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From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Poker Chip (MF oral western) {Kellis} [1/2]
Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2000 21:10:04 -0400
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The Poker Chip
a Short Story by Kellis
June, 2000
(Part 1 of 2)
"40 dollars is the bet."
The train rattled and swayed. The oil lamp hanging above Tyler's
head swung back and forth, casting shifting shadows over the
narrow-eyed men clustered around the gaming table. Cigarette and
fragrant cigar smoke thickened the air. The bettor sat directly
across the table, a full-bearded man with hooded eyes and cards
held tight against a plum waistcoat, probably a professional
gambler. His opening was the largest yet heard in this game. So
he was confident, was he? Or had he reached the bluffing stage
in his plan for the evening?
The man to his right folded. Tyler thought of studying his own
cards again, but he had already decided on his play. His hand
consisted of the deuce, trey, four and five of spades, plus the
king of hearts: "king high" as it stood, but improvable nine
ways into a flush, eight ways into a straight or even two ways
into a straight-flush. 19 cards existed that would better his
hand.
In the hours of play since departing Placerton he had drawn ahead
in the game. Over a hundred dollars in gold, silver and paper,
new to him, were tucked into the coat pocket where he liked to
hold winnings. He felt a keen anticipation that he was careful
to keep off his face. With Lady Luck smiling, a hand so
improvable as this one demanded that he have faith, even against
a professional gambler.
He peeled the paper out of his pocket and added a gold coin.
Gently placing them on his opponent's gold, he said, "Call 40 and
raise you 40."
"Fold!" immediately declared the man on his left, throwing down
his cards disgustedly. This was the dealer, which fact relieved
Tyler of one potential concern.
The professional smiled at Tyler. "Think your luck will
continue, do you?"
"One way to find out," Tyler replied.
"Quite right," the man agreed, shoving the remainder of his stack
into the middle of the table. "I call." With a lot of other
gamblers this one apparently believed that keeping his money
visible would draw more towards it. Tyler believed it more
likely to draw furtive fingers.
"I'll take one," the man declared, spinning one card to the
dealer, who gravely returned him one before turning his attention
to Tyler.
"I'll also take one," Tyler announced, slipping the king from the
bottom of his hand onto the table beside the dealer and taking
the card passed in return.
Before he could weave it into his hand, the professional said
smugly, "I'll give you a piece of advice, Slim. My four beats
your four."
"Thank you," Tyler replied. "Your concern is touching."
Chuckles arose from the hovering crowd. Tyler carefully edged
the new card past the retained four. It proved to be ... god!
The six of spades!
Controlling his breathing and expression, he spread out the five
cards barely enough to verify their identity, covering them with
his free hand so that only his eye could perceive them. Indeed
he held a six-high straight-flush.
"To show you I'm not just whistling Dixie," said the
professional, eyes twinkling, "here's a vote of confidence. I
bet $100." He reached into his waistcoat and delivered a small
stack of gold to the center of the table.
The crowd sighed in a collective intake of breath, but sulfurous
smoke from the distant locomotive, now laboring up a hill, blew
into the open windows and converted many sighs to mad coughing
fits. Tyler emptied his winnings pocket and felt inside his
coat. He laid gold coins on the table top while surreptitiously
loosening the revolver holstered at his side. When the coughing
had quieted, he declared. "Call your hundred and raise another."
The professional smile slowly faded. Tyler wished for brighter
lights. It seemed to him that the face had paled above its thick
beard.
The man took a deep breath and shook his head. "Who would have
thought *you* could buy a pot!"
Losing this money would be painful but not catastrophic. Tyler
allowed himself to smile slightly. "I don't want to buy it. I
want to win it. Thought you said your four would beat mine."
"They will, believe me!"
"Well, what else have you got that might be worth $100?"
The man studied him thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in decision. He
squared up his cards, laid them face down on the table before him
and stood up. "I'll be right back."
"Hold on!" cautioned the dealer. "You know the rules."
"I'm not going for a loan," the professional declared. "I'm
going to get that *else* he mentioned."
"Let him go," advised Tyler. "If he's not back in a couple
minutes, he defaults."
"Just long enough to go to the next car and back," the man
explained, pushing his way through the onlookers.
"Money in his carpetbag," one opined.
"Huh!" doubted another. "He'd keep that beside him."
