Gabriel's Lady

“The cooking?” While money was not abundant in the Prescott household with all that was spent on their parents’ respective crusades, the family had never been without a cook and a maid.

Amelia nodded firmly. “I don’t know why not. I have two good hands and a brain in my head. It can’t be that hard to learn. We’ll start by going into town and picking up some supplies.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Morgan said, shaking his head.

There seemed to be no way to lock up the cabin, so they merely shut the door, saddled up their horses and rode away, leaving everything unprotected, as appeared to be the custom in this strange land. They headed back across the beautiful meadow, then followed the twisting path into town. Amelia’s spirits rose as they went. It felt good to be doing something, to have a purpose. Parker would feel better, too, she decided, when she told him that she was going to leave him alone to his mining operations and that she would take care of having a clean house and a nice hot meal ready for him each day. Perhaps if she made him happy enough, he would agree to give up his trips to town.

When they reached the main street, she told Morgan, “I’m going to send a wire to Mother and Father letting them know that we’ll be heading back in six weeks. I don’t know exactly how I’ll explain the delay, but I’ll think of something. In the meantime, I’d like you to look for Parker.”

Morgan frowned as he tied their mounts to the rail in front of the telegraph office. “I don’t like leaving you alone, Missy. And, anyway, where am I supposed to find that wild brother of yours?”

Amelia shrugged. “I believe he mentioned an establishment called the Lucky Horseshoe.”

Morgan’s frown deepened. “Now, Missy, you know very well that I haven’t been inside a saloon these past twenty years.”

Amelia bit her lip. “I didn’t say you had to drink anything, Morgan. Just fetch him out of there. Tell him I want to talk with him.”

“I don’t know…”

Amelia gave him a gentle shove. “Go on with you. I’ll send my wire and then meet the two of you at the general store.”

His big boots shuffling against the fine dust of the street, Morgan headed down the row of saloons toward a large building at one end that sported an awning and a shellacked sign painted with an upside-down horseshoe.

Tinny piano music drifted out through the saloon’s wide-open door. Morgan took a deep breath, set his shoulders and walked in.

Gambling tables covered with green felt filled over half of the large, smoky room. Clustered next to the bar were a few smaller tables just for drinking. Most were empty. A busty woman with bright yellow hair sat on a stool next to the bar, her crossed legs revealing the grimy ruffles of at least three petticoats.

Morgan paused at the door and squinted through the smoke at the gambling tables.

“Hey, big fella,” the woman at the bar called to him. “Wanna buy me a drink?”

He walked slowly toward her, politely removing his hat as he went. “I’m just here looking for a friend, ma’am.”

“I can be right friendly when I want to be, Samson.” Her eyelashes were crusted with kohl. Close up she looked much older than she had from the door. There was no welcome in her eyes to match her words.

“Ah…the name’s Morgan, ma’am. Morgan Jones. But I really just came to find a fellow name of Parker Prescott. Would you know him, by any chance?”

She smiled. “Parker’s a regular. And a right pretty boy he is, too.” The thickened lashes fluttered up and down. “But I prefer the strong silent type, don’t ya know. So how’s about that drink?”

Morgan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ah…have you seen Parker around here this afternoon?”

The woman leaned back against the bar and turned her head to call to the bartender at the far end. “Roscoe, this fellow here doesn’t want to have a drink with me.”

The words were slurred, and as she swung around she teetered for a moment at the edge of the stool. Morgan put out a hand to steady her.

“No sampling of the merchandise,” said a voice behind him. “If you want Stella’s company, you’d better buy a drink.”

Morgan turned around. The man in back of him was a middle-aged man, elegantly dressed with a bright silk vest that stretched over a banker’s paunch. His cheeks were slightly flabby and his hands looked soft. He had thinning hair that he’d greased and pulled over to one side. Normally Morgan would have brushed off such a man like a bread crumb on a tablecloth, but there was something in the fellow’s expression that gave him pause. The man smiled and stood politely awaiting Morgan’s answer. His steel-colored eyes held a deadly expression that matched the deadliness of the longbarreled Colt Special tucked into his belt.

“I don’t drink, sir,” Morgan said softly.

