The Gamble (I)

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “Me?” She spread a hand on her chest. “I thought you were the one who found it amusing.”

  “Maybe. In a way. It isn’t turnin’ out anything like I thought it would. I mean—what general reveals his battle plan to the enemy?”

  She smiled. Her face became transformed into the younger, pretty countenance Violet had remarked upon earlier. Her pale eyes softened. Her austerity dissolved.

  “So tell me—what name did Mr. Potts give your ‘Lady of the Oils’?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear the other night when you swept in with your invadin’ host.” Again he made her laugh.

  “There were only four of us.”

  “Is that all?”

  “And, anyway, how was it possible to hear anything in that din?”

  “Her full name is Dierdre in the Garden of Delight, but the men have nicknamed her Delight.”

  “Delight. Mmm... I’m sure Mrs. Potts is thrilled that Elias won your contest. Next time I see her, I must be sure to say congratulations.”

  Gandy replied with a full-throated laugh. “Ah, Miz Downin’, you’re a worthy opponent. I must say I’m comin’ to admire you. However, y’all didn’t last too long in the saloon the other night.”

  “We were crowded out.”

  “Tsk-tsk.” He shook his head slowly. “Too bad.”

  She decided it was time to stop playing cat-and-mouse with him.

  “You are my enemy,” she stated quietly. “And in spite of how my personal opinion of you may be slowly altering, I must never lose sight of that fact.”

  “Because I sell alcohol?”

  “Among other things.” It was difficult to believe those other things when he leaned on the windowsill that way—all charm and humor and enticing looks. But she understood quite clearly how he shamelessly used his charm and humor and enticing looks to sway her from her good intentions.

  “What else?”

  Her heart thudded harder than normal. She didn’t stop to question the wisdom or the consequences of what she was about to ask.

  “Tell me, Mr. Gandy, was it you who pinned the threatening note to my door the other night?”

  Amusement fled his face. His forehead beetled and his foot hit the floor. “What?”

  Her heart thumped harder. “Was it?”

  “How the hell can you ask such a thing?” he demanded angrily.

  It thumped harder still. But she rose to her feet, plucked his pen from its holder, and held it out to him. “Will you do something for me? Will you print the words good, stay, and what on a piece of paper in capital letters while I watch you?”

  He glared at the pen, then back up at her. He clamped the cheroot between his teeth and yanked the pen from her fingers. Leaning from the waist, he slashed the letters across a piece of scrap paper. When he straightened, his eyes bored silently into hers. He neither offered to hand her the paper nor backed away, but stood so close to the desk she’d have to brush him aside to reach it.

  “Excuse me.” She nearly bumped him, but he stood his ground rigidly.

  “Don’t push your luck,” he warned through gritted teeth, just above her ear.

  She picked up the paper and retreated. The smoke from his cigar burned her nostrils as she studied his printing.

  “Satisfied?”

  Relief closed her eyelids, brought a light rush of breath from her nostrils.

  He stood before her seething with anger. What the hell did this woman want from him?

  She opened her eyes to confront him directly. “I’m sorry. I had to be sure.”

  “And are you?” he snapped.

  She felt her face color but stood her ground. “Yes.”

  He swung toward the desk, stubbed out his cigar in two angry twists of the wrist, and refused to glance her way again. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot o’ work to do. I was orderin’ a shipment o’ rum when you interrupted me.” He sat down and began writing again.

  Her heart turned traitor and flooded with remorse. “Mr. Gandy, I said I was sorry.”

  “G’day, Miz Downin’!”

  Her face burning, she turned and shuffled to the door, opened it, and paused with her back to him. “Thank you for the sewing machine,” she said quietly.

  Gandy’s head snapped up. He stared at her back. Damned infernal harpy! What was it about her that got beneath his skin? She took another shuffling step before his bark stopped her.

  “Agatha!”

  She hadn’t thought he remembered her name. Why should it matter that he did?

  “I’d like t’ see that note if you’ve still got it.”

  “Why?”

  His face tightened even further. “I don’t know why in blue blazes I should feel responsible for you, but I do, goddammit!”

