The Gamble (I) Read online

  “I am. I have a weak heart, and I’m having terrible palpitations.”

  Agatha seethed. Oh, that Gandy was a shrewd manipulator. He knew a besotted old hen when he saw one, and he didn’t pass up any advantage.

  Violet half lay against the edge of the worktable, exaggerating his Southern accent. “Y’all do everuhthin’ in yoah powuh tuh shut me down... Have you ever heard anything so wonderful in your life? When Mr. Gandy talks, I swear I can smell magnolia blossoms right here in Proffitt, Kansas.”

  “All I smelled was stale tobacco.”

  Violet popped up. “Oh, Agatha, you have no romanticism in you. He smelled like bay rum, too. I remember my papa used to wear bay rum.”

  “Your papa didn’t operate a saloon, nor was he kicked off the riverboats for having cards up his sleeve.”

  “Nobody knows that for sure about Mr. Gandy.”

  “Oh?” Agatha inquired with asperity. “You mean there’s something the girls haven’t been able to verify?”

  Suddenly, Violet spied Agatha’s dress and petticoat on the worktable. She laid her hand on them almost reverently. “He paid to have these washed. Imagine that.”

  Agatha sniffed.

  “And he offered to buy you supper.”

  Agatha sniffed louder.

  “And he came in here especially to apologize for everything.”

  Had she sniffed any harder, Agatha might have sucked in some stray threads and choked herself. So she preached instead. “Oh, he’s an oily-tongued dandy, all right. But with the help of Drusilla Wilson and the women of Proffitt, Kansas”—Agatha raised one hand and pointed toward heaven—“I’ll wipe that insufferable grin off his brown hide!”

  On the other side of the wall, LeMaster Scott Gandy stalked into the saloon, sending the doors flapping wildly behind him. “Jack, make up a sign!” he bellowed. He bit the end off a cigar, spit it into the cuspidor with deadly accuracy, and blew the first smoke ring with equally deadly accuracy; it appeared to wreath a florid nipple on the nude behind the bar. He narrowed one eye on the nipple and the ring, as if taking a bead down the bore of a Winchester. “We’re goin’ t’ have a picture-namin’ contest. The man who tags our rosy-breasted li’l lady here gets the first dance with Jubilee when she arrives!”

  And so the battle lines were drawn.

  CHAPTER

  3

  On Sunday, Reverend Samuel Clarksdale of Christ Presbyterian Church was upstaged in the pulpit by Drusilla Wilson whose message was concise and inspiring: Those who stood by and watched a loved one chained to the evils of alcohol without helping when they could were equally as guilty as if they themselves had placed the bottle in the loved one’s hands.

  When Sunday services ended, Miss Wilson was greeted effusively by the women in the congregation. Many squeezed her hand heartily, some with tears in their eyes. Many did the same to Agatha Downing, thanking her in advance for providing them with a gathering place.

  Agatha outfitted herself for the meeting in a stiff-necked dress of somber brown, her bustles lashed firmly behind her, skirts tied back so tightly her steps were considerably shortened. She was ready well before seven, so she went downstairs and dusted the countertops and lit the lanterns. Dusk had not quite fallen when she opened the shop door to greet Drusilla Wilson. As usual, the woman was ready with a firm handclasp.

  “Agatha, how nice to see you again.”

  “Come in, Miss Wilson.”

  But before stepping inside, Drusilla glanced toward the door of the saloon. “You’ve seen what we’re up against, I imagine?”

  Agatha appeared puzzled, then stepped onto the boardwalk herself.

  The swinging doors were thrown back. The painting behind the bar could be viewed from an oblique angle along the left wall. On the boardwalk out front stood that wretched Southerner, dressed to the nines, with a smoking cheroot in his mouth and one elbow draped on a double-sided billboard announcing:

  NEW LADIES IN TOWN

  NAME THE PAINTING BEHIND THE BAR AND WIN THE FIRST DANCE WITH

  MISS JUBILEE BRIGHT

  THE BRIGHTEST GEM OF THE PRAIRIE SOON TO APPEAR AT THE GILDED CAGE WITH HER JEWELS

  PEARL AND RUBY

  He thoughtfully allowed Agatha time to read it before tipping his hat and grinning slowly. “Evenin’, Miz Downin’.”