Speculation continued as the crowd waited, reaching a consensus
that the gambler would produce the deed for a mining claim.
Excited voices announced his return. The onlookers parted to let
him through. He was leading a woman by the hand.
Her eyes were downcast. She was hatless with chestnut hair
pinned up into a chignon. She wore colorful clothing, a lace
blouse under a bodice tight enough to compress though not conceal
her ample breasts, over a flowing but unstayed full skirt,
stained in several spots. Her face was colorless and
expressionless. She held a small carpetbag in her other hand.
The gambler took his seat, the woman standing just behind him.
The dealer frowned. "You can't borrow money from her, either,
'less she's your wife."
"She's not my wife," the man explained, staring into Tyler's
eyes. "She's the *else*."
A burst of questions arose. "What?" "What'd he say?"
Tyler raised a hand for silence, which was immediately granted.
He asked, "What do you mean?"
"I won her in Placerton," said the gambler, unsmiling. "She
covered a $200 bet."
Again exclamations rose among the spectators. "Is she part
nigger?" "No matter; slavery's been illegal for ten years."
"If this is a joke," said Tyler, "I don't see the humor."
The man shook his head. "No joke. I offer her to call your bet
plus a raise of $100."
"You must take me for a fool, sir." Tyler pushed back his chair.
"Do you admit to being in default?"
"One moment, please!" The man held up his palm. "Look at her.
I'm perfectly serious about this. If you win, she's entirely
yours, body, soul and carpetbag. She answers to the name, Sal
LaTour. Sal, look at the man across the table. If he wins,
you're to go with him and do whatever he tells you. Do you
understand?"
The woman raised her eyes to study Tyler. They were green and
penetrating. And *lost*. That word rose in Tyler's mind but
settled somewhere around his heart. Unconsciously his mouth fell
open. Momentarily a smile flickered under the gambler's beard.
"I understand," said the woman softly into a sudden silence
marred only by the creaking of the rail coach and the clacking of
its wheels. Her voice was a melodious contralto most agreeable
to Tyler's ear.
"And do you agree," the gambler continued, "to be his woman and
obey him exactly if he wins?"
"I do," she added, a bit more firmly. Tyler caught his breath,
realizing that her unpainted face was nevertheless the most
beautiful he had ever seen.
"Not that I expect him to win," added the gambler with a smirk.
"Well, Slim, what about it? Still want me to default?"
"This is crazy," declared the dealer. "You can't treat her like
property."
"I can if she's willing," riposted the gambler. "You heard her."
Tyler knew that he had $85 left. To transact his business in
Kellens he needed to rent a hotel room and a horse and to feed
the two mouths for a few days. Suppressing the sudden emotions
in his breast, he declared firmly, "I'll accept her as a call to
the hundred outstanding but not as a raise."
The gambler grinned, but his mirth faded as he appreciated the
determination in Tyler's eyes. "Come on, man! She's worth more
than that! Just look at her. This is a pretty woman. And a
willing one."
"You know that for a fact, do you?"
The man shrugged. "Well, no. We caught the train right after
the game in Placerton. But she *says* she's willing -- in front
of witnesses!"
Tyler dared not look at her again. He sighed. "I'll allow
$125."
"$150!" countered the gambler.
Tyler stared tight-lipped, strongly tempted to offer $140. Would
a professional gambler wager a beauty like this if he had any
other resource? The man was most likely in desperate straights.
But another fact was more important. He, Tyler, wanted this
woman. He knew it in every part of himself, from heart to
testicles. The more fool, he!
"All right. $150." He reached into his coat, identified the
three proper coins by their size and brought them out onto the
table. "I've called you."
"So you have." The gambler grinned. "I warned you. You can't
beat these four." He turned his hand over to reveal four aces
and the king of spades. His eyes stared hungrily at Tyler, a
triumphant laugh already forming in his throat.
The crowd of spectators breathed, "Aces all!" "God, what a
hand!"
Tyler cut the noise short. "Oh yes, I *can* beat those four!"
The man froze. The crowd held its breath. Slowly Tyler laid his
cards on the table and spread them apart.
"The next higher hand!" someone called. Pandemonium ensued. The
gambler sat back in shock. Unquestionably his face was whiter
now. He stared at Tyler in the manner of a wounded animal,
unable to escape.