  She didn’t hold with profanity. Why, then, didn’t she take him to task for it?

  “I can take care of myself, Mr. Gandy,” she declared, then closed the door behind her.

  He stared at it, unblinking while he heard the outer door open and close. With a vile curse he flung down his pen. It left a splatter of ink on the order he’d been writing. He cursed again, ripped the paper in half, and threw it away. Then he balled his fists one around the other, pressed them against his chin, and glared at the office wall until her shuffling footsteps finally stopped sounding through his open window.

  CHAPTER

  7

  The W.C.T.U. ladies learned a new song. They sang it with rousing enthusiasm at four saloons the following night.

  Who hath sorrow? Who hath woe?

  They who dare not answer no.

  They whose feet to sin decline

  While they tarry at the wine.

  They handed out pamphlets to the men and continued soliciting signatures on pledges. To everyone’s surprise, Evelyn Sowers stepped forward several times, boldly accosting saloon goers. With her intense eyes, her sometimes dramatic gesturing, she displayed an amazing oratory flair none had known she possessed.

  “Brother, take care of your future now.” She seized upon an unsuspecting cowboy who scarcely looked old enough to shave. “Don’t you know Satan assumes the shape of a bottle of spirits? Beware that he does not trick you into believing otherwise. Have you thought about tomorrow... and tomorrow... and the tomorrow after that, when your hands begin trembling and your wife and children suffer without—”

  “Lady, I ain’t got no wife and children,” the young cowpoke interrupted. With wary eyes he sidestepped Evelyn, as if she were a coiled rattler. As he made for the door of the saloon, Evelyn fell to her knees, hands lifted in supplication.

  “I beg you, young man, stay out of that male refuge! The saloonkeeper is the destroyer of men’s souls!”

  The shiny-faced youth glanced over his shoulder and scuttled inside with a look that said he feared Evelyn far more than the dangers to be found behind the swinging doors.

  Four more cowboys came along the boardwalk spiffed to the nines, their spurs shining, their jinglebobs ringing. Evelyn stopped them in their tracks with her emotional appeal.

  “Do you recognize the evils of the vile compound you’ve come here to consume? It robs men of their faculties, their honor, and their health. Before you step through that door—”

  But they’d already stepped through, looking back at Evelyn with the same trepidation of the young cowpoke.

  Evelyn seemed to have found her true calling. During the remainder of the evening as the ladies made a sweep of four saloons, she embraced her newfound ministry with growing fervor.

  “Abstinence is virtue; indulgence is sin!” she shouted above the noise from the Lucky Horseshoe Saloon. And when she couldn’t outshout the noise, she led her troops inside, walked straight up to Jeff Diddier, and stated, “We’ve come on a mission of morality—to awaken your conscience.” When Evelyn produced a temperance pledge and demanded that Diddier sign it, the ruddy-faced bartender answered by pouring himself a double shot of rye and gulping it down before Evelyn’s eyes.

 
Though Agatha personally didn’t hold with Evelyn’s histrionics, the woman succeeded in shaming two of Jim Starr’s customers into signing the pledge. This success prompted four of Evelyn’s “sisters” to drop to their knees with her and begin singing at the top of their lungs. Agatha tried it. But she felt like a fool, kneeling in the saloon. Thankfully, after several painful minutes on the hard wooden floor, she was forced to stand again.

  At the Alamo Saloon, Jack Butler and Floyd Anderson appeared to be so embarrassed by seeing their wives in the company of the fanatic Evelyn that they shamefacedly slipped out the door and disappeared. Spurred on by yet another victory, Evelyn grew increasingly flamboyant in both speech and gestures.

  By the time the W.C.T.U. contingent reached the Gilded Cage, the place was going strong, and so was Evelyn. She elbowed her way into the crush of men, raised both hands to heaven, and bellowed, “What an army of drunkards shall reel into hell!”

  The dancing and singing stopped. Ivory turned from the piano. The card games halted. Evelyn looked manic. Her eyes blazed with unnatural fervor; her fists came down on tabletop after tabletop. “Go home, Miles Wendt! Go home, Wilton Spivey! Go home, Tom Ruggles! Go home, all of you, back to your families, you sinful wretches!” Evelyn grabbed a mug of beer and upended it at Ruggles’s feet.”

