Don't Poke the Bear!

Chapter 26

THE QUALITY OF our window glass ain't great, and there ain't an abundance of birds in town. But every now and then the sun will hit one of our bedroom windows in such a way as to cast a reflection. When I hear a thump like the one that wakes me up this bright, crisp April mornin', I know the barn swallows are back.

I don't like barn swallows. They fly into Dodge in early to mid April and leave in September. So far I've owned the Spur durin' the off season, but I heard that these birds'll drive horses, dogs, cats and people crazy all spring and summer long.

The one that woke me up is lucky I didn't spin around and shoot it when it hit my window. But even while soundly sleepin', I know to listen for the steps creakin' before I think to shoot. Now that I'm awake I hear some voices downstairs, and smell somethin' wonderful I ain't smelled in months.

Rose's cookin'.

I hope Gentry's down there learnin' some of Rose's kitchen secrets.

I climb down the back stairs, taking Vlad's handgun with me to the outhouse. When I'm finished with my mornin' ritual, I come to the back, wash up at the pump we share with the dry goods store, the feed store that's under new ownership, and Mrs. Dunphy's Boardin' House. Surprisingly, no one's out back this mornin', so I take time to shave by the small, broken mirror someone tacked to a small tree by the trough. When I'm done, I walk back upstairs, lock the back door, and go out the front and down the hall. As I look over the railin', I see somethin' that don't make sense.

There's six people sittin' at different card tables, as if savin' 'em for games, but we ain't even open for cards yet.

By the time I hit the bottom step, eveyone's raisin' their hand to get my attention. I stop where I am and say, "What's goin' on?"

Everyone starts talkin' at once.

I calm them down and learn they've all been told I'm Sheriff, and they've got problems for me to solve.

I notice Gentry across the way. She can see by the look on my face that I'm frustrated. They all want to talk, but none want to talk where the others can hear. So I give 'em each a number, and tell 'em to wait at the far end of the room, and I'll talk to each of 'em in the quiet corner.

"You expect us to stand by the bear?" one lady says.

I recognize her as Mrs. Plenty, the very prim and proper wife of Leah's best customer. Leah's thin as a rail and has a scar that runs from the far corner of her eye to the side of her nose. The scar is at least twenty years old. She earned it at the age of ten, in a knife fight with another young whore. By all accounts it had been a bloody battle, and by the time it was over, Leah took the other girl's life. But the wound on Leah's face had been stitched so poorly, her earnin's were never what they should a' been. She traveled with us to Dodge last September, and I managed to get her a spot with a Madam friend of mine, Mama Priss. But even Priss couldn't afford to keep her, so Gentry took pity on Leah, and gave her a place upstairs, where she's managed to attract a couple of regular customers, includin' Mrs. Plenty's husband, Peter. Whatever Leah's doin' for Pete, it's workin', 'cause if Leah's not available, he waits. Still, she don't get much traffic. If it weren't for Gentry and the buffalo hunters, she'd be whorin' in a hog ranch.

"The bear won't hurt you," I call out, loud enough for her to hear.

Mrs. Plenty looks nervous. "I've never been in a saloon before," she says. "I expected to find lewd women of low character. But a bear?"

She shouldn't have made the 'lewd women' remark in front of Constance, a big-boned gal who, in addition to bein' especially good at letterin', don't take to bein' called lewd in her own home. Though the Spur ain't technically her home, she considers it such. Had I known she was in the kitchen at the time, hearin' herself bein' called lewd, I would a' stopped what happened next before it happened. But I was already talkin' to George Murphy in the quiet corner. Actually, we hadn't begun talkin' yet, because the screamin' kept us from startin'.

By the time Wing Ding and I pulled Constance off Mrs. Plenty, we were able to count how many freckles the proper woman had on her left bosom.

Three.

But I'm the only one in the whole room that got slapped over it.

Mrs. Plenty stomped out of the saloon shoutin' somethin' about how I'd be hearin' from her attorney for an assault charge.

I look at Constance and frown.

"She started it," she says.

"You're twice her size."

"Damn right I am. Can't imagine how she managed to nurse a baby with a tit like that."

I frowned again. "I s'pect I'll have to deal with her husband, now."

"I'll deal with him if you want."

"That'd probably be best, 'less he's heeled."

She puts her hand inside her dress and fiddles around a second and produces a derringer. "Even if he is."

I sigh. "If it comes to shootin', respect the floors. They'll be yours to scrub."

"I thought Ding Dong was working here now."

"Who?"

"Ding Dong?"

"Wing Ding."

She looks confused. "Who's Ding Dong?"

"I s'pect you been workin' here long enough to know Ding Dong's the woman who does your laundry."

"Oh. Well anyway, Wing Ding is working here?"

"He is."

"Why can't he clean the floors?"

"'Cause he didn't start the fight."

"I didn't either. That bitch-"

I hate arguin' with whores. Plus, I still have five people to deal with before breakfast, and I ain't a man who likes to put off eatin' breakfast. I try to explain my logic to Constance. "If Mrs. Plenty had come in and slapped you, it'd be her fault."

"She slapped my pride."

I was about to say somethin', then realized she had a point.

"If Pete comes in, keep your mouth shut and send him my way. I'll offer him a free week of pokes."

"You'd do that?"

"I would."

Constance laughs.

"What's so funny?"

"You don't think Leah's gonna be jealous?"

"What? Why would she be jealous?"

"I'd be jealous if you were fuckin' my best customer for a whole week." With that, she cackles and heads back to the kitchen.

Realizin' what she said, I yell, "It wouldn't be me givin' the pokes, you chucklehead-"

Then I look around and see the other five grinnin' at me, 'cept for Clair Murphy, who looks like she was weaned on sour pickles. I sigh and walk back to the table.