Tyler waited, right hand near his revolver butt. He allowed
himself one glance at the woman. Her huge eyes were watching
him. One corner of her mouth was pulled up -- in a crooked
smile? Her hand, which had rested on the gambler's shoulder, now
hung limply at her side.
The man took a deep breath and watched with both palms on the
table edge while Tyler's left hand raked in the bills and coins,
transferring the lot to the side pocket of his coat as the noise
around them subsided.
When the table was clean, he stood up. "Deal me out," he told
the man with the cards.
"But you're winning!" the man noted with a frown.
"Damn right!" Tyler moved around the player on his left and
stood beside the watching woman. His left hand came out of his
pocket. He leaned past her and gently placed a golden double
eagle on the table before the gambler.
"I don't like to clean a man out," he explained, "so do me a
favor and accept this." Murmurs of approval rose around him.
Rising up, he asked the woman, "Will you take my hand?"
Her answer was to offer her own. He took it in his left, looked
around at the staring company and pulled her after him toward the
doorway to the next car. The noise behind him, which had nearly
died away, swelled in volume. "Shove in my regards!" someone
called enviously, leading to a crash of laughter and further
obscene suggestions.
In the day coach her carpetbag bumped against the baggage other
riders had stacked inconsiderately in the narrow aisle. He took
it from her, though she was reluctant to release it, and held it
high in his right hand as they continued on to the next coach.
Being closest to the odorous and noisy engine, it was less
popular. He gestured to the first unoccupied bench they reached
and returned her bag as she took the seat closer to the window.
The train was now over the hill and plunging ever faster into the
black night. The cool breeze of its passage fluttered the wisps
of hair that had escaped from her bun. In the feeble light of
the flickering oil lamps he saw her large eyes studying him.
"If you're wondering what I'm going to do with you," he said
wryly, "that makes two of us."
She only stared. She seemed to be biting her lip.
"My name is Tyler, Marknell Tyler. My close friends call me
Mark."
"Marknell Tyler," she repeated. Her tongue wet her lips.
"And you are Sal LaTour?"
Her mouth twisted. "Phyllis."
"Eh?"
"My name is Phyllis."
"Phyllis what?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
"You don't know your last name?"
"No."
"Who named you LaTour? Your husband?"
"Husband!" She shook her head. "The first man who lost me
called me that."
"The first man? How many times have you been lost?"
"Three, so far."
"You've been lost at cards *three* times?"
"That I can remember."
"What the hell, Phyllis! You're not a slave, you know. This
train will get to Kellens in another hour. You can get off it
and go anywhere you want and nobody can stop you."
She stiffened. Her eyes bored into his. "You don't want me?"
"Huh? I never said that."
"I have to do what you say."
The words, *No, you don't!* rose hotly to his lips, but staring
at her, he held them in check. The *lost* look had reappeared in
her eyes. Again she licked her lips.
"Are you thirsty, Phyllis?"
"Oh, I am so thirsty!"
He looked around the car. It was about half occupied, mostly
with bearded men who appeared to be asleep.
"Wait here," he told her, getting to his feet. In the next car
back he found the snack boy asleep, lying protectively half upon
his pack of remaining food and beverages. Tyler returned to the
woman with filled arms.
"I've got two bottles of beer and one of sassafras tea. What's
your choice, Phyllis?"
"The beer, please."
"But no glasses," he added, unscrewing a lid for her. She drank
thirstily and smiled when she lowered the bottle at last. "How I
hate warm beer! But how wonderfully wet it is!"
He sampled the other bottle of beer. "It *is* wet. So you
remember that you don't like sassafras, eh?"
"No. I don't remember anything at all about sassafras. Beer is
all my ... all I've had to drink lately."
"I also have some dried beef on sourdough." He was unwrapping
greasy paper. "Are you hungry?"
"Famished."
He handed her the irregular sandwich. "Be careful. I don't know
how fresh it is."
She sniffed it and took a huge byte. Chewing vigorously, she
made sounds of pleasure through her nose.
"When we get to Kellens, I'll feed you a good breakfast." He sat
back and watched her consume the entire hunk of bread and meat
and drink most of the bottle of beer. When she took it down from
her lips, she burped explosively. Her eyes widened. Her hand
rose to cover her mouth and she murmured, "Oh, please excuse me."
He smiled, sipping his own beer. "Where are you from, Phyllis?"
"I don't know."
"How can you not know that?"
