The Gamble (I)

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “Why, don’t be silly, girl. You’ve done nothing unforgivable in your whole life.”

  “Y... yes, I have. I’ve f... fallen in love w... with Scott G... Gandy.”

  Violet’s eyes grew round and distressed as she looked down on Agatha’s hair. “Oh, dear!” she proclaimed. Then, again: “Oh, dear.” After some time she asked, “Does he know?”

  Agatha shook her head. “Y... you heard wh... what he said about W... Willy. One of us w... will have to g... give him up.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Violet’s blue-veined hand spread wide upon Agatha’s nutmeg-colored hair. But she didn’t believe in platitudes, so there was little she could say to comfort the woman whose broken heart caused her own to break a little.

  Heustis Dyar worked his cigar back and forth across his blunt, yellow teeth. Six hours since the news had come in, but it wasn’t law yet! Not till they did the official paperwork and made it into a law! Till then—by God—he, for one, was going to make use of his time.

  He filled his glass again and tipped it up. It warmed a path all the way to his gullet.

  “What right they got?” a drunk at the bar demanded sloppily. “Ain’t we got rights, too?”

  Dyar took another swallow and the question seemed to burn deep within him, along with the liquor. What right did they have to take away a man’s livelihood? He was an honest businessman trying to make a decent living. Did they know how many shots a man had to sell to earn enough for a horse? A saddle? A Stetson? He’d been patient, watching that millinery shop across the street where the drys had started the whole mess last spring. He’d been more than patient. He’d even been considerate enough to warn that damned gimp milliner who was responsible for all this. Well, the warnings were done. She and her kind had howled and prayed and boo-hooed until they got their wish.

  Jutting his jaw, Dyar bit the wax off the lower fringe of his red moustache. His eyes hardened and he stared out the small window at her darkened apartment. What right, Agatha Downin’, you interferin’ bitch! What right!

  Dyar slammed his glass down, gave an enormous belch, and said loudly enough so everybody could hear, “I’d like drinkin’ better if I didn’t have t’ stop t’ piss so often.”

  Everyone at the bar chuckled, and Tom Reese refilled Heustis’s glass as he headed for the back door. Outside, giving up the pretense of having to use the outhouse, he veered off the path and skirted the string of buildings between his back door and the corner. In less than three minutes he was mounting Agatha’s back stairs.

  Marcus had been the last one to get the flu, but when it hit him, it hit hard. Damned trots! He’d spent more time running out to the backyard privy than he did playing the banjo lately. And he hurt all over. Buttoning his britches and slipping his suspenders over his thin shoulders, he winced, then gingerly flattened a hand against his abdomen.

  As he opened the privy door and stepped outside, he saw a movement at the top of the stairs. Quickly, he stopped the door from slamming, then flattened himself against the privy wall. Ignoring his painful stomach, he waited, gauging the exact moment when he’d make his move. He watched until the man at Agatha’s door gave a furtive glance over his shoulder, then bent again to the lock.

  When Marcus moved, he moved like a greyhound—full out, loping, taking the stairs two at a time, armed with nothing but anger. Dyar swung on the balls of his feet with the knife in his hand, but his reaction time was slowed by all the liquor he’d consumed, and his balance was precarious. Marcus flew across the landing, throwing his body into the attack. He kicked Dyar in the chest with both feet and heard the knife clatter to the decking. Never in his life had Marcus wished so badly for a voice. Not to yell for help, but to bellow in fury. You bastard, Dyar!

  Lily-livered son-of-a-bitch! Preying on defenseless women in the middle of the night!

  Though Dyar outweighed Marcus by a good seventy-five pounds, Marcus had right on his side, and the advantages of surprise and sobriety. When Dyar got to his feet, Marcus threw a punch that snapped his red head back so hard the neck joints popped. Rebounding, Dyer caught Marcus in his sore gut, doubling him over, then followed with a solid clout on his skull. Rage burst inside the mute man. Glorious, undiluted rage. The roar he could not release transformed itself into tensile power. He picked himself up, lowered his head, and charged like a bull. He caught Dyar in the belly and neatly flipped him backward over the railing. The big man’s scream was brief, silenced when he hit the hard-packed earth below.

