Embarrassed, I stepped away and turned my back. On the sly, I took a whiff of myself. Whew! He was right. I turned back. “Uh…been on the trail for days. Didn’t have a chance to wash or change clothes. Was gonna’ do that straight away but got sidetracked with this job offer and things.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Big Mike said. “Chinese are always washing something.”

  “Oh,” I said, grateful for his casual manner. But I did need to wash-up. Maybe I could find a creek nearby.

  “I pay thirty-five dollars a month. Best rate going. All me employees, except for the coolies, room at Maude Atkins’ boarding house.”

  “Coolies?”

  “Chinese workers. They stay to themselves.”

  “Maudie runs a respectable place. Very clean.” He winked. “Think she has ideas about making me husband number four. She has a bathhouse too. Cost two bits. Need an advance on your pay?”

  Sure didn’t want to tip my hand about the bills tucked into my boot but didn’t want to be depending neither. I shook my head. “I can scrape together twenty-five cents.”

  “Don’t worry about that good lookin’ paint horse of yours. Got me own stables and corrals. Feed is free so long as you work for me and try hard. So are your meals. Be here at four in the morning. Chow will tell ya’ what to do.” His lips pursed. “That’s all I can think of. Got any questions?”

  Questions? I had a bucket full. Things were moving fast. Why was Big Mike being so nice? What had that livery owner said? “Big Mike knows everything that goes on in this town?” Could he be McCullough’s boss? If so, it would make sense he’d deny seeing him. McCullough had left Joe saddled and waiting. Maybe he’d warned Big Mike that I might be riding in and told him to be on the lookout. Sure would explain the sudden job offer. Huh. For someone not wanting to be burdened with my welfare, McCullough was blazing an easy trail for me.

  “Which way to the barn? I need to get Joe bedded down, then get that room.”

  About an hour later with McCullough’s saddle bags clutched tightly to my chest, I searched for Maude’s place. Big Mike stayed at camp. Wished he’d come with me. My heart pounded. I’d never seen a place as wild and wooly as the Siding. Gambling halls and salo
ons lined the sidewalks. Loud, boisterous laughter crawled under their batwing doors and galloped rampant up and down the street. Ever-so-often what sounded like gun shots popped in the air. Gamblers, gunslingers, a lot of those strange, squinty-eyed Chin-ee Indians, noises, and smells were thicker than fleas on a hound dog. I walked close to the storefronts and tried to stay out of everyone’s way and remain unseen. Just missed being slammed into by a long, lanky cowboy pulling on a brown shirt with patches on the elbows.

  “Jimmy Ray, you get on now! Told you a hundred times, no money, no service.”

  My mouth flew open. A woman with bosoms so large you could eat breakfast off of ’em poked the cowhand’s shoulder with a fingernail painted scarlet red. A yellow beehive of hair wobbled and threatened to topple over with every word. Wide hips jiggled and swayed with every menacing step she took toward the unlucky fella.

  “Calhoun might own this town but not the White Dove.” She jabbed him again. “You tell that boss of yours, my girls don’t work on credit. Now, git!”

  “Bye, Jimmy Ray,” a syrupy voice called down from the second floor. “Come back with a dollar. Ask for Fancy.”

  The big-busted woman turned back to the door and caught sight of me hugging the building’s side. “You all right, hon?”

  The mole on her cheek looked like a brown tick, and I couldn’t help but stare. “I…fine.”

  She looked me up and down. Felt like a horse up for trade. A slight smile tugged her ruby-colored lips and made her moss-green eyes crinkle at the corners. “New in town, hon? Lookin’ for a place to stay?”

  “I…I work for Big Mike. Trying to find Maude Atkins’ place.”

  She waved her hand. “Follow me, I’ll show ya’ where it is. Name’s Peggy Williams. Most everybody calls me Mama Peg. I own the White Dove.”

  I fell in beside her. “My name’s Dixie. Is the White Dove a hotel?”

  A low raspy chuckle came from deep in her throat. “Of sorts.” She pointed across the busy dusty street. “That’s Maude’s boarding house, there. I’d introduce ya, but that uppity, bluenose Yankee don’t approve of me. Best go in by yourself.”

  “Why doesn’t she like you?”

  Her chuckle grew into a loud snort. “Because I’m a soiled dove, and so are my girls.”

  “Soiled dove?”

  She gave me that crinkly-eyed look again. “Prostitutes. Prairie Nymphs.” She shook her head. “Innocent as a lamb, ain’t ya? We entertain men—for a price.”

  The way she winked and stressed the word “entertain” made me think hard. Her meaning finally dawned on me. Eyes wide I gawked. “You mean men pay for that?” I blurted. “Thought they just took it.”

  A funny look crossed her face, and she studied me closely. Her face broke into a motherly smile which made her features soften. Bet before life and time had worn her down, Peg had been a beautiful woman.

  “Some men do. Not all. Don’t judge the lot by the actions of a few.”

  She squeezed my hand. “Good luck to you, Dixie. If you need anything, ya know where I am.”

  I watched her sashay down the street, head high, green skirts and black petticoats swinging from side to side. Men smiled but didn’t tip their hats.

  Soiled dove or not, Mama Peg had a kind heart and was probably the best friend a girl could ever have.

  Maude Atkins, on the other hand, was raw-boned, cold, and stern. A strip of dried jerky with frown lines and big feet.

  “Rent’s due the first of the month. Don’t be late. Won’t tolerate excuses. No drinking. No swearing. No men. I keep a God-fearing establishment.” If possible her nose stuck even higher in the air. “Seen you talking to that…that…woman, Peg Williams. Word to the wise, don’t associate with her kind.”

