Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (20 page)

“Mr. Glossberg, I can’t believe you’ve sold so much goods. I was hoping you’d have a bit of white cloth left. I have need of a yard or two.”

“I have a small length of white. I’ll measure it to see if it’s what you need.” Elias took a paper-wrapped bundle from the shelf and laid the white material out on a spotlessly clean counter. Mary watched his long slender fingers carefully unroll the cloth and measure it against the notches he had made in the countertop. “Two- and one-fourth yards, Mrs. Stanton. If you can use it, take it for the price of two yards.”

“And what is that, Mr. Glossman?”

“Twenty-five cents. Would you like for me to make a bill of it?”

“No, thank you. I have the coin.” Mary dug into the purse that hung on her arm and produced the money.

“I’ll have more goods as soon as the freight wagons come in. I sent a list to be filled with Mr. Ashland’s man.” Elias folded the cloth and wrapped it in the paper.

“And when will that be?”

“Tomorrow or the next day, little lady. The wagons’ll be here before the fourth.” The voice had came from behind Mary. She turned to see that Art Ashland, the freighter, had entered the store with the assurance of a man who believed he was welcome wherever he went.

“How are you this fine day, ma’am?” He ignored Elias, leaned on the counter with his back to him, and looked boldly at Mary.

“Fine,” Mary said abruptly. She smiled at Elias when he handed her the package. “Thank you, Mr. Glossberg.”

“Ain’t you wantin’ to know what’s comin’ in on my freight wagons?” Art asked when Mary turned to leave.

“Not particularly.”

“Par-tic-u-lee? What does that mean? You want to know only part of what the Jew’s havin’ brought in?”

“You figure it out, Mr. Ashland.” Mary took Theresa’s hand and started for the door.

“Hold on, Mrs. Stanton. What’er ya leavin’ for? Ya was talkin’ up a storm to the Jew man. Ain’t I good enough to talk to?” He moved around to stand in front of her.

“I was making a purchase.”

“Has he showed ya that little round cap he wears when he talks that mumble jumble to hisself?”

“Move out of my way.” Mary tried to step around him. He moved sideways, blocking her way to the door.

“’Pears to me like he give ya a real bargain on that cloth, Mrs. Stanton. Ever’ man’s got a different way of gettin’ around a woman. This’n’s a new wrinkle on me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if it’s meant to be insulting to me or to Mr. Glossberg, I don’t appreciate it. Move out of my way.”

“Gawdamighty! Do ya like talkin’ to that Jew?” Ashland asked with a puzzled frown on his bloated face. His eyes were red and watery, and his breath smelled as if he had recently lost what he had overindulged in the night before.

“Yes, I like talking to Mr. Glossberg.
He
is a gentleman.”

“And I ain’t?” When Mary snapped her mouth shut and glared at him, Ashland began to laugh. “Now if this ain’t the damnedest thin’ I ever heard of. Who’n hell wants to be a gentleman? Why is a pretty hunk of wench like you cozzin’ up to a Jew? Hell! This whole town is plumbful a folks not worth a buffalo’s droppin’s. A Jew, a dandy still fightin’ the war, old lady Chandler and her gals—one’s a whore, the other’n pure as snow, so she says. And Lizzibeth who guards her whores like they was jewels. This is a hell of a place!”

“Then why don’t you leave?”

“Then why don’t ya leave?” he mimicked. “I’ll tell ya why I don’t leave. ’Cause I get paid good wages to haul that damn ore to the smelters. I hear your sister’s gone off with Rowe. How ’bout me comin’ by and pleasurin’ you like he’s a doin’ her?”

Mary gasped with angry indignation. “If you come near my place, I’ll fill you full of buckshot!”

Ashland roared with laughter. While still laughing, he reached out in a lightning-fast, unexpected move and pinched her nipple with his thumb and forefinger. Then he stepped around her and walked away.

Mary was numb with shock.

“I don’t like him!” Theresa jerked on Mary’s hand to get her attention. “Why’d he pinch you?”

“Shhh . . . shhh . . . It’s all right.”

Mary stood for a moment longer with her back to Elias, hoping he had not seen Art Ashland pinch her breast. When she turned, her cheeks were burning with embarrassment. She looked directly into his dark eyes. Feeling her humiliation, he winced.

