Cactus Flower

by Duncan, Alice

  * * * * *

  Eulalie Gibb wasn’t nearly as fearless as she pretended to be. In fact, she approached the battered batwing doors of the Peñasco Opera House with a good deal of trepidation and inner apprehension. Since, however, she also approached it with a Colt Lightning revolver in her handbag, a small Colt Ladysmith in her pocket, several long, sturdy, and extremely sharp pins in her hat, and a ten-inch Bowie knife in a scabbard strapped to her thigh, she figured she was up to it. She’d better be, since she was all the hope she and Patsy had left in this life. The thought of her sister waiting in Chicago for Eulalie to send for her stiffened her resolve. She thrust the doors open and stepped inside with resolution.

  Her resolution suffered a setback when she walked straight into a thick, almost palpable cloud of smelly cigar smoke only a second before she bumped into the thick, definitely palpable, back of someone Eulalie assumed was no gentleman. He turned around and grinned down at her while Eulalie was still sneezing.

  “Well, look here, Petey. What do we have here?”

  “Ain’t you never seen no female before, Lloyd? That there’s a gal.”

  Eulalie wiped her nose on a handkerchief hastily yanked from a pocket and frowned at the two men discussing her. They were excessively rude, but Eulalie had prepared herself for rudeness as well as lascivious suggestions and even physical assaults. She opted not to reach for her Ladysmith yet, but asked coldly, “Is Mr. Doolittle Chivers here?” Lord, she was going to have a time of it trying to sing in all this smoke. She hoped she could persuade Mr. Chivers at least to open a window or two when she performed.

  “Dooley? I reckon he’s around here somewhere,” the man she’d bumped into said. “What you want with him, honey? I’m nicer’n Dooley any old day.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What a dreadful thought. Where might Mr. Chivers be, my good man?”

  Lloyd thumped Petey’s shoulder. “Did ya hear that, Petey? She already knows I’m good. How about that?”

  Eulalie huffed and gave up trying to get assistance from these two louts. She turned away from them and had begun to stalk across the smoky saloon in search of more helpful folks when she felt a beefy hand on her arm. She tried to snatch her arm away, but sausage-like fingers closed around it, squeezing into her flesh and hurting. With a sigh, Eulalie turned around to discover it was Lloyd who’d grabbed her. No surprise there. She ought to have expected as much.

  “Release me, sir, if you please.”

  He leered down at her. “What if I don’t please, yer majesty?”

  He obviously thought his assessment of her demeanor was hilarious, because he roared with laughter.

  Eulalie was not amused. She reached into her pocket and withdrew her Ladysmith. “If you don’t please, then I suppose I shall have to shoot you.”

  Lloyd looked stunned, an expression Eulalie neither understood nor appreciated. As far as she was concerned, a man as uncouth and obnoxious as Lloyd should expect any number of distasteful things to happen to him before someone killed him.

  “Hey,” he said. “You don’t have to shoot me.”

  She glanced pointedly at his fingers, which were still wrapped around her arm.

  “Let her go, Lloyd,” said a voice from the saloon’s door.

  It was a voice Eulalie recognized. She was, therefore, not alarmed when she and Lloyd turned to see who had spoken, and Nicholas Taggart stood there, looking like a large gray ghost wavering through the cigar smoke. She was somewhat surprised he’d come, however, since she’d received the impression from their first meeting that he didn’t like her much. On the other hand, he’d probably merely come to the saloon for a drink. He looked the type; it must run in the family.

  “Hell, Nick, I’m just havin’ me a little fun,” Lloyd said.

  He still didn’t release her arm, and Eulalie was growing peeved about it. His fingers were not only large and painful, gripping her that way, but they were undoubtedly dirty as well. Eulalie didn’t care to have the sleeve of her traveling coat smudged.

  “I don’t think the lady’s having any fun, Lloyd,” Nick said calmly. “She’s the new singer Dooley just hired. You don’t want to damage the hired help now, do you?”

  “I ain’t damaging her,” Lloyd protested.

  “Really!” Eulalie said, incensed. “This is too much to bear.”

  And with that, she whacked Lloyd’s fingers with the butt of her Ladysmith as hard as she could, which was pretty hard since she was a strong woman.