  Agatha’s key grated in the lock at the same moment Ivory and Jack came running out their door. Marcus sat cross-legged in the center of the landing, rocking and cradling his right hand against his stomach, wishing he could moan. Everybody else babbled at once.

  “Marcus, what happened?”

  “Who screamed?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  Others came out the apartment door.

  “What’s going on out here?”

  “Marcus! Oh, Marcus!”

  “Who’s that layin’ down there?”

  Scott and Ivory ran down the steps and called back up, “It’s Heustis Dyar!”

  “He must have been trying to break into my apartment,” Agatha elaborated. “I heard the scuffle, then the scream, and by the time I got out here Marcus was sitting in the middle of the floor.”

  Willy awoke and came out the downstairs door to squat beside Scott.

  “He the one who’s been pesterin’ Gussie?”

  “Looks like it, sprout.”

  “Good enough for him,” the boy pronounced.

  “Is Agatha all right?” Scott asked Ivory.

  “She seemed to be.”

  On the landing above, Jube bent over Marcus, sympathizing.

  For a moment he forgot the pain in his hand and concentrated on the feel of her silky robe brushing his shoulder, the sleepy, warm smell of her. If the hand was broken, it was a small enough price to pay for the consolation of having Jube fussing over him.

  Agatha, also in a dressing gown, knelt on his opposite side. “Marcus, you caught him!” The one she’d have thought least likely to take on a man the size of Dyar, yet he’d done it and come out the victor.

  He tried for a shrug, but the pain reverberated down his arm and he drew in a hiss through clamped teeth.

  “You’ve hurt your hand?”

  He nodded.

  Jack found the knife and held it up.

  Jubilee’s soft palm ran down Marcus’s arm. “Oh, Marcus, you might have been killed.”

  Though he delighted in Jube’s nearness and attention, he realized Dyar still lay in the alley. He swung his worried eyes to the railing, gesturing with his head—what about Dyar?

  Ruby called down, “How is Dyar?”

  Scott answered from below, “Alive, but pretty well mashed up. We’ll need t’ call the doc again.”

  “And the sheriff, too,” Jack added, still studying the knife.

  “No-count redneck scum,” muttered Ruby, then joined forces with the women who were lavishing Marcus with attention. They helped him to his feet, led him inside, lit lanterns, and checked the extent of the damage.

  It turned out Marcus had broken a bone in his right hand. When Doc Johnson had secured a woodblock inside the palm and wrapped it in place with gauze, Marcus gamely displayed his agile left hand, fingering the frets of an invisible banjo—At least it’s not my chording hand, his baleful expression said.

  “Heustis Dyar will be wishing all he had was a broken picking hand,” Doc Johnson noted wryly as Sheriff Cowdry carted Dyar off to jail.

  As a thank-you, Agatha promised Marcus a free custom-made garment of his choice, as soon as he felt chipper enough to come downstairs and be fitted.

  In his room, Marcus got a good-night kiss from Jube—a light brush on his lips that startled him, but before he could react, she said good-night and slipped out.

  Scott, tucking Willy back into bed, had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling when Willy declared, “I he
ard most of it. Old Heustis sounded like fireworks comin’ down before he went splat?”

  “Go t’ sleep, sprout. The excitement’s over.”

  “Why would anyone wanna hurt Gussie?” he asked innocently, collaring Moose and falling back onto his pillow.

  “I don’t know.”

  The cat was so accustomed to sleeping with Willy that he flopped on his side with his head on the pillow as if he were human. Gandy half expected Moose to yawn and pat his mouth.

  “It’s b’cause o’ the probe-isshun comin’, ain’t it?”

  “I reckon it is, son.”

  “What’re you gonna do when you can’t sell whiskey no more?”

  “Anymore,” Gandy corrected absently, scarcely aware that he’d picked up Gussie’s habit of correcting the boy. Briefly, he rested a hand on Willy’s head. “Go back t’ Miz’sippi, probably.”

  “But... well, couldn’t you be a blacksmith or somethin’? Eddie’s pa, he fixes harnesses. Maybe you could do that; then you could stay here.”

