The Gamble (I)

by LaVyrle Spencer

  Perhaps he was still feeling guilty for pushing her in the mud. Don’t be silly, Agatha. Yes, he had looked somewhat remorseful that day, but he was a gambler, well versed in assuming whatever face he thought it advantageous to assume.

  There was, of course, one other possibility. Free enterprise. Jubilee and the girls most certainly would keep the edge of the mahogany bar belly-shined, especially in red cancan skirts. Perhaps Gandy’s spirit of competition was aroused by the thought of doing all in his power to crowd his saloon with more men than it could comfortably hold. To lord it over the other ten saloon owners in town out of sheer contrariness.

  The thought made her smile. She sobered abruptly. Whatever his motives, Agatha realized she could not be a party to them.

  “Put the cover back on, Mr. Looby. Take it back to the station.”

  “As you say.”

  “I think I know who ordered it, and he can pay the return charges.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He matched the nail holes, lifted his hammer.

  “Wait! Just a minute.”

  Looby scowled impatiently. “Well, what’s it to be?”

  “I just want to see it. One peek. Then you can pack it off.”

  That one peek was fatal. No one who’d worked with stitches as long as Agatha had could possibly glimpse that wondrous piece of American ingenuity without coveting it in a wholly gripping way. The black paint shone. The gilt logo gleamed. The silver flywheel tempted.

  “On second thought, leave it.”

  “Leave it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “Thank you so much for delivering it, Mr. Looby.” She led the way to the door. “My, haven’t we been having some ideal weather? If this keeps up, the streets should dry in no time.”

  Looby glanced from her to the crate and back again. He took off his railroad cap and scratched his head. But it was beyond him to try to figure out the workings of the female mind.

  When Looby was gone, Agatha checked the time—nearly eleven o’clock. Violet would arrive any minute. Hurry, Violet!

  When the little white-haired woman stepped into the millinery shop, she found Agatha standing just inside the curtained doorway, her hands clasped excitedly beneath her chin.

  “Oh, Violet, I thought you’d never get here!”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No!” Agatha flung out her hands and flashed a beaming smile toward the heavens. “Nothing could be more right! Come!” She turned toward the workroom. “Let me show you.” She led Violet directly to the packing crate. “Look!”

  Violet’s eyelids sprang open. “Gracious sakes alive, if it isn’t a sewing machine! Where did it come from?”

  “From Philadelphia.”

  “You mean it’s yours?”

  “Yes.”

  Violet didn’t remember ever seeing Agatha this happy. Why, she was actually pretty! Funny thing, Violet had never realized it before. Her pale green eyes were alight with excitement. And her smile—gracious sakes alive, what that smile did for her face. Took off a good five years from it and made her look the age she actually was.

  “But why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Violet walked in a circle around the crate. Agatha’s excitement was infectious. “But... but where did you get the mon—” She stopped, looked up. “The ten gold pieces from Mr. Gandy.”

  “Six. I gave four of them back.”

  Violet’s eyes glittered with shrewd speculation. “We’re going to make the cancan dresses, aren’t we, Agatha?”

  “My stars, Violet! I haven’t had time to give it a thought. Come, help me get it out of the crate.” Agatha lost all her usual reserve, hustling about like a carefree girl in search of a hammer and screwdriver. She looked so radiant Violet couldn’t quit studying her and smiling. When she’d found the tools she set to work. “We’ll just knock the front off the packing crate and pull the machine straight out. The two of us should be able to handle it.”

  Violet couldn’t believe the sudden change in the woman she’d seen somber for so many years. “Do you realize what you’re doing, Agatha?”

  Agatha looked up. “Doing?”

  “You’re kneeling.”

  Agatha glanced down. Glorious day! She was! But she was too excited to stop wedging the screwdriver between two slabs of wood. “So I am. Hurts a little bit, but I don’t care. Come on, Violet, get your fingers in there and pull.”

  Instead, Violet’s fingers gently touched Agatha’s shoulder.

