The Gamble Read online

  An assortment of hats in both felt and leghorn straw were displayed on papier mâché forms. Some were trimmed, some plain. The walls were lined with tidy cubbyholes holding ribbons, buttons, lace, and jets. An assortment of folded gauzes and jaconets lay fanned across a mahogany tabletop, representing the full prism of colors. In a wicker basket a selection of paste fruit looked nearly real enough to eat. Finely crafted artificial silk daisies and roses lay upon a flat basket. Upon another counter was displayed a selection of fur tippets and pheasant feather fans. Ostrich plumes hung on a cord near the rear wall. One glass cabinet appeared to contain an entire aviary of birds, nests, and eggs. Butterflies, dragonflies, and even cockchafers added to the collection. Set off by a pair of stuffed fox heads, the case looked as much like a scientific exhibit as a ladies’ millinery display.

  It took little more than two minutes for Drusilla Wilson to ascertain that Miss Downing ran a well-established business—and, she surmised, a line of communication with the women of Proffitt, Kansas.

  She heard the shopkeeper’s irregular footsteps and turned just as Agatha parted the lavender velvet curtains.

  “Ah, a wonderful shop, wonderful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long have you been a milliner?”

  “I learned the trade from my mother. When I was a girl I helped her do seamwork in our home. Then later, when she became a milliner and moved here to Proffitt, I came along with her. When she died, I stayed on.”

  Miss Wilson scanned Agatha’s clean clothing. She found the periwinkle-blue a little too colorful for her taste and slightly too modern, with its fussy tie-ups at the rear and row upon row of tucks down the front. And she didn’t hold with those tight apron skirts that showed the shape of a woman’s hips all too clearly, nor with the form-fitting bodice that displayed the breadth of a woman’s chest too specifically. Miss Downing didn’t seem in the least concerned that she showed off both sets of contours with shocking clarity. But at least the tight, cleric collar was modest, though its lace edging was sinful, and the sleeves were wrist-length.

  “So, Miss Downing, feeling better?”

  “Much.”

  “One gets used to it when fighting for our cause. Whatever you do, don’t discard the soiled dress. If the mud stains don’t come out, you may want to wear it when standing up to the enemy in the next battle.” Without warning, Miss Wilson briskly crossed the room and captured both of Agatha’s hands. “My dear, I was so proud of you. So utterly proud.” She squeezed Agatha’s fingers very firmly. “I said to myself: There is a woman of stalwart mores. There is a woman who backs down at nothing. There is a woman I want fighting on my side!”

  “Oh, nonsense. I only did what any woman would do in the same situation. Why, those two children—”

  “But no other woman did it, did she? You were the only one who stood up for virtue.” Again she gave Agatha’s hands an emphatic squeeze, then released them and stepped back.

  Agatha became flushed with pleasure at such high praise from a woman of Drusilla Wilson’s renown. “Miss Wilson,” she declared honestly, “I mean it when I say it’s an honor to have you here. I’ve read so much about you in the newspapers. My goodness, they are calling you the most powerful scepter ever wielded for the temperance cause.”

  “What they say about me matters little. What matters most is that we’re making headway.”

  “So I’ve been reading.”

  “Twenty-six locals of the national Women’s Christian Temperance Union formed, statewide, in ‘78 alone. More last year. But we’re not through yet!” She raised one fist, then dropped it as her lips formed a thin smile. “That’s why I’m here, of course. News of your town has reached me. I’m told it’s getting out of hand.”

  Agatha sighed, limped toward her rolltop desk set against the rear right wall, and sank to a chair before it. “You saw firsthand exactly how much. And you can hear for yourself what’s going on next door.” She nodded toward the common wall between her shop and the saloon. Through it came the muffled strains of “Fallen Angel, Fall into My Arms.”

  Miss Wilson pursed her lips and cracks appeared around them as upon a two-day-old pudding. “It must be trying.”

  Agatha touched her temples briefly. “To say the least.” She shook her head woefully. “Ever since that man came a month ago, it’s gotten worse and worse. I have a confession to make, Miss Wilson, I...”

  “Please, call me Drusilla.”

