A Captive in Time

by Sarah Dreher

  “Some years are better than others, of course. Sometimes the Doc spends two, three whole weeks at a time sober and we get some halfway decent poker played. And two winters back we had a bunch of those Government people got caught in a blizzard just to the north of here. They made things pretty lively for the girls.”

  “The girls?”

  “Lolly and Cherry, my girls.”

  “You have daughters? Here?”

  Dot glared at her with flared nostrils. “I’m not ashamed of what I do, Missy. And I’m not ashamed of my girls. So I’ll thank you to keep your eastern opinions to yourself.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They’re nice, clean girls. No diseases, and they don’t have anything to do with buffalo skinners.”

  Oh! That kind of girls! Naturally. What was a gen-yew-ine Wild West Frontier Town without its trove of hopeful young musical comedy actors trying to pick up a few bucks playing Dance Hall girls and telling themselves a Big Time Producer would drop in any day now? “I didn’t mean anything,” she said apologetically. “I misunderstood.”

  “Well, all right.”

  “I don’t have a thing against... I mean... It’s legal in Nevada, you know.”

  “I’m sure that’s a fine thing,” Dot sniffed. “But my girls do very nicely here. They don’t have any need to run off to foreign countries.”

  “Nevada’s not a...” It was hopeless. “Never mind,” she said with a sigh.

  “Honey,” Dot poured out a glass of water and pushed it across the bar, “if you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look real well.”

  “I don’t feel real well.”

  The woman reached over to touch her forehead.“Chills?”

  Stoner shook her head. She stuffed her hands into her pocket and came up with the scrap of paper she’d picked up outside. She glanced down at it.

  It was part of a page of newspaper. The banner read Tabor Gazette. The headline announced:

  Last of the Buffalo?

  Migration season passes with no reported sightings

  She glanced at the date. November, 1871.

  “See you have the local paper,” Dot said. “Or what’s left of it.”

  Stoner nodded and handed it to her. “Is it current?”

  “This month’s. Probably be the last one for a while, though. They were puttin’ it out in an old shed out toward the Wilsons’, but it burnt.”

  “Billy mentioned something about fires,” Stoner said. “You’ve had a lot?”

  “Enough to make folks nervous. Preacher sent for the U.S.Marshall. Hope I don’t have to hang ‘til he gets here.”

  Buffalo, 1871, dance hall girls, Marshals. Stoner began to get an uneasy feeling.

  “This name of yours,” Dot said. “McTavish. That Scottish?”

  “On my father’s side, and half my mother’s.”

  “Well, I don’t know how things are where you hail from, but out here some folks aren’t real friendly toward Scotsmen.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s the English, mostly. Kind of a prim bunch. You might want to keep your eyes open. And you dressing funny, to boot, and having business with Blue Mary...well, kid, I can come up with about sixteen kinds of trouble you might be in already.”

  “But I haven’t done anything except get lost.”

  “You’re a stranger, stranger. And this is a nervous town.”

  “Not half as nervous as I am,” Stoner said.

  “Know what I bet?” Dot asked.

  “What?”

  “I bet a good hot meal’d fix you up.”

  “Probably, but I didn’t see any...” She started to say “Burger King” and stopped herself in time. “…restaurants.”

  Dot laughed. “Tabor’s not fancy enough for restaurants, honey. The closest you’ll come to that is right here.” She looked over Stoner’s shoulder. “Billy, run get this lady something to eat.”

  Stoner turned. The boy had slipped in sometime during their conversation and was slouched in a chair, boots propped on top of one of the tables and hat pulled low over his eyes. He looked like the posters of James Dean in “Giant”. But she wasn’t about to mention that, because of course no one in Tabor had heard of James Dean or movies, because everyone in Tabor was either nonexistent or living in a different century.

  Billy swung his feet down, letting the chair legs hit the floor with a bang. He shuffled through the door under the stairs.

  “Kids,” Dot said with a shake of her head. “He’s a good worker, but sullen. Poor little devil just showed up here in town one day about six months ago. Claims his Ma died of the ague, and his Pa was killed in the war.”