  Agatha lifted her face.

  “You know, dear, you should do this more often.”

  “What?”

  “Smile. Act young and coltish. What a pretty, pretty young thing you are this way.”

  Agatha’s hands fell still. “P... pretty?”

  “Most certainly. Why, if you could see your eyes right now, they’re as bright as spring clover in the morning dew. And you have roses in your cheeks that I’ve never seen there before.”

  Agatha was stunned. Pretty? Me?

  Not since her mother’s death had anyone called her pretty. The roses in her cheeks grew brighter from self-consciousness. Uncomfortable with the unaccustomed praise, she turned to her work again.

  “You know, Violet, I think you’ve been out in the noon sun too long. Now help me with this thing.”

  Together they worked to free the sewing machine and pull it onto the workroom floor. Agatha touched it reverently, her eyes still gleaming.

  “Imagine what a difference it’s going to make in the business. I have been worried lately, though I didn’t want to admit it. Ends have scarcely been meeting. But now...” She tested the sleek steel flywheel, brushed her hand appreciatively along the smooth oak cabinet. “Let the hat business dwindle. We can make dresses, can’t we, Violet?”

  Violet smiled lovingly at the changed young woman before her. “Yes, we can. As fancy as anyone wants them.”

  Suddenly Agatha sobered. Her face turned worried. “I am doing the right thing, aren’t I?”

  “The right thing?”

  “It really is Mr. Gandy’s money that’s buying this.”

  Violet turned realistic, pursing her lips. “You earned that money, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Did I?”

  “You most certainly did, young lady. You did a rush job for him that nobody else in town could have done. And you did it with some of the best red satin he could have found. There should be a markup on the satin, shouldn’t there?”

  “You really think so, Violet?”

  “I know so. Now, are you going to stand there all afternoon, or are you going to thread that thing and give it a whirl?”

  With the help of the instruction book they loaded the bobbin, dropped it into the bullet-shaped shuttle, followed the diagram, and guided the upper thread into place. When the needle was threaded and a piece of cloth had been secured beneath the presser foot, their eyes met in anticipation.

  “Well, here goes.” Agatha placed both feet on the treadle, gave one pump, and jerked her feet and hands back. “Awk! It went backward!”

  She looked up to Violet for guidance. Violet shrugged. “I don’t know. Try it again.”

  Agatha tried it again. Once more the cloth moved backward. She got up from her chair. “Here, you try it.”

  Violet took her place and gingerly tested the foot treadle. Backward again. They looked at each other and giggled. “Forty-nine dollars for a sewing machine that only sews backward.” The longer they giggled, the funnier it got. With their next attempt the machine took one stitch forward, one back, and another forward. The two women laughed themselves breathless.

  Finally, Agatha exclaimed, “The book! Let’s read the book.”

  Eventually, they figured out that the flywheel needed a boost in the right direction to get it going. Agatha sat with the long swatch of cotton flowing smoothly beneath the needle. The belt made a soft hum as it drove the mechanism. T
he needle arm created a rhythmic cadence. Beautiful, tight stitches appeared magically, at an almost dizzying pace. Agatha’s hip hurt as her feet pumped, but she was too excited to notice. It was all she could do to give up her seat to Violet and let her give the machine a second try.

  “Isn’t it miraculous?” She leaned over Violet’s shoulder, watching the blue cotton move smoothly, listening to the wondrous sound of well-oiled machinery working at an unbelievable pace.

  Oh, Gandy! she thought. How ever can I thank you?

  At five o’clock Agatha gave the sewing machine one last appreciative touch, carefully placed the boxy wooden cover over it, then closed the shop. She paused to glance at the rear door of the saloon. It was closed, but still she could hear the place was busy. Undoubtedly, it would get busier tonight. Now would be a far better time to speak to him. Perhaps she could slip in unobtrusively and signal him to the back hall for a moment.