  Gandy covered Willy and tucked the blankets around his chin.

  “We’ll see. Don’t fuss about it, y’ hear? We’ve got time t’ decide. The law won’t take effect for a few months yet.”

  “All right.”

  Scott began to rise.

  “But, Scotty?”

  The tall, lanky man settled back down on the edge of the narrow cot. “You forgot t’ kiss me good-night.”

  Leaning to touch his lips to Willy’s, Scott tried to hold his emotions at bay, but the thought of kissing him goodbye for the last time tore at Gandy’s innards. Suddenly, he clasped the boy tightly, holding him to his pounding heart for a moment, pressing his lips to the top of the short-cropped blond head. He thought of Agatha, with her face turned sharply toward the wall, her throat working. He thought of taking Willy away from her and didn’t believe he could do it. Yet, when he imagined leaving the boy behind, with Willy’s bright brown eyes filled with tears, as he knew they would be, he wasn’t sure he could do that either. He had to force himself to press Willy back down and cover him up again. He had to force his voice to remain calm. “Now go t’ sleep.”

  “I will. But, Scotty?”

  “What now?”

  “I love you.”

  A giant fist seemed to squeeze Gandy’s heart. Sweet Jesus! What a choice lay ahead. “I love you, too, sprout,” he managed to say. Just barely.

  Scott Gandy and his employees had a meeting one morning in mid-November to discuss when to close the Gilded Cage and where to go next. It was decided there was no point in delaying since the flourishing business of the drive months had already been reaped. Between now and the time the law took effect, business would be slow at best, with Proffitt’s population diminished to its original two hundred. The question of where to go next left everyone staring at Gandy for an answer. He had none.

  “I’ll need a little time alone t’ figure things out. Where I want t’ go, what I want t’ do. Maybe I’ll go south, where the weather is warmer, and try t’ get my thoughts together. What do y’all say to a little time off?”

  They all said nothing. Seven glum faces stared blankly at him. He felt the weight of responsibility for them and momentarily resented it. Tarnation! Couldn’t they think for themselves? Would they always look to him as their savior, the one to deliver them to the next safe, profitable port? But the fact was, he felt dejected, too. The Gilded Cage was scarcely taking in enough to support eight people, and it was important that he preserve a big enough lump of cash to start them out again in a new place. So why should he feel guilty about needing a little time away from them, asking them to fend for themselves awhile?

  “Well, it’d only be until the first of the year or so. Then I’ll pick a spot where y’all can wire me and I’ll wire back and tell you where we’ll be settlin’ next and exactly when to come.”

  Still nobody said anything.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “Sure, Scotty,” Ivory answered flatly. “That sounds good.” Then, hearing his own lack of enthusiasm, he put on a false brightness.

  “Doesn’t that sound good, y’all?”

  They murmured agreement, but the moroseness remained. It was left to Scott to feign enthusiasm.

  “All right, then.” He slapped the green baize tabletop and stretched to his feet. “No sense in hangin’ around this dead little cow town any longer. Whenever you’re packed and ready t’ leave, y’all go ahead. I’ll put the buildin’ up for sale immediately.”

  “What about the sprout?” Jack inquired.

  Scott did a good job of concealing his anxiety over the subject of Willy. “Agatha and I have t’ talk about that yet. But don’t worry. He won’t be abandoned.”

  Quite the opposite. The sprout had two people who wanted him, and they’d put off discussing the subject as long as possible. But it could no longer be avoided.

  For no good reason he could name, Gandy went upstairs to his office and penned a note to Agatha, then asked Willy to take it to her and wait for an answer.

  Willy stared at the note as Scott held it out. “But that’s dumb. Why don’t you just go over there an’ talk t’ her?”

  “Because I’m busy.”

  “You ain’t busy! Heck, you’ve been—”

  “I thought Agatha taught you not to say ain’t! Now, will y’ take the note, or won’t you?” he demanded more sharply than he’d intended.

  Willy’s expression dissolved into one of dismay over the unearned scolding from his hero.

  “Sure, Scotty,” he answered meekly and headed for the door.

