Waltz with the Lady Page 2

  “Bad luck, Gat,” Asa began with a frown. “This here’s ‘Cut-Off’ Bitterman. See all that’s left of his ear is the lobe. He got too friendly with a Ute squaw a while back and her brave cut off his ear. Anybody else know you done the killin’?”

  “The Chew boys were passin’ and I guess everybody else that’s come through the waystation since.”

  “Will Noble will be sure to write it up in the Argus. Chic Bitterman is bound to find out. Chic ain’t a bad man, he just ain’t a good one. I wouldn’t leave myself open if I was you.”

  “I’m a quick learner,” Gat laughed. He fingered the scar on his face, a keepsake from the war. Since the war, he hadn’t had to outright kill a man, even in self-defense until yesterday. Taking a life didn’t set easy with Gat because by nature he was a peacemaker. He owed that to Emmeline Carlisle, who had bloodied his nose and whipped his pride when he was nine years old. She was ten. A hard lesson. He decided then that there were better ways to settle differences, and he got even with Emmeline. When she turned fifteen he stole a kiss from her, and she sure wasn’t in a fighting mood then.

  He blinked red-rimmed eyes. “Guess I’ll drop your friend here by the coffin maker and then try to get some sleep.”

  “When that deputy of mine shows up I think I’ll do the same. Hasn’t been the quietest of nights,” Asa said. He retied the muslin around Bitterman’s head and stepped out of the way. “Good night, then,” Asa said as Gat unhitched the horses and led them down the street.

  The stop at the mortician’s done, Gat mounted his horse. He paused, and leaned down to smell the violets in a crockery pot resting on the window ledge. By hell, he thought, tired as I am, I’m glad to be alive! He nudged his horse forward along Sixteenth Street, the last leg of his journey. He’d ridden over half of Wyoming in the past months and now he welcomed the gentleness of the spring night air, relieved that the Wyoming winter had at last departed. He looked forward to the warmth and comfort of Heddy’s boardinghouse. Heddy’s was the closest thing to home he’d encountered since he’d left Oklahoma before the war.

  He thought again about the uppity gal at the jail. Something about her reminded him of home; white picket fences and apple pie cooling on the windowsill. Some women did that to a man, yet for all he could see she was the ramrod type, raised hackles and touchy temper, but at the heart, all the softness a man hankered for on lonesome nights—like tonight. He’d gone a long time with no softness, no woman.

  The town was winding down for the night. The saloons and gambling parlors would soon be rolling the drunks out the doors. Lamplight filtered into the street from the Argus newspaper office. Will Noble was up late working on the next day’s edition.

  Gat noticed that Professor McDaniels had a new advertising mural in front of his barroom museum. “Clark is not Dead,” the mural read. “Come and see him—free.” Gat smiled to himself, wondering if Professor McDaniels had taken to mummifying humans now along with the snakes, toads and birds in his menagerie of horrifying wonders. Coyote escorted Gat down the street to the boardinghouse, stopping now and then to sniff at a morsel of street garbage.

  Having stabled his horse out back, Gat took the steps of Heddy’s boardinghouse by twos, paused a moment to take off his spurs—house rule—then tried the door. Finding it locked, he thought better of knocking and walked around to the back door. A peek in the window told him things were still stirring in the kitchen. Heddy Pierre was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor, and Yee Jim was bending over the boardinghouse laundry in the alcove, flatiron in hand. Gat lent Heddy a hundred and fifty dollars to help buy the boardinghouse three years before. She’d paid him back, and whenever he was in town he had a free room.

  He took a penny whistle from his pocket and blew a few notes through the open window. Coyote echoed the light refrain with a howl. “You goin’ to let me in?”

  “Gat? You and yo’ hound dog sure be a pair! I scrub the floor last thing so nobody walks on it till mornin’ and you show up. No use, I guess. You take off yo’ boots and git in. Mind me, just yo’ stockin’ feet. I ain’t startin’ over, not fo’ nobody!”