  She opened the door and stepped in. The music was absent, but the cowhands’ voices created a steady chatter. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the place. Straight ahead she saw Dan Loretto at a crowded table, dealing cards. The smell of stale smoke and old liquor stopped her momentarily. But she gripped her hands and inched her way to the end of the short corridor, searching the main room for Gandy. The moment she came into view, Jack Hogg noticed her. She crooked a finger. He dried his hands and immediately left his post.

  “Why, Miss Downing, this is a surprise.”

  “Mr. Hogg.” She nodded in greeting. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Gandy.”

  “He’s in his office. Top of the landing, first door on your right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Outside the air wasn’t much fresher. Already the smell from the stock pens drifted over the town. The incessant sounds of lowing cattle and clattering trains carried through the late afternoon as Agatha took the stairs. Reaching the landing, she glanced at his window, but the rippled glass gave no more than a reflection of the blue-washed sky. The door squeaked as she opened it and peered along the shadowed hall.

  So this was where the gilded cage rested during the day! She smiled at Gandy’s ingenuity.

  She’d never been upstairs in this half of the building before. Four doors on the left. Two on the right. A window at the far end of the hall overlooking the street. Everything quiet. She felt like a window peeper—why, she wasn’t certain. Perhaps because people might be sleeping behind those closed doors at this very moment.

  Gandy’s office door was closed. She knocked lightly.

  “Yes?”

  She turned the knob and peeked timidly inside. Gandy sat at an ordinary oak desk in an austere office. He leaned forward, writing, a smoking cigar in an ashtray at his elbow.

  “Hello.”

  He looked up. His face registered surprise before he poked the pen into its holder and leaned back on his well-sprung swivel chair.

  “Well, bowl me over,” he said softly.

  “May I come in?”

  Only her head showed around the door. The childlike entry was so untypical of her, he couldn’t help grinning. “By all means.” He half rose as she slipped inside and glanced around with frank curiosity.

  “So this is where you do business.”

  He dropped back into his chair, pushed away from the desk, crossed a knee with an ankle, and interlaced his fingers across his stomach.

  “Not too fancy, but it serves the purpose.”

  Her gaze moved across the dull wainscoting, the drab green walls, the tiny stove, the unadorned window with its uninteresting view of the back alley and the prairie beyond.

  “Somehow I expected to find you in more lavish surroundings.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The way you dress, maybe. Those bright vests.” Today his vest was celery-green. His black string tie was loosened, his throat button freed, and his shirt-sleeves rolled to mid-arm. His black sack coat hung on the back of his chair. It was five in the afternoon and he needed a shave. She took a moment to appreciate his semitidiness. Heavens above, he was one handsome man!

  “Funny, I never thought you noticed.”

  She met his eyes directly. “I work with clothing, Mr. Gandy. I notice everything about it.” She continued scanning the room—the safe, the coat-tree.... an open doorway? Her eyes fixed upon it, her interest piqued. In his sitting room were the lavish surroundings she’d expected. And a lady’s turquoise-green dressing gown flung across the settee.

  He studied her, amused by the interest she suddenly showed in his sitting room and the bedroom beyond. From behind, he catalogued her with a more critical eye than ever before. The elegant rear draperies of her garnet taffeta dress. The shapely “Grecian bend” lent to her lumbar region by unseen corsets. The attractive puff of her bustle, her narrow shoulders, neat hair, and graceful arms accentuated by tight, tight sleeves and a high clerical collar. She dressed with magnificent taste in genteelly elegant clothes. Forever proper.

  But something was different about her today. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what.

  Agatha realized her mistake only after staring too long into his private apartment. She turned to catch him watching her carefully.

  “I... I’m sorry.”

  “It’s quite all right. A little more roomy than yours, I take it.”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “Have a chair, Miz Downin’.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I believe you’ve already done it.”

  He cocked one eyebrow. One dimple pocked his cheek. “Oh?”

  “You saw the advertisement for the sewing machine on my workroom wall, didn’t you?”

  “Did I?”

  “Don’t spar with me, Mr. Gandy. You saw it and you read my mind.”