The man’s smile grew broader. “Well, now. That’s a strange thing to say for a man standing in the middle of a saloon. Or did you think this was the Ladies’ Aid Society?”

Morgan held his temper. “I’m just looking for Parker Prescott.”

The man hesitated for a minute, then seemed to make a decision. He clapped Morgan on the back and said heartily, “Any friend of Parker’s is welcome here, my good fellow. I take it you’re new in town.”

Reluctantly Morgan introduced himself.

“I’m Jim Driscoll. Big Jim, most folks call me.” He patted a hand on his stomach and laughed. He pushed the woman roughly off the stool. “Go on upstairs and get some coffee to sober up, Stella,” he told her. “How’re you supposed to last out the night when you’re sotted before sunset?”

She stumbled away from the bar and headed toward the stairs at the end of the room. Driscoll indicated the seat she had vacated. “Sit down, Jones. The first one’s on the house for a new customer.”

Morgan didn’t move. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Driscoll, but as I said before, I don’t drink. If Parker’s not here, I’ll just be moving along.”

“Something wrong with our liquor, man?” Two cowboys, one with two Smith & Wessons holstered in a double gunbelt and one with a Colt Peacemaker stuffed into his pants, had quietly come up along either side of Driscoll. Morgan took a step backward but found himself up against the long bar. “I’m not here for trouble,” he said, holding out his empty hands.

“It looks like Mr. Jones’s backbone doesn’t quite match up to the rest of his size,” Driscoll said with a sneer.

Morgan dropped his hands and tried to move around the three men. Before he could take a second step, the man with the gunbelt had cleared leather. Slowly he pulled back the hammer of the big gun, cocked it and pointed it at Morgan’s chest.

Morgan froze in place. A rivulet of sweat made its way along his temple. Driscoll was still smiling. Chairs scraped and the piano music across the room slowed, then stopped altogether.

A man at one of the gaming tables rose to his feet and sauntered toward the group at the bar. “What seems to be the problem here, Driscoll?” Gabe Hatch asked in an even voice.

The smile dropped off Driscoll’s face as he turned toward the newcomer. “Go on back to your game, Hatch. This is a private matter.”

Gabe ignored him and kept on coming, stopping just behind the cowboy with the drawn gun. His hands were at his sides, fingers slightly spread.

“Mr. Jones is a friend of mine, gentlemen,” Gabe said. “And he’s new in town. I wouldn’t want to see him get into any kind of trouble.”

The man with the Peacemaker still tucked in his belt said, “Your friend thinks he’s too good to have a drink with Big Jim here.”

“I told you to stay out of it, Hatch,” Driscoll said, turning around to face Gabe.

“And I told you that Morgan’s a friend of mine.” He had no visible weapon, but he flexed his fingers and had the look of a man ready to take action.

He and Driscoll locked gazes for a tense moment. Finally the saloon owner shrugged and said, “Tell your friend he’d better be more sociable the next time he comes around here.” He gave a curt nod to the man holding the gun, who immediately uncocked it and slipped it back into its holster. Then he pushed past Gabe and walked away.

Gabe gripped Morgan’s shoulder. The big man was shaken by the encounter, and Gabe didn’t blame him. Deuce Connors had gotten his nickname from those two sidearms of his, and he handled them as slickly as anyone in Deadwood. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Parker’s not around. He must be over at Mattie’s.”

Connors and the other gunman kept their eyes on them as they walked toward the door. “Friendly town,” Morgan said dryly when they were out on the street.

“Yeah, well, most of the people are all right. Driscoll’s just gotten too swelled for his britches. He’s got the biggest saloon in town and owns most of those rentals up there.” He pointed up the canyon wall to a section of tin-roofed shacks built practically on top of each other. “Charges sky-high rents for miserable huts that a pig would think twice about sleeping in. But there are so many danged fools arriving every day determined to strike it rich that he can set any price he wants.”

Morgan spat into the dust as if trying to rid himself of the taste of Big Jim Driscoll. “He won’t have my patronage again, that’s for darn sure.”

Gabe started down the street. “I’ll walk with you to Mattie’s,” he said. “I wouldn’t choose the Lucky Horseshoe myself except that it has the richest games in town. If you want to talk real money, you’ve got to be a customer of Big Jim.”