“Mr. Glossberg, I’m so . . . ashamed—”

“Oh, don’t be sorry on my account!” Elias came quickly from behind the counter. “It’s all right. There are good people and bad people wherever you go. Mr. Ashland is a hard, narrow-minded man, a product of his environment. Had he not been the way he is, perhaps he would not have survived.”

“You’re very generous. I don’t believe I could be so forgiving.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Stanton, the opinion of a man like Mr. Ashland is not important. I’ll use his services to bring goods to my store. It’s business. But . . . the things he said to you were . . . shameful!”

“He’s a crude man.”

“And ruthless. You should speak to Mr. Weston about him.”

“Oh, no. I think the less made of it the better.”

“Mamma! Here’s Julia!” Theresa jerked free of Mary’s hand and ran to her new friend who was coming in with her mother.

“Hello, Mary. I thought I saw you and Theresa come in here. Hello, Elias.”

“Theresa and I were planning to stop by on our way home. Theresa, stay on the porch,” she called as the two little girls, hand in hand, happily headed for the door.

Julia Hillard was a year younger than Theresa and they spent several hours a day together. It made life considerably easier for both of their mothers.

Mary liked Laura Hillard very much. Small and delicate to look at, Laura had more strength than appeared on the surface or she would not have been able to endure the long trek from New York and the loss of her husband.

“My, you’re almost sold out, Elias.” Laura turned completely around, surveying the room. “Business must be good.”

Elias held out his hands. “I don’t have any competition.”

When the women laughed, his dark eyes brightened.

“I’m so glad you came here,” Mary exclaimed, looking from one to the other. “Both of you.”

“I’m glad too, now,” Laura said. “But at first I thought it was the end of the world.”

“So did I. Then, somehow during the months Katy, Theresa, and I were here alone, I became fond of it.”

“I would have been scared to death.”

“I was,” Mary admitted, then added, “But only part of the time. Laura, do you realize that it is the second of July, and Independence Day is almost here? What would you two think about having a celebration here in Trinity?”

“A celebration?”

“A day celebration. Surely the mine will shut down for the day.”

“I think it’s a splendid idea.” Laura turned to Elias, her eyes bright with excitement. “What do you think, Elias?”

“Well, I think it would be . . . fine. Do you think the others will want to participate?”

“We can ask them.”

“It would take planning. Why don’t you two come to supper tonight?” Mary said impulsively. “I’ll ask Mr. Weston to come and we’ll talk it over.”

Elias looked at Laura and saw that she was smiling in agreement. “I accept with pleasure, that is, if . . . you ladies and the children will have dinner with me today at Mrs. Chandler’s.”

Laura and Mary looked at each other, before turning pleased smiles on Elias. “That would be lovely, Elias.” Laura accepted for both of them. “Thank you.”

“I suggest we wait until after the noon rush is over.” His slim, dark face was alight with pleasure. “It’ll be less noisy.”

Dressed in a white shirt, black suit, and a carefully brushed beaver hat, Elias escorted Mary, Laura, and the girls into the restaurant at half past twelve.

The Chandlers had made the most of what they had to work with, which was a squat, square building with a door in front, another in back, and one window on the side. Every inch of the small building had been scrubbed with lye soap and whitewashed. Mrs. Chandler was a big, rough-looking woman, but she was clean, her girls were clean, and her restaurant was clean. The pleasant aroma coming from the stew pots and the strong smell of coffee boiling on the range greeted the diners.

“Glory be! We got ladies today. Come in, come in.” Mrs. Chandler’s voice boomed from the back of the room where a counter holding a pan for the soiled dishes served as a barrier between the kitchen and two long tables where the diners were served. Her face was red from the heat of the stove. She lifted the end of her apron and wiped the sweat off her brow. “Flossie! Clear off that table so the folks can sit. Hurry it up!”

“I’m hurryin’, Maw.”

Flossie’s plain, broad face wore a perpetual smile, making it rather pleasant to look at. She hurried to the table, her wide hips swinging, her apron sash tied so tightly about her waist that it emphasized her generous breasts. She stacked the tin plates in her one hand, grabbed three granite cups by their handles with the other, and dumped them carelessly into the dishpan, splashing water on her sister.

“Are them china plates clean, Myrtle?” Mrs. Chandler’s voice boomed in the small building, and Mary wondered if she ever talked softly.

“Yes, Maw.”

“Get ’em out for me to dish up for the ladies and Mr. Glossberg. Sit, folks. We got hoppin’ jack stew ’n’ buttermilk biscuits. Floss, see if them benches is clean before the ladies sit.” Mrs. Chandler issued orders like a drill sergeant and the girls jumped to obey.