  Oh, he had gall. Standing there smirking and drawling. She’d like to knock that sign out from under him and send him sprawling!

  “Y’all expectin’ a pretty good turnout, are ya?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Not as good as mine, I’ll wager.”

  “Have you no decency? It’s the Lord’s day!”

  “None whatsoever, ma’am. Got t’ have the welcome mat out when that first herd hits town. Could be any minute now, for all we know.”

  She lifted one eyebrow toward the sign. “Jubilee, Pearl, and Ruby? Polished gems, I’m sure.” She could see them already—lice-carrying, diseased whores with singed hair and fake moles.

  “Genuine, all three.”

  She snorted softly.

  He puffed on his cigar.

  At that moment a tall lanky mulatto with deepset eyes and kinky black hair rolled the piano near the door. He was so thin he looked as if a gust of wind would blow him over. “Time to make some music, Ivory?”

  “Yessuh.”

  “Ivory, I don’t believe you’ve met Miz Downin’, our next-door neighbor. Miz Downin’, my piano man, Ivory Culhane.”

  “Miz Downin’.” He removed a black bowler, centering it on his chest as he bowed. Replacing the hat at a rakish angle, he inquired, “What can I play for ya, ma’am?”

  How dare these two act as if this was nothing more than an afternoon ice-cream social! Agatha had no wish whatever to exchange pleasantries with the pimp saloon owner, nor with the man whose infernal plunking kept her awake night after night. She gave the latter a sour look and replied tartly, “How about ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God’?”

  His teeth flashed white in a tea-brown face as he smiled widely. “’Fraid I don’t know that one. But how ‘bout this?” With one fluid motion Ivory seated himself on a clawfooted stool, revolved it to face the keys, and struck up the opening chords of “Little Brown Jug,” a song recently composed by the “wets” to rile the “drys.” Agatha drew herself up and swung away.

  When the ladies began arriving the two were still there, Ivory’s songs filling the street with his musical invitation, Gandy with his nonchalance and grin intact, excreting Southern charm like so much musk from a muskrat. He greeted each lady who came along.

  “Evenin’, ma’am,” he said time after time, touching his hat brim. “Y’all enjoy your meetin’, now.” His grin was especially dashing for Violet and the delegation from Mrs. Gill’s boardinghouse. “Evenin’, Miz Parsons. Nice t’ see y’all again, and your friends, too. Evenin’, ladies.”

  Violet tittered, blushed, and led the way next door. She was followed by Evelyn Sowers, Susan White, Bessie Hottle, and Florence Loretto, all of whom had a personal stake in the goings-on at the Gilded Cage Saloon. There were others, too. Annie Macintosh, sporting a bruise on her left cheek. Minnie Butler, whose husband had a yen for the gaming tables. Jennie Yoast, whose husband made the rounds of all the saloons every Saturday night and sometimes was found sleeping on the boardwalk on Sunday mornings. Anna Brewster, Addie Anderson, Carolyn Hawes, and many others whose men were known to have exceedingly limber elbows.

  Attending the meeting were thirty-six women, most of them eager to stamp out the evils of the ardent spirits; a few were merely curious about what “those fanatics” did when they got together.

  Drusilla Wilson personally greeted each arrival at the door with her hostess at her side. The meeting began with a prayer, followed by Miss Wilson’s opening statement.

  “There are four thousand rum holes spreading death and disease through all ranks of American society, vile dens that respectable people abhor from a distance. Your own fair city has bec
ome blemished by eleven such chancres. Many of your husbands are wooed away from home night after night, robbing your families of their protectors and providers. The human wreckage caused by alcohol can come only to tragic ends—in hospitals, where victims die of delirium tremens, or in reformatories such as Ward Island, or even asylums such as that on Blackwell Island. I’ve visited these institutions myself. I’ve seen the creeping death that preys upon those who’ve begun with a single innocent drink, then another and another, until the victim is abysmally lost. And who is left to suffer the effects of intemperance? The women and children—that’s who! From half a million American women a wail of anguish is sounded over an otherwise happy land. Over the graves of forty thousand drunkards goes up the mourning cry of widow and orphan. The chief evils of spirits have fallen on women. It is eminently fitting that women should inaugurate the work for its destruction!”