  Lloyd bellowed and leaped away from her. Eulalie did not repocket her gun because she didn’t trust him. In fact, she didn’t trust any of these rough men. Because of this mistrust, she positioned herself so that her back was against the bar. She didn’t aim to have anyone attack her from behind again.

  “Why’d you hit me?”

  “You’d rather I shot you?”

  “Naw, but why’d you hit me?” Lloyd sounded as if he might cry.

  “Because I do not care to be manhandled,” Eulalie said tartly. “I won’t stand for it.”

  She noticed Nick Taggart looked surprised, too. He’d drawn his gun, but held it at his side. The sheriff stood behind him. He hadn’t drawn his gun at all, a circumstance she considered odd. She had assumed, before her arrival in this hellhole of a town, that if guns were drawn, they’d be drawn by the law and/or by outlaws, although she didn’t really know much about how life went on out here in the territory.

  A glance around the room showed her that everyone else in the saloon, except those men who seemed to be sleeping at various tables, had slid to the floor and flattened themselves out. That must have been the shuffling noise she’d heard right after she’d thumped Lloyd. Interesting. She’d keep this reaction to drawn guns in mind if she ever needed to clear a room in a hurry.

  “What’s going on in here?” a new voice said. When Eulalie turned to look, she beheld a large, solid man with a handlebar mustache, fluffy salt-and-pepper side-whiskers, and a florid face, standing at the door to a back room.

  “This is your new singer, Dooley.”

  It was Nick Taggart who’d spoken. When Eulalie looked from Mr. Chivers to him, she saw him slipping his firearm back into its leather holster. She wasn’t sure she should turn her back on Lloyd, but decided he probably wouldn’t do anything as long as Nick Taggart and the sheriff were there. Besides, Mr. Chivers owned the place. People would probably behave themselves around him if they wanted to continue imbibing in his establishment. She stepped away from the long, polished bar, and put her Ladysmith back into her pocket.

  “Eulalie Gibb, Mr. Chivers. We corresponded.”

  Dooley’s eyes went round. “Er, yes, ma’am.”

  Eulalie waited, but he didn’t seem inclined to continue speaking. Perhaps he was uncertain because of the unorthodox way she’d been introduced. Not that it was her fault. Yet she felt obliged to clear the air—in a manner of speaking. It would take a month of windstorms to clear the cigar smoke out of this place.

  “I just arrived by stagecoach, Mr. Chivers, and I wanted to meet you first, before I searched for lodgings.”

  “You ain’t got no place to stay?”

  Eulalie considered telling him that no, she didn’t have no place to stay; rather, she did have no place to stay, but she figured that would merely confuse him. Grammar seemed to be as uncommon as manners in Rio Peñasco. That was all right. Eulalie was ready for whatever the territory offered her.

  “Yes. I need to secure lodgings, but I wanted to meet my new employer first and introduce myself.”

  Dooley Chivers had begun to frown at her, a circumstance Eulalie feared boded ill for her future employment. She braced herself, prepared to battle tooth and nail to hold on to this job, such as it was. She and Patsy needed it. She’d be hanged if she’d let Mr. Chivers un-hire her after he’d hired her. Besides, she had no choice.

  “Uh, I’m not sure about this,” he said.

  Drawing herself up as tall as she could, Eulalie said, “You were sure in y
our letter. We agreed to a salary.”

  “Well, yeah, I know it, but I didn’t think you’d be—you.”

  “Who did you think I’d be?” she asked, irritated by his lack of logic.

  He shrugged. “Well, I reckon I didn’t mean that, exactly. It’s only—” He broke off abruptly.

  “It’s only what?”

  Muffled footsteps sounded on the saloon’s plank boards. The room had been silent except for Eulalie and Dooley’s voices. Slowly men began picking themselves up from the floor, dusting off their trousers, and resuming their seats at various tables. Eulalie supposed some sort of western communication with which she was unfamiliar had taken place, and that the men sensed danger was over for the nonce. The danger wasn’t over for her, however. Nor was it over for Patsy. It might never be.

  That thought buoyed her flagging courage. She wasn’t going to let Mr. Doolittle Chivers cheat her out of her job.

  “You hired me, Mr. Chivers.”

  “I know it, but—”

  “Yeah, Dooley, you hired her.”

