Above the Bridge (11 page)

“Now you remember this is a respectable hall.  We only employ fine young ladies, not any of those other types.’  Pearl pulled back, eyed the newly painted Paige and gave a few clucks of approval.  “Your job is to make sure the men have a good time, dancing, drinking and talking if they’re in the mood to run their mouths a bit.  But at the end of the night they go home.  The rest of it ain’t your job.  Just remember that.”

Opening her mouth to try to explain that this must be some kind of a mix up, Paige felt a hand on her left arm and a slight pull away from Pearl.  She turned to find herself looking into the face of a decent-looking man, dressed in business-like attire.  His clothing was a notch or two upscale from what the men on the street had been wearing.

“So you’re the new girl they sent up from Denver,” the man stated, with a tone that made it obvious that he was pleased.  “Well, you owe me the first dance, then, seein’ as I’m the one who brought you up here.  It’s about time you showed up.”  He pulled her out to the middle of the floor, alongside the woman in the green dress and her dance partner, both of whom nodded a kind hello.

The man rested one hand on Paige’s waist and lifted her hand with the other, keeping a respectable distance between them as they started moving their feet to the music.  Paige followed along, instantly grateful for the cotillion classes she had been subjected to as a pre-teen.

“You’re a pretty one, you know.  We don’t always get the best dance hall girls out here in Jackson, but you’re as fine as they come.”  Paige started to say something and, using her better judgment, decided instead to merely smile.  It was enough to just take all this in, without having to form any responses.  She had a feeling she could get by, for the most part, with a simple smile for awhile, while she tried to figure out what had happened to her.

“As I was saying, we don’t get many of the best girls here,” the man repeated.  “The fine ones usually go on to California, out to San Francisco where the bigger dance halls are.  But this is a fine place here, Jackson is.  You’re going to be glad you came here instead.”

The woman in the green dress, who was just circling by at that moment, nodded her head in agreement.  “Glad you’re here,” she whispered from a few feet away.

Paige wasn’t so sure she could agree.  At the moment a martini at the top of the San Francisco Hyatt sounded just fine to her.  And a first class airline ticket to get there would promise a smoother flight than whatever she’d just taken.

She looked around the room and saw a few more men entering.  Most seemed to be fairly respectable types, not like a few of the characters she’d already seen around town.  They removed their hats once inside and nodded a few hellos around the room before mingling in with the crowd.

“I see you’re lookin’ around at your new home,” the man remarked.  “It’s a nice building, this place.  It was built by the Jackson Hole Gun Club, back around 1897.  And it’s not just a dance hall, you know.  We call it The Clubhouse.  We use it for settlin’ our legal disputes and we can gather together and smoke here, too.”  The man seemed immensely proud of all this.  “Of course, bein’ a lady and all, you don’t smoke, but us men, we love to get together now and then and partake.”

Well, I don’t smoke anymore, not since quitting a few years ago, Paige thought to herself, but decided it would be wise to not state this out loud.

The music ended and the man escorted her to a seat at the side of the room, thanked her for the dance and promised he’d be back to dance with her again later on.  From there he left, joining a group of men by the front door.

The woman in the green dress had parted with her dance partner on the floor and now moved swiftly in to sit beside Paige.

“I am so glad you’re here, honey,” she said, fluffing her hair with her right hand and pulling her skirt aside in order to take a seat on the chair next to Paige.  “We’ve been wondering for weeks who the new girl was they were sending up here.  My name’s Susanna, you know, like the song, “Oh, Susanna.”  She hummed a few bars, and then continued.  “And I know you’re Maylene, they told us your name before you got here.”

What good would it do to try to correct anything at this point, Paige wondered?  And even if she wanted to, it would have been impossible to get a word in edgewise.  Susanna kept right on going, telling her about the dance hall, the customers, the town, her beau, her other friends, where she lived and where to get the best price on flour.