  As Wilson spoke, the faces in the audience grew rapt. She was earnest, spellbinding. Even those who’d come only out of curiosity were becoming mesmerized.

  “And the saloons themselves are breeding places for the vermin of this earth—gamblers, confidence men, and nymphs du prairie. Let us not forget that Wichita, at its most decadent, sported houses of ill repute with no less than three hundred painted cats! Three hundred in a single city! But we cleaned up Wichita, and we’ll clean up Proffitt! Together!”

  When her speech ended, the crowd voiced a single question: How?

  The answer was concise: by educating, and advocating prayer and willpower. “The W.C.T.U. is not militant. What we achieve, we shall achieve by peaceful means. Yet, let us not shirk our duty when it comes to making that destroyer of men’s souls—the barkeeper—aware of his guilt. We shall not destroy the vile compound he sells. Instead, we will give his clientele something more powerful to lean on—faith in his God, his family, and hope for his future.”

  Miss Wilson knew when to evangelize and when to cease. She had them aroused now. To bag them for the cause, all she needed were three or four gut-wrenching stories from their own lips.

  “You’ve all been at home growing impatient for this day. Now is the time. Bare your hearts to your sisters who understand. They’ve suffered what you’ve suffered. Who would like to rid themselves of their grief first?”

  The women exchanged furtive glances, but none came forward.

  Wilson pressed on. “Remember, we, your sisters, are not here to judge, but to support.”

  Through the saloon wall came the cry of “Keno!” And from the piano, “Over the Waves.” Thirty-six self-conscious women all waited for someone else to start.

  Agatha’s teeth and hands clenched. Her own agonizing memories came back from her past. She considered telling her story at last, but she had held it inside for so long she was unable to bring it forth. Already an object of a certain amount of pity, she had no desire to be pitied further, so she held her silence.

  The first to speak was Florence Loretto. “My son...” she began. Every eye settled on her. All was silent. “My son, Dan. He was always a good boy when he was young. But when my husband was alive, he used to send the boy down to the saloon to fetch his whiskey. Claimed he had a touch of the rheumatism and hot toddies took the pain out of his joints. That’s how it started. But by the time he died, he was liquored up more than he was sober. He was a grown man, but Dan... Dan was young, and he’d found out he liked the atmosphere at the saloon. Now he’s dealing cards right next door, and I... I...” Florence covered her face with one hand. “I’m so ashamed, I can’t face my friends.”

  Addie Anderson rubbed Florence’s shoulder and offered, quietly, “It’s all right, Florence. We all understand. You did what you thought best when you were bringing him up.” She faced Miss Wilson as she went on forthrightly. “My husband, Floyd, he used to be sober as a judge, except for maybe when somebody got married or on the Fourth of July. But he got sickly a couple years back and had to take on somebody to look after the shop while he was down. Jenks, his name was, fine-lookin’ young man from St. Louis, with letters to recommend him. But they was all phony. Jenks got his fingers in the books and rigged ‘em so’s he could swindle us without Floyd ever knowin’ what he was up to. By the time Floyd discovered it, it was too late. Jenks was gone, and so was the nice nest egg we’d saved up. That’s when Floyd started takin’ to drink. I try to tell him, ‘Floyd,’ I says, ‘what good does it do to spend what little money we got gettin’ drunk every night?’ But he don’t listen to nothin’ I say. We lost the store and Floyd went to clerk for Halorhan, but it’s a big come-down to him, clerkin’, after he was his own boss all those years. The money Halorhan pays him goes nearly all for whiskey, and we’re behind six months on our account at the store. Halorhan’s been good, but lately he’s been warnin’ Floyd, if he don’t pay some on what we been chargin’, he’s gonna have to let him go. Then...” Suddenly Addie broke into tears. “Ohh...” she wailed.

  It made Florence Loretto’s plight seem less drastic, and she, in turn, comforted Addie.

  After that the women opened up, one by one. Their plights were all similar, though some stories were more pitiful than others. Agatha waited for Annie Macintosh to admit where she got the bruise on her cheek. But Annie, like Agatha, remained silent.

