“It’s not that.” Ivy feels her face burn. “I am grateful for Luck, of course. I only thought I would ask.”
“If any of these horses are sold, it’ll be Chucklehead,” Melchior says as Luck follows him to the gate.
“What?” Ivy stares after him as he walks away to the stable door, Luck trailing on a loose rope like any docile pet. “What did he say?” She turns to Samuelson, brushing out his horse’s tail.
He glances from her to the disappearing Melchior, shifting something in his mouth.
“Where did you get those?” Ivy asks before he can speak, smelling peppermint coming from him even over the odors of the livery stable.
“The chemist on Water Street, miss. A pleasant chap, though he will try to sell you the shop if you enter.” Samuelson pulls a tiny paper bag from his hip pocket, unrolls it, then holds it out to her.
“Thank you, I shouldn’t—”
“The only delight I have discovered to rid the mouth of the taste of chiles and salt pork.” He smiles, though his gray eyes remain sad. “Even tooth powder here is nothing but salt and bicarbonate of soda.”
Surprised to learn he brushes his teeth, she accepts the sweet in filthy fingers, coated in dirt and fox fur: a round, pink object, smelling strongly of mint. Longing to save it, but with him watching her, she pops it in her mouth.
Bliss. Ivy closes her eyes. Not too sweet, but a sharp blast of peppermint oil. It even obliterates the odors around her.
“Thank you,” she says again.
Samuelson rolls up the sack, still smiling. “Take these and I shall get us more. We may need them.”
“I could not—”
“Please. No trouble and a larger bag next time.”
Melchior emerges from the stable as Ivy takes the parcel.
“City’s waking and got to find the best tables.” He addresses Samuelson. “Crave a look?”
Samuelson unties his horse to lead in. “Miss?”
“Don’t need her along.” Melchior interrupts before Ivy can say anything.
Samuelson blinks, shakes his head. “What would you have her do? Return to the boarding house for the whole evening?”
Melchior shrugs with an irritable twitch of his shoulders. “Don’t give a frig what she does.”
Ivy, who can tell Samuelson is struggling to follow, says, “My cousin means me to move about the city on my own, Mr. Samuelson.”
The Englishman stops as he turns his horse to the stable, staring from Melchior to Ivy and back. Ivy once more resists the boorish impulse to cross her arms. Why is he so startled to witness what a cad his friend is? Only from want of women on the drive to treat with distain?
Seconds pass before Samuelson recovers himself enough to answer Melchior. “Perhaps ... you should go on? Earn a few nights’ board if you can and we shall meet you for dinner?”
Hardly a compromise to abandon her with a man who is all but a stranger, yet her cousin demonstrates his lack of qualms by leaving them without a backward glance.
However, failing to find signs of life at the sheriff’s office or post office, they return to the boarding house after a short time out, noting a number of abandoned buildings along the way. Many are unfinished, including a potentially impressive hospital.
In from dust, flies, and sun, the two of them convey to the girl of all work that they would like wash basins and soap. Both fail to get across the concept of a tub bath or laundry. Still, Ivy reflects with her face underwater to her ears, there is much to be said for a warm, fresh basin.
Finding it even more impossible to think of her financial strains with the unsettling calm of the city haunting her, she hunts through her room and common areas for a book or newspaper without success, finding one of the latter in Spanish, none of the former.
Back in her room, she can only pace and fret and think of laundry, loosening her lace, wishing for a new dress. And her corset has seen better days: whalebone poking through, lace frayed, stained and shabby. New stockings would not come amiss either. And undergarments. A nightgown. Even a sanitary belt. How can she shop for these objects among establishments owned and run only by men? Señorita would assist. If Ivy could communicate....
She lies flat on her little bed, mattress stuffed with thick straw so it is barely less hard than sleeping on the ground. She shifts, easing whalebone points into gentler places, taking short, shallow breaths.
How can they defend themselves here? But that does not matter. She only needs out. To get out she needs thousands of dollars. Many thousands. How? Gambling and selling horses? Baking pies? Sewing for bachelors? How does one earn upwards of ten thousand dollars—the maker’s lowest estimate for the device he called a “steamcoach”—in a prairie dog town?