  “Drusilla... yes. Well, as I began to say, my motives in confronting Mr. Gandy were not strictly altruistic. I fear you praised me a little too precipitously. You see, since that saloon opened next door, my business has begun to suffer. The ladies are reluctant to walk the boardwalk for fear of being accosted by some inebriate before they reach my door.” Agatha’s brow furrowed. “It’s most distressing. There are horrible fights at all hours of the day and night, and since that man Gandy won’t allow fisticuffs on the premises, his bartender throws the fighters out into the street.”

  “I’m not surprised, given the price of mirrors and glassware out here. But, go on.”

  “The fights aren’t the only thing. The language. Oh, Miss Wilson, it’s shocking. Absolutely shocking. And with those half doors the sound drifts out into the street so that there’s no telling what my ladies might hear as they pass by. I... I really can’t say I blame them for hesitating to patronize my shop. Why, I might feel the same, were I in their place.” Agatha knit her fingers and studied her lap. “And, of course, there’s the most humiliating reason of all for them to avoid the general area.” She looked up with genuine regret in her eyes. “There are those of my customers whose husbands frequent the saloon more than they do their own homes. Several of the women are so abashed at the idea of running into their husbands on the street—in that condition—that they shy away at the mere thought.”

  “Unfortunate, yet your shop looks prosperous.”

  “I make a fairly decent living, but—”

  “No.” Miss Wilson presented her gloved palms. “I didn’t mean to inquire as to your financial status. I only meant it as an observation that you’re well established here and undoubtedly have most of the women in town on your list of clientele.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s true—or was, until a month ago.”

  “Tell me, Miss Downing, are there any other millinery shops in Proffitt?”

  “Why, no. Mine is the only one. Mr. Halorhan, down at the Mercantile, and Mr. McDonnell, at the Longhorn Store, sell the ready-mades now. But,” she added with a touch of superiority, “of course they’re not trimmed to match.”

  “And if I may be so forward, might I inquire if you’re a churchgoing woman?”

  Agatha scarcely managed to keep from bristling. “Why, most certainly!”

  “I thought as much. Methodist?”

  “Presbyterian.”

  “Ah, Presbyterian.” Miss Wilson cocked her head toward the saloon. “And Presbyterians do love their music, don’t they?” Nothing could bring tears to a drunken man’s eyes like a chorus of voices raised in heavenly praise.

  Agatha gave the wall a malevolent glance. “Most music,” she replied. The song had changed to “Buffalo Gals Won’t You Come Out Tonight?”

  “How many saloons are currently—shall we say—prospering in Proffitt?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Eleven! Ach!” Drusilla threw back her head in vexation. She marched around with both hands on her hips. “They chased them out of Abilene years ago. But they just kept moving farther down the line, didn’t they? Ellsworth, Wichita, Newton, Hays, and now Proffitt.”

  “This was such a peaceful little town before they came here.”

  Wilson whipped around, jabbed a finger into the air. “And it can be again.” She strode to the desk, her face purposeful. “I’ll come straight to the point, Agatha. I may call you Agatha, may I not?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “When I saw you stand up to that man, I not only thought: There’s a woman who’ll st
and up to a man. I also thought: There’s a woman worthy of being a general in the army against the Devil’s Brew.”

  Agatha touched her chest, surprised. “A general? Me?” She would have arisen from her chair, but Drusilla blocked the way. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Miss Wi——”

  “I’m not wrong. You’re perfect!” She braced herself against the desktop and leaned close. “You know every woman in this town. You’re a practicing Christian. You have additional incentive to fight for temperance, since your business is being threatened. And, furthermore, you have the advantage of juxtaposition to one of the corrupted. Close him down and the others will follow, I assure you. It happened in Abilene; it can happen here. Now what do you say?”

  Drusilla’s nose was so close, Abigail pressed against the back of her chair. “Why, I... I...”

  “On Sunday I intend to ask your minister for a few moments in the pulpit. Believe me, that’s all it’ll take, and you’ll have a regular army at your command!”