“You’ll just have to see the new dresses in at Deloney’s, back in the corner.  There’s one about your size in the prettiest sapphire blue.  It would be beautiful with your dark hair, Maylene.  And it’s got little pearls around the neckline and at the ends of the sleeves.  Oh, and the neckline is low enough, without being too low, if you know what I mean.”  Susanna turned her head slightly sideways and gave a little wink.  Before she could continue on this time, however, both girls were startled by a crash just outside.  Following others, they moved over to the front door to take a look.

Three large, wooden barrels rested on their sides in the middle of the dusty road, piles of potatoes spread out across the dirt.  A crude wagon was at a standstill, angled slightly in toward the building.  Dust rose up from the ground where its wheels had come to rest.  Two chickens ran squawking away from the scene.  In the center of the commotion an older man stood wearing overalls and a shirt that may have been white at some point in the past.  He pulled a tattered hat off his head and threw it down on the ground.

“Dang it, Russell.  Why can’t you ever watch where that horse of yours is going?”  The man stomped on his hat with one foot, then stepped back and kicked it with the other.  The hat went flying, landing on a small pile of potatoes a few feet away.

“Stomping that hat of yours into the ground ain’t gonna change anything, Zeke,” a bystander shouted from across the road.  “You know Russell’s not the best driver in the west.  You just have to watch out for him.  Anyway, he’s long gone by now.”  He waved his arm down the road, where the back of another wagon was just retreating in a cloud of dust.

Zeke huffed and turned around in a circle, surveying the damage.  “Well, if you ask me, that man shouldn’t even be allowed on the road, much less on that horse of his.”

Paige watched bystanders shake their heads and go back to whatever they were doing before the commotion.  It was obvious that this was a regular occurrence, most likely repeated frequently by the same two characters.

Susanna pulled on Paige’s sleeve and motioned for her to come back inside.

“You can’t have much pity on those two, Zeke and Russell,” she said, laughing.  “They’re always in some sort of scuffle.  It’s been going on for years and it’ll probably go on for a lot more.”

“I take it they’re regulars around here,” Paige commented, feeling any comment would be better than staying as quiet as she’d been so far.

“Regulars?”  Susanna laughed again.  “There ain’t nothing regular about those two.  They’re about as irregular as can be.  Now you want regular, you take Jeremiah.  He’s a quiet sort, but ain’t nothing else odd about him.  Stays out of trouble, keeps his mouth shut.  You can always find him hangin’ out down at Tuttle’s place, but he stays out of fights and other things, gambling and the like.  Not like some of the other boys down there.”

Paige looked at her inquisitively.  “Tuttle’s place?”  She asked, more for conversation than anything else.

“Yep, Tuttle’s place, the saloon,” Susanna said.  “Don’t worry.  You’ll get to know the town in no time. Tuttle’s is the place where you can find out just about anything that goes on in this town.  Not a fit place for a lady, though.  I’m just warning you.  People get the wrong impression about ladies who go in there.  Or they get the right one, depending on the case.”

Susanna turned to smile at a well-dressed man who had approached while they were talking.  Reaching her hand out, she accepted his unspoken invitation to dance.  Paige watched the two walk away and then stood and eased her way around the room towards the door, trying to appear casual and not attract attention.  When she reached the front of The Clubhouse, she slipped outside.

Most of the potatoes and household goods were loaded back on Zeke’s wagon, though he still stood there muttering to himself.  Paige passed by quietly and walked down the road, small bits of dust kicking up around the heels of her boots.  She passed a couple young boys sitting on the ground, thumbs plunking marbles across a flat section of dirt.  A woman walked past with a high necked blouse and street-length skirt, glancing sideways at Paige with a slight frown of disapproval.

She arrived in front of Tuttle’s Saloon and stood outside, taking in the building.  It was, like the other buildings, built of wood, with a tall, false front.  It was a style she was familiar with from watching old westerns and from photographs of old ghost towns.  But to see it right in front of her was another story.

The front of the saloon was plain, but had a porch that ran the length of the building, with four tall beams holding up the small, sloped front roof.  True to classic western saloon style, there were two swinging doors at the entrance.  In spite of Susanna’s warning, Paige summoned up her courage and stepped inside.