  To Eulalie’s surprise, Nick Taggart appeared next to her. She wasn’t sure she wanted him there, even if he did seem to be on her side. Because she felt the need to fight her own fights, she said, “I sing very well, Mr. Chivers. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “Well, but …” Dooley looked her up and down in a fashion Eulalie imagined she’d better get used to. “Well, but what about costumes. You can’t go on stage dressed like that.”

  Ah, so that was it. The man dealt in flesh as well as liquor. Eulalie, who prided herself on her unflappability, was prepared for this, as she was prepared for everything. “I have a plethora of costumes, Mr. Chivers,” she said in a voice as dry as the wind blowing the earth away outside. “Why don’t you allow me to sing tonight so you can see for yourself? Your customers won’t be disappointed, I can assure you.”

  This time it was Nick Taggart who looked her up and down, as if he were undressing her in his mind’s eye. Eulalie did not react outwardly. Inwardly, she blushed up a storm.

  “Well …” Chivers still sounded uncertain.

  Nick, however, had evidently made up his mind. He said, “Yeah, Dooley. We won’t be disappointed.” To Eulalie, it sounded as though he’d enjoyed his visual inspection of her body.

  “I just don’t know, Nick. If you say so, mebbe it’ll be all right.”

  Although Eulalie wasn’t sure she liked Nick Taggart, she did appreciate his support. She even smiled at him.

  With a huge sigh, Dooley Chivers acquiesced to forces stronger than himself. After a few more doubtful minutes, which included a discussion of where Eulalie would spend the night, he even took Eulalie’s wicker bag. He then proceeded to lead her to the small dressing room behind the stage.

  Chapter Two

  Nick watched them go, his curiosity about Miss Eulalie Gibb acute. She didn’t look like a saloon singer, most of whom wore lots of paint and dolled themselves up like tarts. Since he didn’t want to go home, while Uncle Junius remained locked up in jail, he decided to wait until Junius had sung himself out, slept for a while, and woke up again.

  While Nick lingered to escort Junius home, he talked to Dooley Chivers, who had reappeared not long after he’d led Miss Gibb backstage. Dooley sported a hang-dog, harassed expression beneath the whiskers on his face.

  “Hell, Nick, she’s no more a saloon singer than I am.”

  Since Nick had heard Dooley sing once or twice, this was hard for him to imagine. He laughed. “Aw, give the girl a chance, Dooley. Maybe she’ll be really good.”

  Dooley didn’t appear much cheered by Nick’s suggestion as he took a gulp of beer. “Really good. Yeah. For her sake, I hope so. And for mine, too. The boys ain’t gonna like it if she stinks.”

  It was difficult to imagine Miss Eulalie Gibb stinking, in any sense of the word. Nick didn’t say so. “She’s a smart cookie, Dooley. She’ll be all right. Hell, even if her voice isn’t prime, she’s prime to look at, and that’s what matters.”

  “Prime?” Dooley looked like he wanted to run away and hide. “Prime, my ass. She’s stiff as a board.”

  Nick shrugged. “She’ll probably unbend when she starts singing. She sure looks good.”

  He didn’t know why he was sticking up for the pungent Miss Gibb. He didn’t like her. Yet when he’d pushed open the saloon doors and seen her there, holding big Lloyd Grady off with no more than her acid tongue, he’d felt a spasm in his heart that had hurt like a fit. He’d have shot Lloyd there and then except he feared the bullet might hit her. It galled him that he still felt a need to protect stray females. After putting up with what he’d put up with when he was a kid, he should know better.

  “Hell, Nick, I don’t even know how she looks. She says she’s got costumes, but I ain’t seen ‘em yet. She looks like a schoolmarm to me. The boys hanker after skin.”

  “Yeah, I know they do.” So did Nick. He was kind of looking forward to seeing some of Miss Gibb’s, even if she was sharp as a cactus spike.

  It had been decided that Miss Gibb would sleep in the saloon that night, upstairs in an empty room. Tomorrow, Nick had told her, he’d introduce her to Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Johnson, widowed mother of five sprightly children, would be happy to rent her a room, even if she had to have her children build it.

  Eulalie had argued at first. “Is Mrs. Johnson a respectable female?”

  “Sure, she’s respectable,” Nick had retorted, nettled. Hell, he’d expected her to thank him and her lucky stars he’d come to her rescue again. “Anyway, she’s likely to think it’s you who’s not very respectable, if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Gibb, singing in a saloon and all.”