  “Hey, watch it!” He came out of his chair.

  “Filth! Nux vomica! Swill a man wouldn’t feed to his swine!”

  Agatha felt her face coloring. The W.C.T.U. members prided themselves on nonmilitancy and grace. She looked up, found Gandy’s eyes leveled on her, and glanced away quickly, only to confront three other pairs of dismayed eyes—Jubilee’s, Pearl’s, and Ruby’s.

  Into the sudden lull Gandy spoke with his usual savoir vivre. “Welcome, ladies.” He stood behind the bar, hatless, dressed totally in black and white.

  Evelyn swung on him. “Ah, the rum-soaked ally of Lucifer! The trafficker in ardent spirits! Beg the Lord’s forgiveness for the negligence and bestiality you cause to be visited upon innocent families, Mr. Gandy!” Two cowboys who’d had enough scraped back their chairs and headed for the door.

  Gandy ignored Evelyn’s tirade.

  “You’re just in time.” He raised his voice and called, “Drinks’re on the house, everyone!”

  The pair of cowboys spun in their tracks. The roar that rose nearly deafened Agatha. While it boomed around her ears, she met Gandy’s eyes again. Though the others might be unable to read beyond his surface charm, she had seen him grin too many times not to recognize the absence of mirth in his expression tonight. His eyes pierced her like two icicles. Gone was the amusing glitter she’d come to expect. What passed for a smile was really a baring of teeth.

  While their gazes locked, he found the neck of a bottle, filled his glass with amber liquid, and lifted it.

  Don’t, Gandy, don’t.

  He gave her a salute so slight nobody else noticed. Then he tipped his head back and changed the salute to an insult.

  She had never seen him drink before.

  It hurt.

  She turned away, feeling empty for no reason she could explain. All around men pushed their way to the bar and raised their glasses for free drinks. Behind her the piano and banjo started up again. Jubilee and the Gems struck into a chorus of “Champagne Charlie,” ending with the words, “Come join me in a spree.” Evelyn knelt in the middle of the rowdydow praying for the depraved. With her hands crossed over her chest and her eyeballs rolled back, she looked as if she’d been bitten by a rabid dog. At the keno table, men jeered. From the wall, Delight smiled down benevolently on the chaos.

  There simply had to be a better way.

  Agatha signaled the others to follow her to the door, but only Addie Anderson and Minnie Butler did. As they reached the exit, Agatha turned for one last look. Gandy’s obsidian eyes impaled her. She wheeled and pushed through the swinging doors.

  And that’s when she met Willy Collinson for the first time.

  He’d been squatting down, peering beneath the shuttered panel into the saloon, when the door hit him in the forehead and rolled him over like a ninepins ball.

  “Ooooowwww!” he howled, holding his head and bawling. “Oww-www-weee.”

  Agatha struggled to one knee to help him up. Addie and Minnie hovered, clucking with concern.

  “I’ll see to him. You two go home to your husbands.”

  When they’d gone, Agatha righted the boy. Standing, he was the same height as she was, kneeling.

  “My goodness, child, what were you doing so close to that door? Are you all right?”

  “My h... head,” he sobbed. “You h... hit my h... head. Owww! It h... hurrrrts!”

  “I’m sorry.” She tried to see how much damage she’d done, but he clutched his head and pulled away. “Let me see.”

  “Nooo, I w... want my p... pa.”

  “Well, your pa’s not here, so why not let me see if I can repair the damages?”

  “Leave m... me al... alone.”

  In spite of his stubbornness, she forced his hands down and turned him toward the pale light coming from the saloon door. His blond hair could have been a sight cleaner. His overalls were soiled and too short. A trickle of blood ran toward his eyebrow.

  “My heavens, child, you’re bleeding. Come and we’ll wash it off.”

  She struggled to her feet, but he jerked free of her.

  “No!”