  Agatha wasn’t sure she wanted an army, but Drusilla rushed on. “You’ll not only have the backing of the national Women’s Christian Temperance Union, but of Governor St. John himself.”

  Though Agatha was aware that John P. St. John had been elected on a strong prohibition platform two years ago, beyond that she knew nothing whatever of politics, and little more of organization on such a scale.

  “Please, I...” She released a fluttery breath and inched herself up to her feet. Turning away, she clasped her hands tightly. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about organizing such a group.”

  “I’ll help. The national organization will help. The Temperance Banner will help.” Wilson named the statewide newspaper inaugurated two years before to support temperance activities and prohibition legislation. “And I know what I’m talking about when I say the women of this town will help. I’ve traveled well over three thousand miles. I’ve crossed and recrossed this state and have even been to Washington. I’ve attended hundreds of public meetings in schoolhouses and churches all across Kansas. In every one I’ve seen a rousing group of supporters formed almost immediately for The Cause.”

  “Legislation?” The word scared the wits out of Agatha. “I’m ignorant of politics, Miss Wilson, nor do I wish to be involved in them. Running my business is quite enough for me to handle. I will, however, be happy to introduce you to the women from Christ Presbyterian if you wish to invite them to an organizational meeting.”

  “Very well. That’s a start. And could we hold it here?”

  “Here?” Agatha’s eyes widened. “In my shop?”

  “Yes.” There was nothing timid about Drusilla Wilson.

  “But I haven’t enough chairs and...”

  “We’ll stand, as we often must at the doors of barrooms, for hours at a time.”

  It was easy to see how Wilson had managed to organize an entire network of W.C.T.U. locals. Her eyes pinned Agatha as successfully as a lepidopterist’s pin holds a butterfly. Though Agatha was unsure of many things, she was certain of one. She wanted to get even with that man for what he’d done to her this morning. And she wanted to be rid of the noise and revelry reverberating through the wall. She wanted her business to thrive again. If she didn’t take this first step, who would?

  “My door will be open.”

  “Good.” Drusilla clasped Agatha’s hands and gave them one firm pump. “Good. That’s all it will take, I’m confident. Once the women gather and see that they’re not alone in their fight against alcohol, they’ll surprise you with their staunchness and support.” She stepped back and drew on her gloves. “Well.” She picked up her valise. “I must find the hotel, then take a walk through town and pinpoint the objects of our crusade, all eleven of them. Then I must visit your minister, Reverend—?”

  “Clarksdale,” Agatha supplied. “Samuel Clarksdale. You’ll find him in the small frame house just north of the church. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, Agatha. Until Sunday, then.”

  With a whisk and a flourish, she was gone.

  Agatha stood rooted. It felt as though an August tornado had just blown through. But when she looked around, things remained magically unchanged. The piano tinkled on the other side of the wall. Outside a dog barked in the street. A horse and rider passed beyond the lace curtains. Agatha pressed a hand to her heart, released a deep breath, and dropped to her chair. A member, yes. But an organizer, no. She hadn’t the time nor the vitality to be the head of the town’s temperance organization. While she was still pondering the issue, Violet Parsons arrived for work.

  “Agatha, I heard! Tt-tt!” Violet was a titterer. It was the only thing about her that Agatha disliked. A woman with hair as white as snow and a mouth with more wrinkles than a Spanish fan should have outgrown tittering long ago. But Violet tittered constantly, like an organ grinder’s monkey. “Tt-tt-tt. I heard you came face to face with our proprietor right on the saloon steps. How ever did you get up the nerve to try to stop him?”

  “What would you have done, Violet? Perry White and Clydell Hottle were already hurrying down the street, hoping for a better look at that heathen painting.”

  Violet placed four fingertips over her lips. “Is it really a painting of a... tt-tt-tt...”—the titter changed to a whisper—”... naked lady?”

  “Lady? Why, Violet, if she’s naked, how can she be a lady?”

  Violet’s eyes brightened mischievously. “Then she really is...”—again, the whisper—”... naked?”

  “As a jaybird. Which is precisely why I interfered.”