A gentle tap sounds at her door. “Miss Jerinson? Would you care for dinner?”
Relieved for a distraction, though feeling too sick to her stomach to be hungry, Ivy opens the door for him. “Please. And thank you.”
Samuelson steps back at once, hat in his hands. “I beg your pardon.”
Wishing Melchior was here to observe the proper way to respect a lady’s space, she follows him out and accepts his arm at the foot of the stairs.
He leads her through twilight to a relatively impressive two-story saloon on Palace Avenue: El Rio. This Spanish named establishment with its Irish proprietor, plains style of batwing doors, elk and bear heads mounted on walls, and international clientele, makes Ivy so uncomfortable in her first seconds inside, she almost abandons Samuelson. He spots Melchior at a table and leads her through the crowd of men and tobacco smoke so thick her throat burns.
A massive bar runs up the right side while tables fill the rest. Beyond these, another large room of card tables, perhaps billiards. Before the bar, a brass foot rail runs. Here, men stand in abundance, leaning on the counter, one boot on the rail, drinking, smoking, talking, spitting toward enormous copper spittoons which still fail to accommodate poor aim, as black stains all around them attest. Painted behind the bar is a young woman in nothing but a few draping bits of red silk, reclining on a chaise lounge. Her figure, chaise, and frame, twice life-size, take up much of the wall.
The only real women in evidence are saloon girls selling drinks and shouting backhanded compliments and remarks: “Howdy, Chip! Smelling twice as nice since we last met.” Or, “Wife throw you out again, or’d the dog beat her to it?”
Raucous laughter bursts from the gaming tables as men shout bets on cards, dice, darts, hot chile eating, whiskey shooting, arm wrestling, spitting.
So this is where everyone has been hiding in sleepy Santa Fé.
Flushed, struggling not to cough on smoke, Ivy refuses to sit as Samuelson, clearly uneasy about having her here, tries to pull out a chair.
“You expect me to remain here for dinner?” She leans over the table to face Melchior since he does not bother standing when she arrives.
He has his hat in his lap, lifting his eyebrows as she addresses him. “Told you, didn’t we? Let women in around here. Shannon’s not even checking gun belts.”
“What is that supposed to mean? You fear I will not wish to remain in this—place due to the rules being too strict for my taste?” She starts to turn, Samuelson still hovering anxiously at her side.
“Hold up. Stop her, Sam.” Melchior finally bothers to stand from the tiny, round table while Samuelson makes no move to restrict Ivy. “Where you aiming to angle? Want supper or not?”
“I’ll get it at the boarding house.”
“Fixing to pay for that how?”
Ivy looks at him through smoke. “Do you have money?”
“Sit down.” Glaring, Melchior drops back into his chair.
She twists the chain of her bag tight around her fingers.
“Miss, I am sorry, we should not—”
“Know how grub works in a saloon?” Smirking at her now, arrogant, handsome face making her want to slap him.
“There is a proper hotel on Washington Avenue. Perhaps we might�
�”
“Free,” Melchior goes on, talking over Samuelson. “Good half of it’s free. Strike their claim on drinks, don’t they?”
“Miss—”
Ivy sits, more to get away from the apologies and drop below the worst of the billowing smoke and stares than for free food.
Samuelson pulls out a chair for himself.
A tiny candle glows in the center of every table. Being encased in smoky glass with holes at the sides, they scarcely add light to oil lamps set along the walls.
Watching this candle flicker, Ivy tries to take a deep breath, coughs, sits up straighter. “Did you secure our rent?”
“Under the table,” Melchior says from the side of his mouth, leaning forward, gazing toward the bar.
Ivy stares at him.
“Go on,” he snaps, glancing at her. “Hat’s under the table. Add to your city bag so we needn’t draw more attention,” he mumbles to the candle.
“Put your hat in my handbag?” Ivy grabs the hat, now pushed into her lap.