Myrtle was the shy one, the exact opposite of Flossie. She was younger, prettier, and more slightly built than her sister. Her hair was light and curly while Flossie’s was dark and straight. Myrtle seldom raised her eyelids, but when she did, her eyes were cornflower blue. Mary judged her to be about fourteen. She stayed near her mother. Flossie, on the other hand, could be seen on the street or on the steps of the restaurant in the evenings, flirting, laughing, and talking with anyone who happened by. It was easy to tell which of the Chandler girls had been caught in the indiscretion that forced the family to leave the wagon train.

Mrs. Chandler had wanted to buy the cow the Flannerys had abandoned when they left town to hurry to the next gold strike, but Mary couldn’t bring herself to sell something that wasn’t hers. So they struck up a deal. The Chandlers took over the care of the cow, and each day, after the morning milking, Flossie brought a small pail of milk to the funerary. When they churned, she brought butter. The arrangement had worked out very well.

Elias removed his hat and hung it on one of a dozen nails Mrs. Chandler had pounded into the wall. She had made it known from the beginning that no man would eat at her table with a hat on his head. Now, after a little more than a week, a man seldom had to be reminded. Elias seated the women with as much courtesy as if they were dining at a fancy New York restaurant.

Flossie brought the plates to the table after her mother had filled them in the kitchen. The stew was hot, the biscuits light and golden brown. A crock of butter and a pitcher of sorghum were brought to the table. After she poured coffee for the adults, she brought each of the girls a cup of cold buttermilk.

“It’s a treat to eat something I haven’t cooked myself.” Mary made the confession while she smeared butter on a biscuit for her daughter.

“Mrs. Chandler was kind enough to allow me to sample her cooking while we were with the wagon train,” Elias said. “I knew she could run a successful restaurant.”

Although Elias had spoken softly, Mrs. Chandler’s sharp ears picked up his words.

“And Mr. Glossberg was kind enough to give me supplies when I didn’t have a dime in my pocket.” Her voice boomed. “Business is good. Them miners get tired of eatin’ a man’s cookin’. They can eat a dishpan full of bearclaws at the drop of a hat.” She laughed heartily. “Another week or two and I can pay you off, Elias.”

Before Elias could reply, Lee Longstreet came into the restaurant. He paused in the doorway, his eyes sweeping the room, before he removed his hat and slicked the sides of his hair back with his palms. He nodded and spoke to Mary and Laura, ignored Elias, and sat down at the end of the only other table in the room.

“Howdy,” Mrs. Chandler called, but to Mary the greeting seemed to lack enthusiasm. “Myrtle, take Mr. Longstreet some coffee while I dish up.”

As Myrtle reached the table where Mr. Longstreet was sitting, Mary turned to tell Theresa to stop giggling and eat her dinner. Myrtle had placed the cup of hot coffee on the table and was turning away when the man reached out and ran his hand down the inside of her leg. Myrtle was so startled that she jumped and jarred the table. Coffee spilled and puddled around the cup.

“Can’t you do anything right, Myrt?” Flossie spoke sharply to her sister and grabbed up a cloth to mop up the spill.

Myrtle hung her head, hurried behind the counter, and plunged her hands into the dishwater.

“It’s all right, Miss Flossie,” Mr. Longstreet said smoothly. “Your sister is just a little nervous.”

He looked over at Mary. His eyes locked with her accusing ones. A slight smile twisted his thin lips, and he lifted his brows slightly in question. The lecher! Myrtle was a child no older than his own daughter! The man looked steadily back at Mary, dating her with his eyes to voice what she had witnessed. His gaze shifted to Laura, then to Elias, and back to Laura before settling on Mary’s breasts. He had the coldest eyes Mary had ever seen. She decided then and there that she detested him even more than she detested Art Ashland.

His presence had put a chilling effect on everyone in the restaurant with the exception of the children. They giggled and whispered and nudged each other. The adults ate in almost total silence. Flossie brought Mr. Longstreet a plate of food and went back to the kitchen.

Lee Longstreet was a short, thin man, about forty, who had always schemed big and functioned small. He refused to think of himself as other than the elegant son of a large plantation owner in Mississippi. One of his greatest pleasures was counting the number of slave families his father had owned, the number of wenches he and his father had ridden, and the number of mulattos they had produced.