"The first thing I can remember in my life is waking up in a bed
in a hotel in Charon three weeks ago."
He stared at her, asking weakly, "You did *what*?"
She took a breath. Words poured from her, obviously familiar
words. Her contralto voice was musical in his ears, but her
message was incredible. "I knew how to dress and eat, how to
behave in polite company, and how to speak, read and write
English. I knew my name was Phyllis. I knew I had a dreadful
headache. But that's all. I had no memory of my past life or
how I came to be in that hotel room.
"I was naked. One calico dress hung in the wardrobe. It was too
big for me. I put it on anyway and went barefoot down to the
saloon. According to the barkeep, also the concierge, the room
in which I awoke had not been rented in a week. He claimed never
to have seen me before. He was a horrid man, not friendly at
all. He thought I was a prostitute and offered me a job. I knew
enough to be offended by his offer. He would have thrown me out
into the street except that a well-dressed man stopped him.
"That was Richard Gandy, a gambler, fortunately flush. He fed
me, took me to the Charon emporium and bought me clothing and
this carpetbag. Then he brought me to his hotel room, had a
bathtub fetched, bathed me and made love to me several times. I
was not a virgin. He named me Sal LaTour, after a shill he once
kept, or so he said. The next day I was sore where a prostitute
would not be, which I think is significant."
When Tyler only nodded, she continued, "He meant to train me as a
shill, too, but his luck changed for the worse. In a week he was
broke. He used me to cover a bet and lost to Perry Jones,
another lucky gambler. Perry bought me a ring and a bracelet and
bedded me twice a day for a week. Then luck left him, too. He
brought us to Placerton, where he began by winning. But after
several days he went broke, lost my jewelry, then lost *me* to
Anson Caliver.
"But Perry didn't want to give me up. Caliver killed him in a
gunfight. We had to leave immediately. Caliver is the only one
of the three who never bedded me. He never had time. And now
you, Marknell Tyler. I guess your bad luck has just started."
"Except I'm not really a gambler. I'm a railroad surveyor. But
this is incredible, Phyllis. None of those men ever tried to
find out how you arrived in that hotel?"
"No." She smiled ironically. "Perry said it would be like
questioning fate for dealing you a royal flush."
"He thought a lot of you, did he?"
"I guess so. He said he did, anyway, and he certainly loved to
love me." She looked away. "He was exciting. I'll miss him."
"I guess so," Tyler agreed sympathetically. "Well, as pretty as
you are, somebody somewhere must be frantic with worry about you.
When we get to Kellens, I'll send some telegrams."
"Will you? Oh. Caliver bought us tickets clear through to
Kansas City."
"Did he! Well, it's up to you. You can get off with me in
Kellens and I'll do whatever I can to find out who you are.
That's more than you might think. I know a few marshals and even
some newspapermen. Or you can go on to Kansas City. I'll be
very disappointed if you do, Phyllis, but you really aren't my
slave, you know."
She studied him in the flickering light. Again her slight,
crooked smile was evident. "Do you truly think I'm pretty?"
"You're just slightly too pale, Phyllis, but I think with a
little paint or a week of better food you could be the loveliest
woman in the world. As far as I'm concerned, anyway."
"How extravagant!" Her hand settled over his and she leaned her
head against his shoulder. "Thank you, Mark. And thanks for the
food and drink. It's the first I've had of either since noon
yesterday."
"You're welcome. That bastard!"
"We had to leave in a hurry."
"He could've bought it for you as I did."
"Could he? I didn't know you could buy food on trains."
"Well, *he* did! Hmph! Had he been gambling all evening?"
"I guess."
"Then you're well rid of him. He doesn't understand
responsibility."
"He lied to you, you know."
"About what?"
"Perry used me to call only an $80 bet."
"Is that a fact! Well, Caliver was right about one thing.
You're worth a lot more than that!"
"Oh, Mark! I do hope your luck stays good."
* * * *
The woman left the train with him at Kellens and waited while he
retrieved his property from the baggage car. Shouldering the
trunk, he led her to the Madrid Hotel, the better of two
according to a friend's advice. In the bar, opened at that early
hour strictly for the train's business, he rented a room for a
week, paying three days in advance. The bartender looked at the
woman standing beside him but said nothing about her. She
followed him up the stairs, opened his door, struck the lucifer
the bar had issued, lit the oil lamp on the little table and
closed the door behind him as he set the trunk in the middle of
the floor. She regarded the double bed longingly.