Melchior sits back, glancing lazily around the busy space. “Girl, you take the rag off. Brains to fill a spoon. What’s in the hat?”
“Now you listen to me—” Clutching his stupid hat with shaking hands.
“Notice.” Melchior lifts his right hand from below the sticky, stained top to drop a battered scroll between them. He turns unfurled paper to face her and Samuelson, jabbing a boney forefinger at the massive, black header proclaiming: $2,000 REWARD.
Ivy closes her mouth. As she reads, her fingers find their way into the hat and discover a heap of coins. She transfers this to the handbag, all out of sight.
Be it known that the shootist and outlaw known as “Lobo” has a $2,000 reward upon his head. Cash paid on successful delivery of same to the hands of the law in Santa Fé, Albuquerque, or Fort Union. Said outlaw shall be returned alive for additional compensation.
Withal: “Lobo” rides company with no less than five to seven men forming La Manada de Lobos. Capture, with confirmed identity, of any one of these persons, shall bring a bounty of $150 dead or $250 alive.
While Melchior watches her, hands behind his head, elbows out, Ivy rereads the poster with images of wondrous maker devices, steam engines, dirigibles, and clockwork beasts filling her mind as if dancing across the soiled page. With those bounties, Oliver could be as good as paid upfront.
Yet ... the thrilling leap in her heart gives way to frustration. Her nineteen-year-old cousin and his English friend are hardly sharpshooting lawmen.
Ivy shudders, snaps her handbag shut, then shoves the hat, still below the table, back to Melchior. He hasn’t the manners to keep it off his head at the table, but drops it in place before starting to roll a cigarette.
Beside her, Samuelson shakes his head, his expression a mixture of alarm and incredulity. “Where did you find—?”
He gets no further as a saloon girl plunks a basket of broken, fried tortillas on their table, then pushes their candle aside with a dish of pickled peppers and onions.
“On the house,” she says, smirking, gaze dashing from Melchior to Samuelson, ignoring Ivy completely, then settling on Melchior. “What can I get you gents to drink?”
“Whiskey. Got real beefsteak?” Melchior licks the paper of his cigarette, glancing up at her. “Not the kind what’s cooked till it’s tougher than a boot heel? Drowned in hot pepper jelly to hide the meat’s turned a month back?”
“What’d you think we’re running here, cowboy?” She winks, tossing her head so the feather in her auburn hair flutters, and leans forward. “Got whatever you need.”
“Whiskey and beefsteak.” He reaches for tortilla strips.
The smirking hoyden turns to Samuelson. “What’ll it be, handsome?”
He is looking at Ivy, as if waiting for something. When she sits as a mannequin, he prompts, “Miss Jerinson?”
Ivy manages a shake of her head.
Samuelson shifts back to the saloon girl. “Do you have any vegetables, miss?”
“Course we do. Cotton we’re aiming to get you all scurvy?” She points to the oily bowl of onions and peppers on their table, into which Melchior plunges a fried tortilla.
“Of course.” Samuelson smiles. “Anything ... green?”
Her own smile falters.
“Or potatoes?”
“Got hot tortilla soup with corn and beans. Them’s vegetables.”
“Yes....”
She brightens. “And flapjacks. Best flapjacks in the city.”
Samuelson lets out a breath. “The flapjacks, please. Two plates. With boiled eggs and tomatoes?”
She hesitates, clearly confused.
“Means tomatoes,” Melchior says without looking at her, his own pronunciation so unlike Samuelson’s they may as well be different languages.
The saloon girl beams. “Sure enough.”
“And two drinks.” Samuelson diligently retains his smile. “Anything besides whiskey and beer? Soda pop?”
She twists her head. “Where you from, mister? We’ve got lemon or cherry.”
“One of each, please. Thank you, miss.”
Ivy has to avert her eyes from her cousin devouring tortilla crisps and pickled onions, unlit cigarette in his off hand, as the girl bounces away.
He stabs a finger at the poster once more and swallows a large bite. “Start on your money. Could be all. You need it to get home and we need the work.” He glances at Samuelson. “Cattle market at a standstill.”
