by Pamela Morsi
“Tonight you'll get your chance to show off that pretty new dress," he said.
"Where are we going?" she asked, excited.
"It's called the Ambrosia Ballroom."
Chapter Fourteen
U.S. Chief Deputy Marshal Tom Quick of the Muskogee District, Indian Territory, sat in a rocking chair on the upstairs porch of the courthouse. He loved to sit there in the evening with his boots propped up on the railing, and watch the comings and goings on Okmulgee Street. He had seen a lot of things come and go in the twenty-three years he'd been a lawman in the Indian Territory. He'd seen Muskogee when it was nothing but a wide spot in the road. And the folks that were running it these days, he'd seen them when they were still making messes in their knee-pants. Some said that Tom Quick was too old for the job these days, that all he did was sit on that porch and ramble on about the past glory of the marshals. How quickly they could forget. They'd already forgotten how he'd rounded up Zip Wyatt's gang. How he was in on the killing of Ike Black. And they didn't even recall him running those worthless Caseys to ground.
Once he had known every outlaw in the territory on sight. Now he sat on the upstairs porch and watched for kids stealing apples from the greengrocer across the street.
As he sat, rocking and thinking, his boots tapping out an unknown melody, something caught his eye. A full-breasted young woman in a blue calico dress was walking down the street. She was a welcome sight to Tom who, although he was well past sixty, still had trouble remaining faithful to his long-suffering wife of forty years.
The filly in the blue dress was built just the way he liked. No delicate little princess, but a sturdy, buxom gal that a man could ride half the night without fear of wearing her out. She looked a bit too respectable for his liking, however, and she already had a man with her.
Marshal Quick might well have returned to his thoughts had the man beside the woman in blue not, at that instant, turned to her and smiled. It had been years since he'd seen it, but he recognized that face immediately.
"It's Skut Watson's boy!" he stated aloud, with absolute certainty. The boy didn't favor his old man a bit, but he'd seen him plenty of times as he was growing up and he would have known him anywhere.
He'd had run-ins with Skut Watson practically from the day that he'd come to the territory. The boy's father had been a lazy, drunken, professional liar and cheat. He'd have stole his own grandma's underdrawers if he thought he could make a nickel. The worthless piece of thieving trash had been of so little account as to have been hardly worth the trouble to arrest, except to collect the money for the mileage.
Marshal Quick knew that this whelp was not as bad as the father. But he was a moonshiner and whiskey peddler, that was well known, even if he had never been caught. He made whiskey on a little piece of bottom ground on the edge of the Territory in the Creek Nation. Old Skut had traded his wife's allotment among the Cherokees for that place near the border so he could scurry across to safety when things got too hot for him. The boy continued to live there after the old man died, making his whiskey without interference from the lawmen in Muskogee a hundred miles away.
Tom Quick studied their progress down the street, his hand resting on his chin in concentration. It was pretty easy to figure out what had brought him so close to the law. After the crackdown on moonshiners in the area and the breakup of Pally Archambo's organization, whiskey was in short supply. Watson had obviously come here to expand his business and take up where Archambo had left off.
It was the marshal's duty to see that didn't happen. Tom Quick was not one of those modem, city-type marshals, who were thinking that a little moonshine making, or whiskey peddling was more a nuisance than a crime. He knew what liquor could do in the hands of the red man. Even among the whites, he personally believed that the consumption of alcohol was the main reason for most killings, shootings, rapings, and general mischief in the territory. And those that made and sold the evil elixir were as guilty as the perpetrators.
Trafficking in intoxicating beverages had given more than one outlaw his start on the road to crime. It was his duty as marshal to find out what the no-account bootlegger was doing in Muskogee, and if he was here to sell whiskey, Watson was going to find himself behind bars by nightfall.
As he watched the couple, laughing and cheerful, make their way down the street, he called out through the door behind him.
"Wilson! Get me Neemie Pathkiller right away!"