"Tired, are you, Phyllis?"
"Oh, god, I am tired!"
"Well, I promised you breakfast, but no place is open at this
hour. Why don't I run back downstairs and tell them to knock us
up at eight o'clock? That'll let us sleep nearly four hours.
Think you could eat breakfast them?"
"Oh, yes, Mark. That would be lovely." Her hands went behind
her neck to the buttons on her bodice.
"Need help with that?" he asked.
She smiled self-consciously. "That would make it easier."
In two strides he stood behind her, fingers untwisting the long
row of tiny buttons. "This garment is too small for you," he
suggested.
"I know it. My ... chest is too large, but it was the closest
fit the Charon emporium had in stock."
"When the sun comes up, we'll see what we can do about that, too.
There! I'll be back shortly. You know the rule, don't you?
I'll lock the door behind me. Don't open it for *anyone*!"
She smiled. "Everyone says the same thing."
"Meaning all your men have told you the same?"
"Meaning all my owners."
"Phyllis ..."
"Hurry back, won't you, Mark?"
He caught the bartender relocking the bar. For $0.25 in advance
the man agreed to send his boy to knock at eight. For another
quarter he served Tyler a rotgut nightcap while answering
questions about the livery stable's hours of business and the
locations of the sheriff and telegrapher's offices.
When Tyler returned to his room, he found the woman in bed, her
clothing out of sight, presumably hung in the wardrobe chest.
Her head was propped up on a pillow. The chestnut hair streamed
richly around her shoulders, gleaming in the lamplight. The top
sheet was pulled up under her chin. Her eyes were luminous. She
smiled at him as he locked the door behind himself.
"I like lying in bed, waiting for my man." Her contralto was
soft as silk in the silence of the sleeping town.
He returned the smile. "You said you were tired."
"I was until I thought about you coming to me."
Tyler froze suddenly in realization. He cleared his throat.
"Old habits. I'm sorry, Phyllis. I wasn't thinking. I should
have ordered two rooms."
Her smile vanished. She stared at him.
"But it's too late now. The bartender's gone back to bed." He
spread his hands. "Will you forgive me?"
"Why do you say that?" she inquired. "You *won* me, for heaven's
sake!"
"Yes, I did."
"I'm your property. You can do whatever you like with me, you
know."
"Phyllis, you know better than that. Have you forgotten the
Civil War?"
She sniffed. "Abraham Lincoln said nothing about freeing Phyllis
Nobody."
He took a deep breath. "I'm not your owner, Phyllis. But I am
your friend. I'm going to find out where you belong and help you
return to it."
"Not tonight, you aren't." She frowned. "What did you mean,
'old habits?'"
He coughed. "I *was* married."
"What happened."
"She died last year. In childbed."
"And the child?"
"Dead, too."
"Did you love her, Mark?"
"Oh, yes!"
"I'm so sorry!"
"Thank you. Go to sleep, Phyllis." He turned away toward the
door.
"Where are you going?"
"I noticed a settee in the game room."
"Mark!" Her voice was sharper.
He turned back to her. She had sat up and let the bedsheet fall
to her lap. Indeed her breasts were large and pendulous, tipped
with pink nipples distinctive in the yellow lamplight. The dark,
curving shadows caught his breath.
"It's ridiculous for you to leave. Please don't."
He took a shaky breath. "Phyllis, what if it turns out that
*you* are married?"
She answered promptly, "If so, I am already a faithless wife."
He grunted. "You've thought about this, too, I see."
She shrugged with delightful effect upon her breasts. "Of
course."
He stared at her in indecision. Her eyes narrowed, then widened
in a twinkle. "For a surveyor, you're slow to look over your
property." Her hand grasped the corner of the bedsheet and threw
it off, revealing shapely legs crossed before her. The top of
the pubic thatch peered above her calves. Her hips flared on
either side of a narrow waist.
He drew breath. "Phyllis ..."
She got languidly out of bed, pale limbs flexing in the
lamplight, and came around the bed to confront him. Her hands
reached between his coat lapels to the button at the top of his
shirt. She smiled as she opened the garment. "I can be very
helpful to you, Mark, if you'll let me. I meant what I said on
the train. I'll do anything you want me to."
He stepped back a pace. "Then return to bed."