  “Vietnam?”

  “Antietam. Virginia. Fought with Hood, or so Billy claims. Any hoo, I gave him a job, on account of he looked so pitiful. And he’s done all right. Works hard, keeps his mouth shut and his hands off the girls. They’re grateful for that, let me tell you.”

  “I’m sure they are,” Stoner said.

  “He seems satisfied enough, cleaning up around here, running errands for Blue Mary.” She gazed thoughtfully at the door the boy had gone through. “But sometimes I wish he’d take an interest in something besides that darned six-shooter of his. You know, every minute he has free he’s out back there practicing. I’m just afraid he’s got it in his head to be a gun-fighter.”

  “Like Billy The Kid,” Stoner suggested.

  “Who?”

  “Billy the Kid. A famous gunfighter.”

  “Never heard of him,” Dot said. “Must be new in the Territory.”

  Stoner sighed. “Must be.”

  “You want another drink?”

  “I don’t think so, thanks. I really should try to find a mechanic.”

  “Then there’s the other trouble,” Dot went on, ignoring her. “Some folks’d like to pin that on Billy, but I don’t think you can blame a person for everything just ‘cause they’re new in town, do you?”

  “Not at all. Look...”

  “If that we’re the case, we’d be blaming all our troubles on you, wouldn’t we?”

  “I suppose we...”

  “Shucks, we’ve all been new in town one time or other. Some town. Somewhere.”

  Stoner felt like screaming. “I HAVE TO FIND A MECHANIC,” she said as urgently as she could.

  The woman shook her head. “Kid, I know you’re upset, but I honestly don’t know where you’re going to find a...”

  “In a garage! A garage!”

  Dot leaned across the bar, a look of concern on her face. “Now, honey, just go easy...”

  “This is a nightmare,” Stoner muttered, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Some kind of horrible nightmare!!”

  Dot reached up and grasped Stoner’s wrists. “Something pretty awful must have happened to you out there on the prairie,” she said in a gentle tone. “How about telling Big Dot about it?”

  “Nothing happened. My car stopped, that’s all.”

  Dot shook her head sadly. “Just when we seem to be getting along, you go and start talking crazy again.”

  “I do?”

  “Garages, telephones... You have to admit, kid, that’s kinda strange stuff.”

  “You want to hear strange stuff?” Stoner said desperately. “I’ll give you strange stuff. Super-sonic transport. Television. VCR. Word processor. Vista-vision. World War II. Stealth bombers. MX missiles. Drive-up windows. Video games. Hydrogen bombs...”

  “Easy, kid,” Dot said with some alarm. She came from behind the bar and took her by the shoulders and eased her into the nearest chair. “Billy’ll be here with your dinner in a minute. Just try to hang on, and don’t start quoting Scripture.”

  It occurred to Stoner that this woman—crazy or not—was being extremely kind to a stranger who, in Dot’s mind, wandered in from the prairie in the dark babbling like a maniac. “Thank you,” she said guiltily. “You’re very nice.”

  “One thing I’ve learned in my years—the number of which
is none of your business—is, being mean wears you out a lot quicker than being nice. Of course, now and then you have to make an exception to that rule.” She ruffled Stoner’s hair and laughed. “Not talking about you, mind you. Anybody could tell you couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “I’ve hurt a few flies in my day,” Stoner said defensively. “I killed Gwen’s husband, remember?”

  “That doesn’t count,” Dot said. She kicked a chair out of the way and perched on the table and looked at Stoner. “I’m a good judge of character. Have to be, in my business.”

  Stoner glanced up at her and felt her stomach tighten, as if someone had punched her. For just a moment there...

  “What’s the matter?” Dot asked.

  “What you said reminded me of someone.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Have you ever met a woman named Stell Perkins? She runs a lodge. In Wyoming.”

  Dot frowned and turned inward for a moment. “That’s mighty big territory. Whereabouts is her place?”

  “Near Jackson. In the National Park.”

  “The National Who?”

  Stoner decided to ask the question she maybe didn’t want the answer to. “Dot, that newspaper...was it... I mean, do you know the date?”