Looking once again on the couple disappearing out of sight, he focused his tired eyes on the woman's broad behind. "Maybe she ain't as respectable as she looks."
Hannah couldn't quite believe her good fortune; a new dress, a handsome husband at her side, and an exciting new city to enjoy them in. Henry Lee was wearing the suit he had worn at their wedding, but he was not at all the somber groom that he had been that day. He laughed and joked and told stories, determined to entertain his wife.
As they slowly made their way down the street, they stopped to look into the doorways of stores as they passed. Neither had spent much time admiring store-bought goods, and now found themselves fascinated by the abundance of things that were actually available for purchase. In towns out on the border, only the essentials of living could be found for sale, and those were usually at premium prices. But here in Muskogee, where trains came and went in a half dozen directions, every possible necessity and luxury seemed to be readily available in abundance.
They had shopped at the major dry goods store to buy presents for Hannah's family. A trip to the city was a big occasion and everyone would want a remembrance. Next they had made a stop into Maclntee's Jewelry where Henry Lee had surprised her by pulling out of his pocket the wedding ring he'd given her.
"Could we have this sized to fit my wife?"
The jeweler assured them that he could have it done by the next day, and took the measure of the third finger of Hannah's left hand.
As they headed on down the street, Henry Lee's eye was captured by the display window of a saddlery. A fancy, hand-tooled saddle with silver studding sat like a work of art on a sawhorse.
"It is beautiful," Hannah admitted.
Henry Lee smiled at her in agreement. He had never owned a decent saddle horse, considering that a luxury for a man who made his living from a wagon, but he appreciated a thing of beauty and was pleased to share it with Hannah.
He liked the way her mind worked, she thought in much the same way that he did. That made it easier to talk to her. He could just tell her things and she could understand without needing a big explanation.
He wished that he'd told her about his business. Surely, she would be able to understand that, too. But tonight was not the night for confessions. Tonight was strictly for courting. And, he thought smiling to himself, later, for loving.
At supper, Henry Lee was in such a state of agitation, anticipating his plans, that he failed to notice the man eating alone at the table next to him. The man, of native heritage but dressed in white-man's attire, was neither short nor tall, thin nor fat, young nor old, handsome nor ugly. He had no distinguishing features at all. It was one of the things that made Neemie Pathkiller good at his job. Nobody noticed him or remembered his face. That made it easy for him to observe others and remember everything. He had worked for Tom Quick on plenty of jobs. He knew his business and he rarely made mistakes. As he watched the young whiskey peddler at the next table, he knew that this job would be easy pickings. The man was obviously so taken with his lady friend that he hardly knew what was going on around him. Constant vigilance might not be mandatory for cowboys and farmers, but criminals who weren't on their toes filled up jails.
As he saw them making ready to leave, he hurried to get ahead of them. Accepting his change from the waiter he asked, "Do you happen to know the date today?"
The waiter looked up curiously. "Why, it's the seventh I believe, sir."
Taking a bill from his stack of change he handed it to the waiter. "Could you write that date on this bill for m
e?"
The waiter complied with a befuddled shake of his head. Pathkiller smiled and gave the man another bill as a tip. He knew the waiter would remember the incident and would easily be able to recognize his writing on the bill when the case came to court.
Pathkiller stepped outside and leaned against the building rolling a cigarette as Henry Lee and Hannah came out of the restaurant and headed leisurely down the street. As he watched them he almost felt pity for the young couple, so obviously in love, but he quickly pushed it back. Love was a transitory foolishness that could be deadly for a man on the run.
The Ambrosia Ballroom was a warehouse converted to a dance hall, or as the proprietress Hattie Byron preferred to call it, a salon. Mrs. Byron, whose late husband was killed fighting the big fire of '89, maintained a degree of respectability among the townspeople. But her business—which brought together cowhands, college boys, and ne'er-do-wells to mingle with lonely widows, merchants' daughters, and women of dubious reputation—was viewed by the community with a great deal of suspicion. However, Mrs. Byron never allowed the personal morals of her friends and neighbors to deter her in the acquisition of money.