She stared at him and sighed. "Very well." She slipped away to
the edge of the bed, sat on it and leaned back on her elbows,
breasts rolling sideways. Her chestnut hair was fiery in the
matching light.
She watched him take off his coat and hang it over a chair back.
His eyes returned often to hers as he continued undressing. She
studied his every move intently. He paused at his long handle
underwear. "Should I continue?"
"I hope you will," she answered gravely.
"If I do, I'll make love to you, Phyllis."
"I hope you will," she said again.
"But with me you have a choice. You do know that, don't you?"
"Then I choose you."
He smiled. "That's all I want to hear."
The long handles joined the other clothing in the chair. He took
her hand and pulled her to her feet. His arm gathered her lush
body against his chest. They kissed for the first time, deeply
and passionately. Still holding her when their lips parted, he
leaned past her and blew out the flame in the oil lamp.
In the stygian darkness of a town without street lights he pushed
her back upon the bed. Lying poised between her legs, he asked,
"Are you ready for me, Phyllis."
"I've been ready for you, Mark, since you showed your
straight-flush."
Apparently the claim of readiness, at least, was true. She
gasped as he penetrated her body, first with short strokes then
longer and slower ones. Her hips matched his rhythm flawlessly.
"Oh, god, Phyllis, it's been so long!"
"Love me, Mark, love me! But take my heels in your hands, will
you, please?"
The effect of that was to raise her hips under his belly and to
maximize his penetration. He struck her womb and she squeaked at
each touch. Shortly her squeaks blended into contralto screams.
At the height of their frenzy he pulled out of her but continued
to thrust into her nest of hair.
The screams ceased instantly. "What are you doing?" she
demanded.
"About to come," he admitted through clenched teeth.
"I want it!" She twisted her heels out of his hands. Her whole
body writhed. In the pitch darkness he fell forward upon her
before he could catch himself -- except she was no longer there!
Nevertheless something warm and wet enclosed his straining
manhood just as the flood began. He groaned aloud as her arms
went around his hips. She did not flinch from the copious
discharge.
"My god, Phyllis!" he breathed when he could talk again. She had
slithered out from under him, pulled the sheet over them both and
lay against his side, her head on his shoulder.
"I feel that way, too," she whispered and kissed his chin. "You
need a shave."
"In the morning."
"I'll shave you. Perry was always clean shaven."
He chuckled slightly. "Let a woman shave me?"
"Who can a man trust better not to cut his throat?"
"That *is* a pretty good point! Ah, Phyllis, that bit at the
last ..."
"In my mouth?"
"Ye-es. Why did you do that?"
"Wasn't it better than the outside of my belly?"
"Oh, god, *yes*!"
"That's why."
The room was silent for a while. When he spoke again, his voice
was sleepy but sincere. "I hope you aren't married, Phyllis."
"So do I, Mark. So do I."
* * * *
At eight he donned his outer britches and ordered up an
extravagant one-dollar double bathtub, delivered along with
towels, soap and steaming pails of water by a family of mestizo
servants, while Phyllis remained asleep in the bed with the
covers up to her ears.
They spent a delightful half hour bathing each other. In the
morning light her pale body with its underlying network of veins
drew his eyes, hands and tongue irresistibly. She was flawless.
Her contralto giggle, often heard as his hands roamed over her
and she returned the favor, was music in his ears. By the time
they were out of the tub and had dried each other, they could
only fall together passionately on the bed, where again she
served him finally by mouth.
He ended up on his back with the woman propped on her forearms
above him, breasts dangling against his chest.
She smiled down at him. "Do you like me a little, Mark?"
He sighed. "You know I do, Phyllis. I think you're the most
marvelous creature I ever ..."
"Had?" she inquired sweetly.
"I was meaning to say, 'knew.'"
"In the biblical sense, perhaps."
"Ah, you know your bible, do you?"
She shook her head. "Not exactly. But I know I was educated."
"Yes, you were. You don't speak like a common wench."
She giggled. "I only behave like one."
"I wonder who educated you to that?"
"Perry encouraged me, but I think it's a natural inclination."
"It's wonderful, wherever you got it! ... Phyllis, can you
remember *nothing at all* before you awoke in Charon?"
"Nothing, Mark. It's as if I was born, full grown and educated,
three weeks ago."
"With a headache, you said."