  “And Mr. Gandy... tt-tt-tt... Did he really set you in the mud?” Violet couldn’t help it; her eyes—the exact shade of Agatha’s dress—sparkled as they always did when Gandy’s name came up. Violet had never been married, but she’d never stopped wishing. From the first time she’d seen Gandy sauntering down the street with a flirtatious grin on his face, she’d started acting like an idiot. She still did, every time she caught a glimpse of him. The fact never failed to sour Agatha.

  “News travels fast.”

  Violet blushed. “I stopped down at Halorhan’s for a new thimble. I lost mine yesterday, you know.”

  Already the incident on the street was being discussed at Halorhan’s Mercantile? How disquieting. Agatha produced the thimble and clapped it down on a glass countertop. “I found it. Underneath the leghorn straw you were working on. And what else did you learn at Halorhan’s?”

  “That Drusilla Wilson is in town and spent close to an hour in this very shop! Are you going to?”

  “Am I going to what?” Agatha grew vexed at Violet’s assumption that she knew everything being discussed at Halorhan’s on any given morning. Violet thrived on gossip.

  “Hold a temperance meeting here?”

  Agatha’s torso snapped erect. “Heavens! The woman walked out of here less than fifteen minutes ago, and already you heard that at Halorhan’s?”

  “Well, are you?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “But that’s what they’re saying.”

  “I agreed to let Miss Wilson hold one here, that’s all.”

  Violet looked petrified. Her blue eyes grew round as two balls. “Gracious, that’s enough.”

  Agatha moved to her desk and sat down, discomfited. “He won’t do anything.”

  “But he’s our new landlord. What if he evicts us?”

  Agatha’s chin rose defiantly. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  But the thought had already occurred to LeMaster Scott Gandy.

  He stood at the bar with one boot on the brass rail, listening to the men make ribald comments about the painting. Business was brisk already, considering the hour. Word traveled fast in a town this size. The place was crowded with curious males who’d come to get a look at the nude. When Jubilee and the girls arrived, business would thrive even more.

  Unless that persimmon-mouthed milliner continued harassing him. Gandy frowned. That woman could develop into one bodacious, infernal nuisance
if she put her mind to it. It took only one like her to rile up a whole townful of females and start them nagging at their husbands about the hours they spent at the saloon. If she was upset about the painting, she’d be incensed about the girls.

  Gandy tipped the brim of his Stetson low over his eyes and rested both elbows on the bar behind him. He stared thoughtfully across the quiet street at Heustis Dyar’s place, wondering when the first beefs would come. That’s when the fun would really start. When those rowdy, thirsty cow-punchers hit town, that little do-gooder next door would more than likely pack up and light out for other parts and his worries would be over.

  He smiled to himself, extracted a cheroot from the pocket of his vest, and struck a match on his boot heel. But before he applied it, the object of his thoughts—Goody Two-Shoes herself—materialized from next door and moved past the saloon. For no more than five seconds her head and feet were clearly visible above and below the swinging doors. But that’s all it took for Gandy to realize she wasn’t walking normally. The match burned his fingers. He cursed and dropped it, then hurried toward the swinging doors, standing in the shadows to one side. He watched her make her way along the boardwalk. He listened to the shuffling sound made by her shoes. He began to grow warm around the collar. Five doors down, she descended a set of steps, gripping the rail tightly. But instead of using the stepping-stones to cross the street as all the ladies did, she lifted her skirts and trudged laboriously through the mud to the other side.

  “Dan?” Gandy called.

  “Something wrong?” Loretto didn’t look up. He fanned the deck of cards into a peacock’s tail, then snapped it together. It was too early in the day for gamblers, but Gandy had taught him to keep his fingers nimble at all times.

  “Come here.”

  Loretto squared the deck and rose from the chair with the same unjointed motion he so admired in the boss.

  He came up behind Gandy at the swinging doors. “Yes, boss?”

  “That woman.” Agatha Downing had reached the far side of the street and was struggling up the steps to the boardwalk, clutching an armful of clothing that looked suspiciously much like the gray dress she’d been wearing earlier. Gandy scowled at her clean skirts—blue now. They churned unnaturally with each step. “Is she limping?”