  Heddy unlatched the door as Gat pulled off his boots, and when he stepped inside she threw up a halting hand. “Yo’ socks be as dirty as yo’ boots. Take ’em off. And fo’ two tunes on yo’ bird whistle, Yee Jim kin wash ’em fo’ you.” She widened her black eyes. “Lordy, they kin stand and walk over to the kettle by themselves. Don’t you ever change yo’ socks, boy?”

  Yee Jim, who was in the process of spraying water through his teeth on the linen he was ironing, almost choked with laughter.

  “I give special on not clean sock today only,” he sputtered.

  “You ain’t supposed to insult a bad hombre like me by askin’ if my socks are clean,” Gat threatened. “Don’t you know your place, woman?”

  “My place be scrubbin’ the floor, you jackrabbit, and yo’ place be the bathtub. I run a clean house here. Now git!”

  “What about the songs?” He put the penny whistle to his lips. “I sure wouldn’t want to wash my socks myself.”

  “Save it fo’ afternoon parlor sittin’. I want to relax and enjoy it. Yee Jim, fix Mr. Gat a mighty big tub of hot water. Quick, quick. And don’t forget the sheep dip fo’ ticks.”

  “Ticks? Sheep dip? Come on. I ain’t that dirty,” Gat protested.

  “You ain’t goin’ no further in my boardin’ house till you have a bath with sheep dip!”

  Gat sighed. Yee Jim nodded agreeably and made a joke by holding his nose as he set aside the flatiron and picked up a kettle of boiling water from the wood stove. He and Gat went down the hall to the bathroom beneath the stairway. Gat stooped from lack of headroom, but for the short Yee Jim it was no problem. Yee Jim poured hot water into the tub and Gat hefted a few more bucketfuls from the water barrel in the corner.

  He took off his hat and holster, unfastened his concha-studded chaps, and unbuttoned his wool shirt. Like his socks, the rest of his clothing could probably stand up on its own from the dirt and sweat of the trail. But then, escorting the governor was an easy job compared to herding cattle, though he preferred the latter.

  “I get more hot water. You have nice long bath,” Yee Jim said as he backed out the doorway.

  “Do me a favor, Yee, and bring me a change of clothes from my saddle bags.”

  “I get water and clothes quick, Mr. Gat.”

  By the time Yee Jim had returned with the clothes and two more kettles of hot water, Gat had managed to gingerly lower his lengthy frame into the copper tub. His knees almost hugged his ears. The room reeked from the smell of the sheep dip solution that Heddy insisted he use. Sniffing, he lathered up with the bar of lye soap, only to have it slip out of his hand and over the side of the tub, onto the floor. He reached over the side, feeling around the floor, and came up with a glass bottle of flower-scented bath salts. Not being able to read French, he wasn’t sure what fragrance the bottle contained, but when he uncorked it he discovered it smelled like violets. Well, that certainly was better than sheep dip! He sprinkled the salts liberally into the water as the air muted into a garden of wild violets. Since Gat figured more was better, the jar of bath salts was soon emptied. Gat settled back, stretched out his long legs best he could in the water, and relaxed like a turtle floating on a summer pond.

  Chapter 3

  Glistening tears trickled from Sarah Bramshill’s swollen eyes. “Things will work out,” said India, dipping a cotton hankie into cold water and giving it to Sarah to press on her blackening eye. Hunched over and willow-thin, Sarah sat on the sagging boardinghouse bed and faintly whispered words of gratitude. India could see that the discord of her marriage had rendered her despondent. She was a pathetic sight, though underneath the misery India detected a vibrant woman of unusual beauty.

  “I don’t know how,” she shook her head, obviously overwhelmed by the circumstances that had brought her marriage to this nadir. In a slow drawl she chastised herself. “I should hav
e known what kind of man he would turn out to be.”

  “It’s not your fault. How could you have known?” soothed India.

  “Maybe you’re right. But I must accept some blame. It was like the marshal said. Toward the war’s end there were no men left in the South and I thought there could be no worse fate than to be an old maid. When Huntington appeared with his charming manners and declared devotion, I succumbed. Our courtship consisted of church suppers and chaperoned dances and gave me little inkling of his penchant for drinking and gambling.” She paused, remembering. “My inheritance did not last the first year. He lost it on riverboat gambling tables. He is incapable of slow, honest industry. His greatest delight is to lure hardworking men into a game of cards just as payday dawns. For he must make money and make it by quick strokes no matter how.”