  “Approximately. Monday.” She frowned, figuring. “Somewhere around November 13, I’d guess. I can look it up if it’s important to you.”

  “I mean the...” She swallowed hard. “The year.”

  “’71. What year’d you think it was?”

  Stoner picked at the felt table cover, dislodging a bit of cigar ash. “1971, or 1871?”

  “1871, of course.”

  She winced. “Well, that accounts for our language difficulties.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  She realized that she was—at least for now—dependent on Dot’s good will. And Big Dot (don’t forget, they call her ‘Big’ because she’s formidable) was already a little suspicious. It might be best not to let her think Stoner’d gone completely off her rocker.

  “Nothing. I think I’m a little disoriented.”

  “Probably the wind,” Dot said. “Been known to drive some folks crazy.” She reached over and rested the back of her hand against the side of Stoner’s face. “You sure you don’t have a fever?”

  She felt tears welling up again. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Tell you what, soon as you finish your dinner, I’ll have Billy take you straight out to Blue Mary’s. She’s got a way with problems.”

  Not another one. I can’t take another one. “I don’t think I want to see Blue Mary. She’s probably as crazy as I feel.”

  Dot rested one foot on a chair seat and leaned her arms on her knee. “There are those who think she’s out of her chimney. In my opinion, it’s just because she’s different.” She frowned and thought. “Of course, she’s real different.”

  Great, Stoner thought. You want to foist me off on this Blue person who’s so different even you think she’s different. We’re talking different beyond our wildest dreams.

  “I don’t want to see Blue Mary,” she insisted.

  Dot smiled at her. “Honey, you have a friend in this town, and that’s me. But there’s three things you don’t have: a gun, a man, and a choice.”

  Chapter Three

  The stew was hot and rich, thick with potatoes and carrots and gigantic chunks of meat. “This is terrific,” she said.

  “Billy made it,” Dot said, nodding toward the boy, who had resumed his James Dean pose against the wall opposite and seemed to be studying her from under his hat.

  Stoner smiled at him. “You cook very well. And the dumplings are fantastic.”

  The boy shrugged. “Guess so. Flour was kinda weevily.”

  Stoner accomplished the impossible feat of stopping a swallow that was already underway.

  Dot laughed and tossed her napkin at him. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” she told Stoner. “He’s only trying to get your goat. It means he likes you.”

  “Do not!” Billy slammed the chair legs against the floor again (it seemed to be one of his favorite things to do) and stalked out of the room in an adolescent huff.

  She had to admit the stew, weevily or not, made her feel better. Tabor might exist on the fringes of lunacy, but these two people were friendly, and with cold darkness well settled in, there was no way she was going to get a mechanic to fix her car tonight even if she could find a phone— which she doubted. So she might as well make the best of it. Dot was harmless enough (as long as the pearl-handled pistol stayed behind the counter). It might be interesting to find out how life was lived in this particular version of 1871 Colorado.

  For one night.

  First thing in the morning she’d find a telephone, even if it meant walking all the way to Topeka. Or go out on the highway and flag down a passing axe murderer. There were lots of ways out of this mess. But not at this hour of night.

  She leaned back in her chair. “How many people live in Tabor?”

  “Well,” Dot said, “it’s hard to say. Counting the folks on the ranches, the dirt-scratchers, sod-busters, dream chasers, cattle drovers, assorted souls like yourself running from the law, and those just passing through...hundred, maybe. In town, we got the Doc, Peter Kwan the Chinaman that runs the laundry—such as it is—, his wife, the Hayes’ at the Emporium, the saddler, land officer, and a couple dozen others.”

  “Blue Mary doesn’t live in town, then?”

  Dot laughed. “That’d be the day. Personally, I’d like having her around, she’s good company. But other folks find her disturbing.” She shook her head. “Nope, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well,” Dot said uncomfortably, as if she didn’t feel right about talking about this, “you see, Blue Mary’s kind of a...” She stopped herself abruptly. “Shucks, you’ll find out. You’re going to be staying with her.”

  “I don’t know,” Stoner said. “I mean...”