  “And put on your new jacket. How many times do I have t’ tell you not t’ run up and down the stairs in the cold without it?”

  “But it’s down in my room.”

  “Well, what’s it doin’ down there? It’s winter, boy!”

  Mollified, yet further confused, Willy looked back at Scott with brown eyes that glistened. “I’ll put it on before I come back up.”

  When he was gone, Scott fell heavily into his chair, then sat staring out the window at the snow, smitten by guilt for having been so curt with Willy. After all, it wasn’t the boy’s fault the saloon had to close, nor that he and Agatha were at this impasse.

  Downstairs, Willy found Gussie in the workroom, pedaling on the sewing machine.

  “Hi, Gussie. Scotty says t’ give you this.” He handed her the note.

  The rhythmic rattle of the machinery slowed and the flywheel stopped spinning. Agatha’s eyes dropped to the paper and a sense of foreboding flashed through her. No, not yet, she thought. Please, not yet.

  “Thank you, Willy.”

  Willy tipped onto the sides of his boots and jammed his fists into the pockets of the new warm winter jacket Scott had bought him. “He says t’ wait for an answer.” While she read the message, Willy grumbled, “Garsh, how come he’s so grumpy lately?”

  A flood of dread hit her as she completed reading the message. It was the eventuality she’d known was inescapable. Yet all the mental preparation in the world couldn’t make it less painful. She came out of a lapse to hear Willy saying her name.

  “I’m sorry. What, dear?”

  “Why’s Scotty so grumpy lately?”

  “Grumpy? Is he?”

  “Well, he talks like he’s mad all the time when I never done nothin’ wrong.”

  “Did anything wrong,” she corrected. “And adults get that way sometimes. I’m sure Scott doesn’t mean to be grumpy to you. He has a lot on his mind since the prohibition amendment passed.”

  “Yeah, well...”

  She fondled the side of Willy’s head, then ordered gently, “Tell Scott yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “That all?”

  “That’s all. Just yes.”

  When he clumped out with none of his usual verve, she studied the back door and tried to imagine life without him bubbling in and out. She fully understood why Scott was grumpy lately. She
herself was experiencing sleepless nights and worried days.

  Drawing a deep, shaky breath, she reread the message:

  Dear Agatha,

  We must talk. Would you come to the saloon just after closing tonight? We won’t be disturbed there.

  Scott

  Willy advanced cautiously as far as Scott’s office door, but no farther. His chin thrust out belligerently.

  “Gussie says yes.”

  Scott turned in his swivel chair and felt a catch in his heart. “Come here, sprout,” he ordered softly.

  “Why?” Willy’d been burned once this morning. Once was enough.

  Scott held out a hand. “Come here.”

  Willy came reluctantly, wearing a scowl. He moved around the corner of Scott’s desk and stood just beyond reach, dropping his gaze to the hand that still waited, palm up.

  “Closer,” Scott said. “I can’t reach y’.”

  Willy stood his ground stubbornly, but finally laid his stubby hand in Gandy’s long one. “I’m sorry, Willy. I made y’ feel bad, didn’t I?” He pulled the boy close, then hauled him up onto his lap and tilted his chair back.

  Willy snuggled against Scott’s chest with obvious relief.

  “I wasn’t mad at you, y’ know that, don’t you?” Gandy asked in a husky voice.

  “Then how come you yelled?” Willy asked plaintively, his cheek pressed against Scotty’s vest.

  “I’ve got no excuse. I was wrong, that’s all. Can we be friends again?”

  “I guess so.”

  Willy’s blond head fit snugly beneath Scott’s chin. His small body in the thick woolen jacket felt warm and welcome, with one hand pressed trustingly against Scott’s chest. The pair of short legs dangled loosely against the long ones, and even that slight pressure felt welcome to Scott.

  Peace settled over the two of them. Outside, snow fell. In the small iron stove a cozy fire burned. Scott propped a boot on an open drawer and indolently rocked the swivel chair until the spring set up a faint noise. He found Willy’s fine hair with his fingers and combed it up from his nape again and again.

  After a long time, when their hearts had eased, the man asked, “You ever think about livin’ somewhere else?”