  Inwardly, India ached for her. It was not an uncommon story. Her inheritance squandered, Sarah was a yet another victim of the law denying a married woman the right of property.

  Sarah sniffed and wiped her eyes with the hankie. “Never a day passes that Huntington doesn’t take his drink. He knows how bitterly I hate his drinking. But I let it go, for he is very hard on me if I speak up.”

  India could see that Sarah had meekly borne his abuse, thinking it was her assigned lot as wife. Now, India could only sympathize with her misfortune and offer her a bit of optimism. “Surely he loves you.”

  “Loves me! Yes, as he would love a fine horse; just because it was his, and a little better than what anyone else owned. But he does not spare me in the least. There is not a profane, low, vulgar, filthy name he has not called me. His vileness is almost unendurable.” Sarah shook her head in despair. “His heartless treatment long ago killed my love for him.” Then she gave India a concerned look. “Oh, forgive me, I shouldn’t be saying these things, especially to you. You’re so young, on the threshold of life, and I’ll make you fear marriage.”

  Matching Sarah’s gaze, India smiled encouragement. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve vowed never to marry. Instead of living a life of subjection, I’ve chosen to dedicate myself to women’s suffrage.”

  For a long moment Sarah looked at India strangely, as if she were seeing an oddity of nature. India was accustomed to such stares. Women were often her severest critics, and she knew she posed a threat to the woman who wished to be protected, idealized and dominated. Of course she understood that many women led lives of great happiness, protected and loved by generous, kind husbands. But this was like claiming that there was no need for abolition because most masters were kind to their slaves.

  “I’ve heard some talk of women voting, but I do not understand the need, since I’ve been taught God intended woman to be wife and man to rule,” Sarah said thoughtfully.

  “Why did God give every woman a brain if he didn’t intend for her to use it? You say your husband considers you his possession. If you had equal rights under the law that wouldn’t be so. Your inheritance could still be in your hands.” The stricken look in Sarah’s eyes stopped India’s speech. She knew her sentiments caused her to be excessive at times. Telling herself this was not a public debate, she slipped from her seat and knelt beside Sarah. “Now, you must forgive me, I’ve said too much.”

  Sarah shook her head in slow comprehension. “Maybe not. Certainly the law has made me a pauper, dependent upon my husband’s good graces, of which he has none. As it is, I have no money.”

  “You have no allowance, nothing set aside?” asked India.

  “My husband gives me nothing. He fears I would bolt.”

  “And would you?”

  A long moment passed before Sarah answered. “I think about it.”

  India gnawed her lower lip thoughtfully. Perhaps it wasn’t her place to interfere, but she was about to. If she could help Sarah, she must! All her battles thus far were verbal, but now she was faced with the reality of her efforts.

  “I have money. Allow me to give you enough for train fare back to your family.”

  For a moment hope came to Sarah’s eyes, but then it faded. “It will do no good. Huntington would follow me, and as long as the law says I am his, no matter the distance or the place, he’d find me.”

  “What if you were no longer considered his wife under the law?” suggested India.

  “What do you mean?” Sarah tilted her head stiffly.

  “Divorce,” said India quietly. The notion of divorce was extreme and India knew abetting the dissolution of a marriage was no light matter.

  “Is it possible?” Sarah ran her tongue across her lips in a deliberate motion.

  “Yes, but uncommon. Before embarking on such a course you must be sure. Divorce is final. If you should change your mind…”

  Sarah squared her shoulders and a look of pure resolve came over her face. “I can’t bear to live with Huntington any longer. One way or another, I intend to free myself of this miserable alliance.” She reached out to India and clasped her hands tightly in her own. “And no matter the hardship, I will repay you. I barely know you, yet you have put within reach my most heartfelt desire.” A sudden light touched Sarah’s face. “Until now, I dared not hope.”

  “Of course you must hope!” India came to her feet to leave. “Sleep on it, and we’ll discuss it further in the morning. Now get some rest, and hope!” India gave her a parting caress.