  “But I live right next door. See? This is my hat shop, and my apartment is right above it. We should take care of that head right away.”

  “Pa says I ain’t supposed to go with strangers.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides. He was calmer now. “But what did he say about emergencies?”

  “I don’t know what them are.”

  “Getting bumped in the head by a swinging door—that’s an emergency. It truly is. Your forehead needs washing and a touch of iodine.”

  He backed away, shaking his head no. His eyes grew round as horse chestnuts.

  “Look out. Someone will come out and smack you again. Come along.” She reached out a hand with a businesslike air. “At least move away from the door while we talk.”

  Instead, he knelt down and peered beneath it.

  “You’re too young to be peeking in there!”

  “Gotta find Pa.”

  “Not that way, you won’t.” She stood him on his feet none too gently. He began to sniffle again. “There are things going on in mere that a boy your age shouldn’t see. How old are you, anyway?”

  “None o’ your business!” he said defiantly.

  “Well, I’ll make it my business, young man. I’ll march you straight home to your mother and tell her what I found you doing.”

  “I ain’t got no mother. She died.”

  For the second time that night, Agatha’s heart felt pierced. “Oh,” she said softly, “I... I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Then we must find your father, mustn’t we?”

  He dropped his chin to his chest. “He ain’t been home since after work.” His chin began to tremble and he rubbed one eye with his dirty knuckles. “He said he’d come home tonight... b... but... he n... never come.”

  His voice quavered. Agatha felt sick with pity. Awkwardly, she touched his blond hair. She’d been around so few children in her life. How did one speak to a five-year-old? Six-year-old? Whatever his age, he wasn’t old enough to be wandering in the street after dark. He should be in a warm bed after a warm bath and a hot supper. “If you’ll tell me your name,” she encouraged softly, “I’ll try to help you find him.”

  Still scrubbing his eyes, he glanced up uncertainly, revealing wide glimmering eyes, a pug nose, and a trembling mouth. She watched him struggle with indecision.

  “I’m really a very nice lady.” She gave him a kind smile. “I have no little boys of my own, but if I did I’d never bump them over with swinging doors.” She tipped her head to one side. “The lucky thing was, you rolled up just like a porcupine.”

 
He tried not to laugh but couldn’t stop himself. It came out as a reluctant snuffle.

  “That’s better. Now, are you going to make me guess what your name is?”

  “Willy.”

  “Willy what?”

  “Collinson.”

  Suddenly, she understood. Take it slow, Gussie. Don’t lose his trust now.

  “Well, Willy Collinson, if you’ll sit down there on the step, I’ll go back inside and see if I can spot your father and tell him you’re waiting to walk him home. How’s that?”

  “Would you? He gets awful mad when I go in after ‘im.”

  “Of course I would. You sit here and I’ll be right back.”

  She paused at the swinging doors, looking over them at the revelry inside. Evelyn was gone. Behind the bar Gandy and Jack Hogg served drinks. Jubilee and the girls circulated, talking to the customers. In the near corner Dan Loretto dealt a game of blackjack. Agatha pushed the doors open and eased through the mob, searching for Collinson, unable to spot him. She tried to recall if she’d seen him earlier tonight but didn’t remember. Passing a round table crowded with men, she felt a hand brush her thigh. Another reached out and clutched her arm. She jerked free, panicked, and advanced toward the bar. Gandy was laughing at something one of the customers said, looking down as he poured amber whiskey into a shot glass.

  “Mr. Gandy?”

  His head snapped up. The laughter fell from his face.

  “I thought you were gone.”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Collinson. Is he in here?”

  “Alvis Collinson?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “Is he in here?”

  “You’ve lived in Proffitt longer than I have—find him.” His jaw tensed and his eyes remained hard with challenge.

  Someone bumped her from behind. She lost her balance and caught at the back of a leather-covered shoulder to keep on her feet.

  “Hey, what’s this?” The cowboy turned lazily, slipped an arm around her hips, and flattened her to his side. His breath reeked as he leaned close. “Where ya been hidin’, li’l lady?”

  She pushed against him, straining away.

  “Let her go, fella,” Gandy ordered.