  “Blue Mary says you’re staying with her, it means you’re staying with her.” Dot leaned down close to her. “Take some advice,” she said in a whisper. “Don’t try and go against what Blue Mary wants.”

  Oh, great. Now I have to spend the night with this woman who’s so peculiar she’s considered peculiar in this most peculiar of all possible towns.

  So peculiar that Big Formidable Dot doesn’t even have the courage to say the word for what she is. So peculiar that nobody has the nerve to cross her. So peculiar...

  Doors slammed beyond the upstairs balcony. Women’s voices and the scuffle of bedroom slippers drifted down.

  Dot glanced up. “There’s my girls now. Hey!” she shouted. “You kids wanta come down and meet company?”

  “What kind of company?” one of the voices asked suspiciously.

  “Female company. You don’t have to dress.”

  “Better not have to,” the other voice said. “It’s my day off.”

  “I know it’s your damn day off,” Dot called back. She glanced at Stoner. “The way they gripe, you’d think I was running a sweatshop. Though if this territory fills up any faster I’m going to have to take on some more help.”

  It struck her full force that Big Formidable Dot, in addition to being Big and Formidable, might really be a madam. And that this saloon, this quaint copy of the Long Branch or whatever Miss Kitty on “Gunsmoke” called her friendly little place, could be a real, honest-to-God brothel.

  This whole incident was going to make for real interesting telling when she got home.

  If she ever got home.

  She looked up to see, floating down the stairs, two women of indecipherable age, dressed in identical pink, frilled, silk kimonos and worn fuzzy mules.

  The first, whom Dot introduced as Cherry Calhoun, was a tall, thin Mulatto with carrot-orange hair and bright red lips. The other, Lolly La France (which Stoner suspected was her professional, not her real name), was short, voluptuous, and white. Rings of various sizes, shapes,
and colors dotted her hands like dandelions on an April lawn. Both arms were nearly buried beneath silver bracelets that clanked and jingled in time to her endless nervous hair patting and arranging.

  “This is Stoner McTavish,” Dot said.

  Arms akimbo, her kimono falling open to the waist to reveal a considerable expanse of the most beautiful, satin-smooth, coffee-with-cream skin Stoner had ever seen, Cherry looked her up and down for a long few minutes, and pronounced her “underdressed but sweet”.

  “And taken,” Dot said to Cherry. “Mind your manners.”

  Cherry laughed, a high, perfectly-tuned, round note of joy. It reminded Stoner of wind chimes.

  “Are you from around here?” Stoner asked.

  “New Orleans.” Cherry whirled in a circle, revealing more perfect skin. “How about yourself?”

  “Boston,” she said.

  “Boston.” Cherry mulled it over. “Do they like Cajun women in Boston?”

  “I guess so,” Stoner said.

  “Have many?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. I mean, I don’t know much about...you know, your line of work.”

  “You listen to me, child,” Dot said firmly to Cherry. “In Tabor, you’re a novelty. In a city, nothing.” She turned to Stoner. “Cherry’s a restless sort, always wanting to move on. I keep telling her you can’t get any better than this.”

  Stoner said a silent prayer that Dot wouldn’t ask her to confirm that.

  “Listen,” Cherry was saying to Dot, “I’ve only been free for six years. There’s a lot of living I still have to do.”

  “Oh,” Stoner said. “Have you been in...uh...jail?”

  “Honey...” Cherry leaned over and touched the underside of Stoner’s chin with her perfect index finger. “I’ve been in slavery.”

  Stoner smiled into the woman’s perfect eyes. “Married?”

  Cherry threw back her head and laughed up the scale two octaves and back down. “That’s a good one, Honey. I have to remember that.”

  “She means real slavery,” Dot explained. “Her parents, grand-parents, all of them.”

  “Slaves every minute we’ve been this side of the Atlantic,” Cherry said. “I’m the first Free woman in my family.”

  Lolly had jingled and jangled and sidled her way around the table until she stood between Stoner and Big Dot. She looked down into Stoner’s dinner plate. “Stew again?” she whined. “Honest to God, Dot.”