  He chuckled. “Come to the point, Miz Downin’.”

  “The point is—there’s a brand-new patented Isaac Singer sewing machine downstairs, and the packing slip claims it’s already paid for.”

  His smile grew cheeky. “Congratulations.”

  “Don’t be obtuse. I came to thank you for taking it upon yourself to order it, and to pay what I owe you.”

  “Did I say you owed me anything?”

  She produced five gold coins and stacked them on the corner of his desk. “Fifty dollars, I believe, is the correct amount, isn’t it?”

  “I forget.”

  She tried to be harsh but her eyes sparkled too brightly, her lips refused to obey. “If you think I’m going to accept an expensive sewing machine from a saloon owner, you...”—How had Joe Jessup said it, again?—“... you have a wheel loose, Mr. Gandy.”

  He laughed, then tipped his chair farther back and linked his fingers behind his head. “But it’s a bribe.”

  Her return laugh caught them both by surprise. Then they were laughing together. Gandy noted how her face had changed. That’s what was different about her today! It wasn’t her hair or her clothing; it was her mood. For once she was happy and it transformed her. The plain gray moth had become a bright, gay finch.

  “You admit it?”

  Grinning amiably, he shrugged, still with his elbows in the air. “Why not? We both know it’s true.”

  He was an enigma. Dishonest and truthful at once. She found it increasingly difficult to rationalize him. “And what do you hope to gain by it?”

  “For starters, three bright red cancan dresses.”

  A disquieting awareness of his masculine pose hit her like a fist in the stomach. The paler color of his bared wrists and forearms, the tendons running taut from the hands clasped behind his head, the crinkles on the armpits of his white shirt, the black boot resting casually across his knee, the smoke ascending from the ashtray between them.

  “Ah,” she crooned knowingly, “three bright red cancan dresses.” She cocked one eyebrow. “And after that?”

  “Who knows?”

  She dropped the game-playing. Her voice turned serious. “I’m committed to my tempe
rance work. You know that, don’t you?”

  He dropped his arms and studied her silently for several seconds. “Yes, I know.”

  “No amount of bribery can change my mind.”

  “I hadn’t thought it could.”

  “Tomorrow night we’ll be downstairs when your customers arrive, handing out pamphlets that we’ve had printed, passing out literature detailing the hazards of the fare in which you deal.”

  “Then I’ll have t’ think of a new way t’ woo my customers, won’t I?”

  “Yes, I suppose you will.”

  “You haven’t been around for a couple o’ days.”

  “I’ve been busy. I wrote a letter to the First Lady, thanking her for keeping the White House dry.”

  “Old Lemonade Lucy?”

  Agatha burst out laughing, then smothered the sound with a finger. “So disrespectful, Mr. Gandy.”

  Half the country called the First Lady that, but it had never seemed quite so funny before.

  “Me and plenty of others. She keeps that place drier than the great Sahara.”

  “At any rate, I wrote to her. The Temperance Banner encourages its members to do so. I also wrote to Governor St. John.”

  “St. John!” Gandy wasn’t so blithe about this news. Murmurings about the proposed amendment to the state constitution had more than one Kansas saloon owner nervous. “My, my. We are busy little beavers, aren’t we?”

  Studying her, he reached for his cheroot and took a deep draw on it. The smoke rose between them before he seemed to realize he’d exhaled it. “Oh, pardon me. I forgot—you hate these things, don’t you?”

  “After the sewing machine, how could I possibly deny you your pleasure, especially when we’re on your battleground?”

  He rose and went to the window, anchored the cigar between his teeth, and lifted the sash. She watched his satin waistcoat stretch across his back, wondering which of them would win in the final outcome. He stood looking out, smoking the cheroot, wondering the same thing. After some moments he braced one boot on the sill, leaned an elbow on his knee, and turned to study her over his shoulder.

  “You’re different than I thought at first.”

  “So are you.”

  “This... this war we’re engaged in, you find it rather amusin’, don’t you?”