She knew Henry Lee Watson by reputation only, but when a long-legged, darkly handsome young man with a freshly scrubbed farmgirl on his arm arrived, she knew that must be him and promenaded over to introduce herself.
“Mr. Watson." she offered him a bright smile and her hand. Henry Lee took it in his own and began to lift it to his lips. With a sidelong glance at Hannah, he decided simply to shake it. "We are so happy that you've come to our little party." She smiled tolerantly at Hannah. "Is this the new Mrs. Watson I have heard about?"
Henry Lee introduced Hannah and poured on the charm. Hannah was amazed as he put on his positively devastating smile and set out to dazzle Mrs. Byron.
Hannah looked up to see a familiar face. Harjo was dressed like a railroad baron and shiny as a new penny, making his way, with his hesitant limping gait, over to them.
"Watson, my friend, it's good that you came," he greeted, slapping Henry Lee on the back. "And you, ma'am, also," he said bowing to Hannah. "Marriage must agree with you, you grow more lovely each time I see you."
Hannah blushed at the compliment. It still felt strange to be the recipient of such flowery talk, but she was beginning to like it.
"Why don't I take your lovely wife for a spin around the floor, while you two discuss a bit of business," Harjo said taking Hannah's arm and leading her away. She glanced back to see Henry Lee watching her. His eyes were warm with affection, but there was worry also and Hannah wasn't quite sure why.
"I didn't realize that my husband had business with Mrs. Byron."
Harjo raised his brows. Obviously Henry Lee had still not told his wife about his whiskey business. But she certainly was not going to hear it from him. He laughed and brushed off the question.
"A businessman, like your husband, sees every introduction as an opportunity for business," he said to her. "Now let me try out this bad leg on a slow tune so that I don't tread on your feet too badly."
"Oh, Mr. Harjo," Hannah said, embarrassed. "You needn't make the effort on my account. I don't dance, of course, my father would never approve."
Harjo smiled down at her. "But, Mrs. Watson, it no longer matters whether your father approves. You are a married woman now, it's your husband's approval that you must seek."
The truth of this statement gave Hannah pause. Of course, it was true. Only her own conscience and the wishes of her husband need concern her. She was no longer the preacher's daughter and if she cared to dance, she certainly had a right to do so.
With a heady sense of freedom, Hannah offered Harjo a bright smile. "How correct you are, Mr. Harjo, I do need only to concern myself with my husband. I assume you know his feelings in regards to dancing."
Harjo smiled at her, liking her tentative steps toward adventure. "Your husband, ma'am, is an excellent dancer and loves to wear the finish off the floor. I think it is safe to say that he would be interested in a woman who could dance a step or two."
"Well then, Mr. Harjo, I'm counting on you to teach me, because I don't know even one step and have never been on a dance floor before."
"You have come to the right man, Mrs. Watson. As a poor dancer with a gimp leg, I have managed to compress dancing into about three easy moves that get me through most music. I will be happy to demonstrate my meager abilities."
The man was as good as his word and a surprisingly talented teacher. The two of them made their way to an uncrowded area of the floor and Hannah discovered that for a man with such a noticeable limp while walking, Harjo danced with a rustic grace. His explanations of the moves were simple and concise, and in only a few moments Hannah found herself dancing, albeit somewhat clumsily, for the first time.
It was fun and free, like the flight of a bird. Hannah twirled in his arms delighted at her newfound abilities. She could not imagine how this could be a sin and she thought it a shame that she hadn't tried this diversion before.
She imagined other women that might have come to this place with her husband. They would be women that he had sought out, women that he had found attractive and interesting. Hannah felt herself becoming jealous of those faceless females. They had received the attention of Henry Lee because he admired them. She received it because she had trapped him into marriage.