  Irritated at her holier-than-thou manner, my mouth overrode my head. “And what kind would that be?”

  The sour look she shot me would’ve curdled milk. “Hussies! No good heathens.” She banged a key down on the polished desk top. “Room five, top of the stairs, to your right.”

  “Big Mike said I could get a bath here.”

  “Most certainly can. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, I always say. Bath house is around back. Cost ya a quarter.” She looked down her thin nose and darting sparrow eyes narrowed. “In advance.”

  On purpose I slapped the coin down and picked up the key. “Thank you.” I headed for the stairs. Three husbands? God bless ’em. Bet they’d shot themselves.

  Room five was clean all right, but only because there was nothing for the dirt to hang onto. One window facing north, a bed, a scarred dresser with lamp and wash basin, and a straight-back chair. Home, sweet home. A sign posted on the wall caught my attention.

  No Relieving Yourself out the Window

  The meaning came clearer when I noticed the rusted screen. Bet that was one stain Maude would never get out. No Relieving? Doubt any yahoo dumb enough to pee out a window would understand that. I chuckled and resisted the urge to cross out “relieving” and pencil in “pissing.”

  Weary, I flopped on the edge of the bed and wiped at the tears that sprang-up from out of nowhere. Insides felt as empty as the room. Oh, Mama, I miss you. Missed Papa even more. What would he say?

  “Life isn’t fair, lass.”

  I jerked around. Expected to see Papa standing right behind me. But no. Must’va been the wind and wishful thinking that carried his voice to me.

  Everything had turned upside down in three days’ time. Buried Mama, killed a man, stole a horse, and got a job—as a cook. A fit of giggles nudged the tears aside. Me. A cook. Barely knew how to boil water. Pretty sure that news would send Chow Chow into a fit of squirrel chatter. A deep sigh shook the bed. Better get to that bath. Paid too much for the darn thing to waste it.

  The next morning Chow tossed an apron to me and pointed to a large table. “Missy Dixie. You make biscuit. Hurry. Chop. Chop.”

  The sack of flour glared at me in silent ridicule. Somewhere Mama laughed. She’d tried to teach me to cook, but Papa and horses were more fun. Lard. Buttermilk. Sugar. Was that all I needed? Damned if I knew. How much of each should I use? Oh, hell and damnation. It can’t be that hard.

  I threw all the ingredients into a bowl deep enough to fall into and stirred until my arms ached. Lifting the sticky blob out onto the table, I remembered Mama kneading dough with her hands. I beat the glob senseless. Rolling it flat, I cutout circles with the rim of a tin coffee cup, placed them on a baking pan, and shoved the whole shebang into the oven on a wood stove big enough to cook a longhorn steer, horns and all.

  A few minutes later, I pulled them from the oven and placed the pan on the stove top. What a mess. Flat, burnt, and hard as bricks. Before I could throw them away, Big Mike reached over my shoulder and took one.

  “Chow? What the hell are these?”

  I winced. He banged the roll against the edge of the table and grinned. Chow Chow jabbered away in his sing-song talk saying something about “Missy Dixie berry pretty. No good cook.”

  “Sorry,” I murmured. “Guess I forgot something.”

  Big Mike chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder. “Chalk it up to first-day-on-the-job-jitters. Tomorrow will be better.” He and Chow walked out of the cook tent shaking their heads and muttering something about “river-rock biscuits.”

  I needed help.

  Chapter Four

  “Peg, they were awful. Chow called them river-rocks.”

  She held her sides and laughed until tears ran down her face making tiny trails of dusty rose rouge. “You forgot the baking powders, that’s all. Don’t worry about Lin Chow, hon. I know him. He’ll throw buckets of gravy over the mess and serve it up. Those rail-crew boys are so hungry and wore out, they’ll never notice.”

  I gasped. “You know Lin Chow? He comes to the White Dove?”

  “No.” She winked. “But Big Mike does. Waltzed in here last spring said Lin Chow and his family were sick. My girl, Fancy, lost her ma to the fever. Got powerful upset when she he
ard. Made up a big pot of soup and took it to Chow. Helped nurse them all back to health. Chow never forgot her kindness. He stops by every now and again with baskets full of Chinese vegetables. Can’t pronounce any of the names, but that don’t spoil the taste any.”

  I smiled. Felt better. “Chow said I was pretty.”

  “Well, that’s ’cause you are, hon.” She put her arm around my shoulder. “Sure you don’t want to work for me?”

  Four days ago, I would’ve died at the suggestion. Today I laughed.

  “Didn’t think so.” She sighed. “Pity. We could make a lot of money. Come on into the kitchen. I’ll get Fancy to show you how to make the best biscuits in the territory.”

  Six women sat at a round kitchen table drinking coffee, talking, and joking. They looked up when Peg cleared her throat.

  “Girls, this here is Dixie.”

  “She a new dove, Mama Peg?”

  “No, just a friend. Cooks for Big Mike. Needs a little help. Fancy? Can you whip-up some biscuits? Show Dixie how it’s done?”

  Tall and willowy with skin as smooth as cream, Fancy twirled her wheat-spun hair around one long, slender finger and smiled. “Why, sure. Be happy to.” Southern to the bone, her accent was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  Making biscuits wasn’t the only thing I learned that morning. Peg and her girls were one big family. The White Dove, their home. I sat in golden sunlight that streamed through the big kitchen windows, listened to their talk, joined their laughter, and drank-in all the coffee and warm love I could get. I wondered about all of them.

  Cinnamon’s bronzed skin glowed like glazed honey in the sunlight. Deep chestnut eyes hidden under thick lashes, caught every move and blinked mysteriously at me like a sleek, sable-haired cat.