  “I do mind your saying so, Mr. Taggart. And I am imminently respectable, thank you very much.”

  Nick had been able to come up with no rebuttal to that one, so he’d shut his yapper.

  “I ain’t easy in my mind about her sleeping here tonight, either,” Dooley said glumly. “What if some of the boys get frisky?”

  Recalling Miss Gibb’s belly gun, Nick said, “I expect she can take care of herself.”

  “Hell, yes, she can take care of herself. But I don’t want her shootin’ up the clientele, dammit.”

  That was a reasonable point to Nick’s way of thinking. “If you want, I can stand guard, Dooley. I don’t have to go home until Junius sobers up anyway.” Nick and Junius lived behind their smithy at the north end of Rio Peñasco.

  Dooley watched him slanty-eyed for a moment. “You got any plans for the female yourself, Nick? She ain’t bad looking, but she’s mean tempered. I don’t want to have to mop up any man’s blood if she gets mad and shoots him, especially not yours.” He frowned and rubbed his chin. “Mebbe I should ask the sheriff to keep her in a cell overnight.”

  “Not necessary, Dooley.”

  “I dunno. Might be safer than here.” Giving Nick a good hard look, he said, “But you ain’t staying in her room.”

  Nick shook his head, nettled. “I don’t have any designs on her, for God’s sake. I’m offering to do you a favor, Dooley. Let her stay here tonight, and I’ll stand guard.”

  “Not if you aim to sleep with Violet, it won’t,” Dooley said flatly. “I ain’t havin’ one o’ my whores occupied for a whole night and not get no money for it.”

  “I wasn’t aiming to sleep with Violet,” said Nick, who had been. “Hell, I already slept with her once today, and I’m not a greedy man.”

  “Huh.” Dooley sipped his beer and thought about Nick’s offer. “I reckon you can stay here, then. It’ll save you a walk in the morning.”

  So Nick whiled the rest of his day away playing cards in the Opera House and wondering just what kind of costume Miss Eulalie Gibb would wear that night in her premier performance. He also wondered if she could let the starch out long enough to put on a good show.

  There was much speculation about the new singer among the men in the saloon. Nick listened and grinned and didn’t participate, al
though he couldn’t account for his reluctance to do so. Nor could he account for the compulsion he experienced to shoot several men who were ruminating rather salaciously about Miss Gibb’s anticipated charms. His reaction was nonsensical; he knew it. Therefore, he left his gun on the table—as a subtle warning that he wouldn’t tolerate cheating—and maintained his composure.

  * * * * *

  Eulalie looked at herself in the mirror and frowned at the image she saw reflected therein.

  “I’ve never seen anything so coarse and vulgar in my entire life,” she muttered at her reflection. “Perfect. Exactly the image I was striving for.”

  Eulalie knew very well that coarseness and vulgarity were qualities much prized in the western territories. She’d studied up on the matter specially, when she and Patsy had decided they needed to get out of Chicago. She only hoped she could make plenty of money quickly, so that she could send for Patsy before Gilbert Blankenship found her. Patsy was still pretty well laid up for the time being, but once she healed, Eulalie wanted her here so that she could watch out for her.

  Poor Patsy was too sweet for her own good, and look what it had gotten her. Eulalie was way past sweet; she’d learned the hard way that sweetness only earned a girl grief.

  Although she hadn’t told Patsy so, she’d decided during her trip to Rio Peñasco that she’d even sell her body if she had to, in order to protect her sister. Patsy would have been appalled and refused to let her go if she’d told her, so she hadn’t. Patsy had enough to worry about already.

  Rather short-sighted, Eulalie had donned her spectacles in order to make sure her costume fitted right and was indecent enough, and that she’d rouged her cheeks to a high-enough bloom. Putting her hands on her hips, she turned slowly in front of the mirror, looking at herself from all sides. Perfect. She plucked her glasses off and laid them on the dressing table.

  “God bless Marjorie Dobson,” she murmured, picking up her comb.

  Marjorie Harrison had been a showgirl in Chicago before she’d married a Mr. Hilton Dobson, who’d spotted her in the chorus. Now Marjorie was a respectable and respected matron, and she’d gladly donated her costumes to Eulalie and Patsy when Eulalie had explained their desperate situation to her.