  When a lull fell, Drusilla Wilson took the meeting in hand once again. “Sisters, you have our love and support. But to be effective, we must organize. And organization means becoming a recognized local of the national Women’s Christian Temperance Union. To do so you must elect officers. I’ll work together with them to draft a constitution. Once that is accomplished, committees will be formed to draw up temperance pledges.” She displayed several varieties, all of which could be pinned on a reformed man’s sleeve. “One of your first goals will be to get as many pledge signatures as possible, and also to solicit new members for your local.”

  Within a quarter hour, Agatha found herself—over her own protests—voted the first president of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union of Proffitt, Kansas. Florence Loretto became vice-president, over her own protests. Annie Macintosh surprised everyone by speaking for the first time that evening, volunteering to be secretary. Agatha nominated Violet for treasurer, observing that it would be easy for the two of them to work together, since they saw each other every day anyway. Violet also objected, to no avail.

  Dues were set at twenty-five cents—the price of one shot of whiskey—per week. A pledge committee of four was formed for the purpose of hand-lettering pledges until some could be professionally printed. A committee of three was delegated to query Joseph Zeller, editor of the Proffitt Gazette, on the cost of printing pamphlets and advertisements and pledges. A rally was scheduled for the following night for the purpose of soliciting signatures on temperance pledges, starting in the closest saloon.

  The meeting closed with Miss Wilson teaching the ladies their first temperance song:

  Cold water is king

  Cold water is lord

  And a thousand bright faces

  Now smile at his board.

  They sang it several times, in rousing harmony, until their voices drowned out the sound of “Camptown Races” coming from the other side of the wall.

  As the meeting closed, everyone agreed it had been an exhilarating evening. As Drusilla Wilson left, she assured Agatha that help and directives would come from the national organization as well as through The Temperance Banner. And Miss Wilson herself would remain in town until the organizational wrinkles had been ironed out.

  Agatha closed the door behind the last woman, leaned back against it, and sighed. What had she gotten into? More than she’d bargained for, most certainly. Not only organizer, but president. Why ever had she agreed to hold the meeting here in the first place?

  With another sigh she pushed away from the door and turned out the lanterns. In the darkness she left the workroom by the back door. The rear of the building gave on to a path leading to a storage shed and the smaller building she genteelly referred to as �
��the necessary.” After visiting it, she made her way upstairs, head down, as usual, watching her feet. She was two steps from the top when a voice brought her head snapping up.

  “So how did the meetin’ go?”

  She couldn’t see him, only the glow of his cigar in the dark on his half of the landing.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Inquirin’ about the meetin’, Miz Downin’. No need t’ jump so.”

  “I did not jump!” But she had. How awkward to think he’d been sitting up here watching her walk out to “the necessary” and back, equally awkward to realize he’d observed her struggling up the stairs in her shuffling, one-two fashion.

  “Pretty good turnout y’ had there.”

  “Thirty-four. Thirty-six, counting Miss Wilson and myself.”

  “Ahh, commendable.”

  “And I’ve been elected president.” It was the first time she’d taken any joy in the fact.

  “President. Well, well...”

  Her pupils had dilated enough to see that he was sitting on a chair tipped back against the wall with his boots crossed on the railing. The acrid scent of his cigar smoke reached her as the tip glowed orange once more.

  “We had such a rousing meeting that none of us even minded the sound of Mr. Culhane’s piano coming through the wall. As a matter of fact, we sang so loud, we drowned it out.”

  “Sounds inspirin’.”

  She could hear the grin in his voice.

  “I dare say it was.”

  “And what did y’ all sing?”

  “You’ll know, soon enough. We’ll come in and do it for your patrons. How would that be?”

  He laughed, the cigar still clamped in his teeth.

  “T’ tell the truth, we won’t be needin’ you. Jubilee and the girls’ll be here any day, and we’ll have all the singin’ we’ll need.”

  “Ohhh, yes. Jubilee and the girls—from the billboard? My, they sound wonderful,” she intoned sarcastically.

  “They are. You’ll have t’ come over and take in a show.”