She was as capable as any other woman, she could be whatever Henry Lee wanted. She was sure of it. If he wanted a woman who dressed fancy and danced with him, she could learn to do that. There wasn't anything that Hannah had tried to do in her life that she hadn't succeeded at in some fashion. She didn't expect it to be simple.
After several semi-graceful turns around the floor both Hannah and Harjo were slightly breathless.
"Do you think they might have a dipper of water or such around here?" Hannah asked her escort.
"We can certainly try to find some," he replied, leading her toward the far corner of the room where a stairway could be glimpsed through a doorway.
A native man seemed to be guarding the doorway and stepped in front of them blocking the entrance.
"You looking for something?"
"I'm looking for something to drink," Hannah answered before Harjo had an opportunity to open his mouth.
"You got money?"
Hannah was surprised at the question. Water was not usually for sale in the territory, it was considered only neighborly to offer it freely to anyone.
"Mrs. Watson . . Harjo began, but Hannah interrupted him. Her thirst should not be quenched at the expense of a friend.
"My husband is over there with Mrs. Byron," she said pointing Henry Lee out to the man. "His name is Henry Lee Watson and I'm sure he will be glad to pay you."
The man looked at Henry Lee and then at the woman and Harjo. He laughed inexplicably. "Yes, I suspect that he is good for the money." He reached back into the doorway behind him and handed Hannah a quart jar, filled to the brim.
"Thank you," she told him primly and turned away with her nose slightly in the air.
"Mrs. Watson," Harjo touched her arm and drew her aside. "I don't believe that this is what you think it is."
Hannah looked at the contents of the jar. Even through the blue glass, it was obviously clear liquid.
"It's not water," Harjo explained, hoping that she was not going to make a scene. "You've just purchased a quart of whiskey."
"Whiskey!" Hannah's exclamation was desperately whispered. She looked at the jar as if it had suddenly turned into a snake, and then quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen her. "Oh my heavens! What will I do? What will Henry Lee think of me?"
Harjo seemed at a loss for words for an instant, then he smiled broadly. "I think, Mrs. Watson, that your new husband is as tolerant of whiskey as he is of dancing."
"Do you think so?"
"I know so."
Hannah considered for a moment, remembering the evening when he had come home liquored up. He obviously ha
d occasion to drink, although he had promised never to get drunk again. She felt a blush spread through her as she remembered his wild behavior that night, how he'd ripped open her nightgown and kissed her with his tongue in her mouth. Did the liquor make him act that way? She had heard that it gave courage, maybe it gave desire also.
Without another thought she slipped the lid off her jar and brought the fiery contents to her lips. She took a good gulp. The liquid widened her eyes and burned her throat, she was shocked at how terrible it tasted.
"It's awful!" she said, surprised.
Harjo's mouth dropped open, stunned at her action. The irony struck him as funny and he laughed gleefully at Hannah's dislike of her husband's fine corn liquor.
"I believe it's an acquired taste, Mrs. Watson. Hardly anyone likes it on the first drink, you simply must keep at it," he told her, his eyes shining with wicked amusement.
She took another small drink. It didn't burn nearly so much as the first one.
"My father would definitely not approve of this. Do ladies actually drink this?"
"Oh, yes indeed, frequently. They say it is for medicinal purposes, but they do drink it. Not to excess, of course."
"Of course."
She was silent for a moment, then asked somewhat tentatively, "Do the ladies my husband has escorted in the past usually partake of liquor?"
Harjo thought of the other women he had seen with Henry Lee, high-priced whores and sassy saloon girls all of whom willingly consumed at least their fair share of any whiskey available.
"Well, actually, Mrs. Watson, most of the women he has escorted in the past have imbibed rather freely." Harjo did worry that his friend would not appreciate having his wife classed in the same group with his former girlfriends. "I do think, however, that ladies consume rather sparingly."