The bar was long and elegant, carved exquisitely from a wood that appeared to be mahogany.  Behind the front counter a tall, wide mirror covered the wall, elaborately decorated with gold designs.  The counter itself was sturdy and long with bar stools all along the front.  A few men sat at the bar, most wearing hats, white shirts, vests and pants made of heavy cotton fabric.  Four other men sat at a table in the corner, cards in their hands, looks of concentration on their faces.

To Paige’s immense relief, it wasn’t crowded and she didn’t seem to attract much attention.  A couple of the men at the bar took a look her way, but turned away to nurse their drinks, whether out of more desire for what was in their glasses or out of disapproval at seeing a lady inside the saloon.  The men playing cards kept their attention focused on their game, one tapping his foot nervously below the table, another slouching back with a sly smirk on his face.

One man at the end of the bar, sitting alone, caught Paige’s attention.  He portrayed the classic look of a cowboy, someone well-suited for his western surroundings.  Though missing the stereotypical modern-day jeans and boots, he wore a weathered hat, tilted forward.  The chestnut brown hair below that was slightly ruffled, as if a gust of wind had just blown across his shoulders.  His neck and forearms were deeply tanned.   She guessed his age to be around twenty-five, give or take a year or two. 

As an excuse to get closer, she approached the bar and asked the bartender for a glass of water.  He looked at her as if she were either crazy or lost, but poured her a glass of water anyway, sliding it slowly across the counter.  He didn’t speak and Paige didn’t offer up any conversation, other than a quiet “Thank you.”  She turned away from the bar and then, feeling suddenly conspicuous, turned back and tried to make herself as invisible as possible.

Hearing the slap of the swinging doors behind her, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder.  A man of about thirty years of age had entered, short but stocky in build, with a gruff expression and air of condescension.  He looked around and walked over to the man sitting quietly at the end of the bar.

“What’ll it be for you today, Cyrus?”  The bartender called down the bar, clearly giving the man more of a welcome than Paige had received.  She wasn’t surprised, having been warned by Susanna that women weren’t welcome in the saloon.

“Just the usual, Slim.  A glass of your best rotgut barrelhouse whiskey, and the sooner the better.”  He slapped his hand on the counter, perhaps out of impatience or perhaps for emphasis.  “Oh, and give Jeremiah another of whatever he’s having, too.”  He tossed a couple silver dollars onto the counter and turned to Jeremiah and lowered his voice.  Paige inched a little closer.  Thankfully, the two men didn’t seem to notice.

Though Paige couldn’t hear all of their conversation, she was able to pick up bits and pieces.  Between gulps of whiskey, Cyrus and Jeremiah seemed to be working out a plan, though what it was about Paige couldn’t tell.  Phrases such as “back at the cabin” and “ain’t safe there” and “when I know, you’ll know” were fairly clear.  The tones of the voices raised and lowered, as if some degree of disagreement existed between them, but nothing they wanted others to notice.

Looking sideways carefully, Paige saw that Jeremiah had not changed positions, eyes focused on his whiskey, which he swirled in circles with a steady movement of his glass.  Cyrus, on the other hand, shifted his weight back and forth, fidgeting with his drink and appearing impatient. At one point the conversation remained too hushed to make out any of the words, but seemed to quicken and become animated, voices rising as it did.  Cyrus pounded his fist on the counter and leaned in toward Jeremiah in a threatening manner, then pulled back and took a large gulp from his glass.

“You’ll just have to trust me on this one,” Paige heard one of the two men say.  She guessed from the rough tone that it must have been Cyrus.  Jeremiah didn’t respond, but leaned forward, falling directly into Paige’s view.  She snapped her head back quickly in an attempt to cover up her eavesdropping.

Cyrus, however, seemed to have noticed her, because he set his glass down on the bar, straightened up and stuck both his thumbs in his belt, one on each side of a large silver buckle.  He walked slowly over to her, his boots clicking sharply on the sawdust-covered wood floor.