Ivy fights her thoughts back to the bounty poster with difficulty. “I don’t understand. Of course we want the reward, but what does that have to do with our obtaining it?”
“Only got to bring them in, even a few, how it says. Know the name ... La Manada de Lobos. Famous bunch in these parts.”
“Clearly. Melchior, you are no marshal. I cannot see....” Ivy trails off, shaking her head.
“And marshaling’s not doing a lick a good, is it? Any man who brings one of this bunch in gets cash. No one cares who does it.”
“Mel....” Samuelson frowns at the page. “Where did you get this notice? The post office was closed and we saw no other bulletins.”
Melchior lights his cigarette with the tiny candle, then leans back in his chair. “Sheriff Thurman. Is still a sheriff in town.”
“What are you doing?” Ivy interrupts.
He blows out smoke, lifting an eyebrow. “Sitting. Working out a plan—like talking at posts.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Figure you’re about to enlighten us....”
“First of all, it is unnatural and unhealthy to smoke—”
“Can’t conceal your ignorance for a solitary moment so we—?”
“My father—”
“Don’t count. Doctors’ always coming up with something new that’s good or bad for a person. Don’t make it—”
“If a man is in a burning house, why does he duck below smoke and—?”
“Wood smoke. Not tobacco smoke. Different as a hen from a harmonica. This is medicinal.”
“Secondly, you are sitting at a table with two other people who might not enjoy—”
“That a bluff, or you mean it for a real play?” He takes another pull. “Ain’t twigged this fine establishment is already thick in smoke?
“If I had not known Aunt Abigail to be the courteous lady she was, I should think you had never been in the company of any decent, polite individual in your life.”
He chuckles. “Not me so blasted indecent. You not having seen much world.”
The floozy pops up at their table with Melchior’s whiskey, no sodas, but is called away before she can perform additional winks or hair tosses.
Ivy sits still, back straight, chewing her tongue, glaring at the candle as if she can will it to explode.
“Mel,” Samuelson murmurs. “Would you mind?”
He also keeps a beautiful pipe which she saw on the trail. Yet a moment with a pipe of an evening while out of doors in open
air seems very different. Even many of her father’s peers smoke a pipe or cigar on occasion.
Melchior lifts the cigarette from his lips and stubs it out against an already black table leg before dropping it to the floor—a similarly common use for that surface. He goes on eating, pushing the basket at Samuelson, though the latter does not join in.
“You met the sheriff?” he asks Melchior. “We could not locate one.”
“In when I stopped,” Melchior says, scooping onion and a clove of garlic from the bowl. “Thread shy on a done patch, maybe. Told him I was looking for work, good shot, good horseman. Didn’t sign me on as deputy or such, but gave me this notice. Said he’d only just heard from a churn-twister the band’d been sighted in the area. Don’t know where they set digs, but thought we’d have as good a chance as any if they’re near.”
“As any what?” Samuelson once more looks alarmed.
“Rabbits,” Ivy says under her breath.
“At least we must find two or three chaps with whom to partner.”
The saloon girl returns with two bottles for Samuelson, facing Melchior. “Name’s Marian, by side. Marian Lander.”
“Really.” Melchior goes on eating. “Same initials.”
“No.” She gasps. “What’s your middle?”
“Charles.”
“Too bad. I’m an F. Still, feels like some kind of providence, don’t it?” Leaning almost into his face. “So, what’s your name?”
“L’Heureux. Melchior.”
“The horse trainer’s son? No fooling? Mr. Shannon says Charles L’Heureux is the best horse trainer in the Territory. No mustang scrub from him, but a real fine riding horse with all the best blood from European stock. They say his family brought French horses when they immigrated. That true?”
“Marian!” Cody Shannon calls from the bar, leaning over to hold out bottles.
As she whips around, Samuelson asks if they might have two glasses. She brings them on her way past a moment later and he pours each soda, offering both to Ivy.
“Lemon, please,” she says with a tight rigor still in her voice. “Thank you.”
Lightfall One: Clock, Cloak, Candle (Lightfall, Book 1) Page 7