  Back in her room India abandoned her nightly ritual of massaging her skin with a special concoction of lard, rose water and coconut milk. Though the hour was late, she sat down on the straight-backed chair, dipped her pen into the ink and continued her letter to her sister, Cordelia.

  Nothing in the West is accompanied by the comforts of civilization. On the journey here, my passenger car carried railroad employees, land-seekers, furloughed soldiers returning to their forts, and me, the only woman among them. I have found the West to have two things in abundance, flies and bedbugs. Before registering in a hotel—even if it be the best in town—I ask to see the room, promptly remove the pillow and turn down the sheet in search of the West’s most friendly inhabitant, Monsieur Bedbug. During my short stay in Cheyenne it has been my good fortune to find a clean boardinghouse whose proprietress is the best of cooks. However, the frontier has sorely tried my sensibilities and I have learned that all of life’s choicest gifts have been mine. Papa has been so good and generous to us, Sissy. Indeed we have lacked for nothing. I nearly weep with homesickness at the thought of Rosemount House.

  Nevertheless, I will not abandon the cause for genteel comforts. Our sisters in the West need what a college-educated woman like myself has to give, and give it I will! Most care not for equality but for day-to-day survival. This very night I’ve had an experience that has made me more determined. This evening, a woman in my boardinghouse was beaten by her drunken husband. I was obliged to intervene. I will never understand men. They pay us exaggerated respect, then slap us around when that seems the thing to do. They dream of creatures in lace and silk, when what they really want is a workhorse with two legs. It is a contradiction between reverence and contempt—protectiveness and brutality.

  I know you think I’m extreme in this matter and I will say no more of it, but no one who neglects to do what she feels she ought can be truly happy. I’ve put aside romantic notions for higher aims and I will never marry. Clearly, I’ve dedicated myself to the cause of women’s suffrage and my path is set—a path, particularly here in Wyoming, that is seldom adorned with flowers.

  I am an Alexander with few soldiers. Though I always lecture to a full hall, my audiences are mostly men who, out of novelty, come to see a lady orator. But I will not be disheartened, for the cause is not without enthusiasts in Wyoming Territory. I’ve found two ardent supporters, Amelia Post, Cheyenne’s foremost suffragette, and one William Noble, editor and owner of the Cheyenne Argus newspaper, to which I’m now a contributor.

  But, Sissy, it is difficult. I know you are thinking that Papa warned me, that life would be harsh in the West and that no lady of virtue woul
d travel alone. It’s true. I’ve been the object of ridicule and rude comment. Of course, I steel myself with Christian patience and hold my tongue, ever craving the comforts and conversation of genteel society. How I weary of tobacco-spitting cowboys and clapboard boom towns.

  I miss you, Sissy. Kiss our dear parents for me. Write me in care of the Cheyenne Argus newspaper. Make it soon.

  Your loving sister,

  India

  India sealed and addressed her letter, snuffed out the lantern and slipped into bed. As time passed, a cricket in the wall board chirped, and no matter how often she fluffed her tick-feather pillow to comfort, her mind churned over the events of the evening.

  In her more grandiose daydreams India had imagined herself a commander-in-chief, leading leagues of oppressed women to freedom. But in reality, she felt very inadequate and uneasy. Was she helping Sarah or just meddling? India prayed with all her heart that she was doing the right thing. But even with the utterance of prayer she couldn’t put this night to rest. Sleep brought half-nightmares and a distorted dream in which again she was running down Cheyenne’s main street, but this time it was the tall, black-haired cowboy who pursued her.

  Wrapped in her silk robe, India peeked out her door and down the back stairway to see if the way was clear. After a brief lapse during the wild happenings of the night before, her usual modesty had returned. The voices of Heddy and Yee Jim filtered up from the kitchen as she moved down the stairway to the bathroom beneath the stairs. Her habitual morning bath must be quick, for she’d promised Sarah an early visit to a lawyer. Before dawn Sarah had tapped on her door and confessed that during a sleepless night she had indeed made the decision to divorce her husband. Sarah advised her that they must act that very morning, before Mr. Bramshill was released from jail.