"Yes. A terrible headache that almost blinded me until I had
eaten and bathed. My neck was sore, too, when I bent my head a
certain way."
He mused, "I've read of a condition called *amnesia*, or loss of
memory, that can result from an injury or blow to the head. Did
you find blood in your hair?"
"No, but I had a swelling here." She put a hand to her left
temple. "Richard called it a 'goose egg.' It's gone now."
"Someone struck you," he declared, gritting his teeth. "If I
find him, he'll regret it."
She smiled. "I don't hate him so much."
"You don't?"
"If he hadn't done whatever it was, you would never have owned
me."
"Owned you! Phyllis --" Suddenly he smiled in return. "What a
nice thing to say!"
She leaned down to kiss him but soon raised up and got out of
bed. "Now I'll shave you," she declared. "Did they bring a
razor?"
"In that towel on the table. Are you serious, Phyllis?"
Indeed she was. He reflected that any town would have a barber
shop, so with some little trepidation let her proceed upon his
tender skin. But she competently sharpened the razor against the
strop, then proved comfortable and quick on his face. When she
had wiped him dry and gently slapped him with cologne from her
carpetbag, he felt only smooth skin -- except on his upper lip.
"You missed this part, Phyllis."
"No, I didn't. You'll look dashing with a mustache."
"Huh! You think so? My wife made me shave it off."
"She did what? Did she say why?"
"Something about an odor, I believe."
"Oh?" The woman's eyes brightened. "You did *that* for her, did
you?"
He chuckled sheepishly, blushing.
She added thoughtfully, "I think you did love her."
"I've already told you so. Have you about worked up an
appetite?"
* * * *
They ate a hearty breakfast in the "gaming room," which doubled
as the hotel restaurant. Over final coffee he studied her
thoughtfully. "We have a lot to do today."
She grinned. "More in the bedroom?"
He chuckled. "I'm coming to believe you love that, Phyllis."
She took a deep breath and nodded. "I've already discovered I'm
a person of simple pleasures."
"I do admire your idea of pleasure," he said with feeling, "but
unfortunately one has to get up and attend to his errands."
"Errands," she repeated distastefully. "Such as new card games?"
He shook his head. "You don't have to worry about *me* putting
you in a pot."
"Don't I?"
"No, Phyllis. I told you: I'm not a gambler. I play poker when
there's nothing else to do, such as on train trips at night when
the lamps are too dim to read by." He leered at her. "But when
you're nearby, I can think of much sweeter things to do."
She nodded. "In the bedroom. But everyone needs money."
"That's one of the errands. As to some others, let's see... I
promised you a new blouse. I need to rent a horse and saddle. I
need to send some telegrams about you. Hmm. First we should go
to the sheriff's office and see if he has a bulletin on you."
He grinned sadly at her and shook his head. "I sure am reluctant
to do it."
"Then don't!"
"Phyllis, you can't mean that. Aren't you curious, at least?"
Her eyes were steady. "At this moment I'm quite content, my dear
Mark."
Tyler shook his head. "We have to do the right thing, Phyllis.
I'll bet there's a bulletin. A woman of your quality can't
disappear without someone, somewhere, raising the roof."
"My quality?"
"You're a lady, Phyllis, and a talented one. I've never had a
better shave or a better ..."
"Fuck?"
He twitched. With elevated eyebrows he demanded, "Did you have
to use that word?"
"I'm not a lady, Mark. I'm a poker chip who likes to be poked.
By you."
"*Why* do you insist on taking that view of yourself?"
She shrugged. "Because it's the correct one."
He nodded slowly. "I think I see. Because that's all you can
remember. Well, we'll get you some help on that." He raised his
hand. "Waiter!"
The waiter, busy with a table of miners, raised a finger to
acknowledge the call. Phyllis asked, "Why do you need a horse?"
"I'm also a civil engineer. Another mine has opened next to the
Silver Nugget, which makes a spur line profitable for the
railroad. They've already surveyed the route. I've got to take
some measurements in Lazy Canyon and design a long trestle."
"A bridge?"
"Yeah, made of native timber."
Her eyes lit. "That sounds interesting."
He smiled tolerantly. "Do you think so?"
"I love rugged, natural settings. They are so masculine! Would
you ..." She hesitated, lowering her eyes.
"Would I what?"
"Rent *two* horses?"
"Phyllis, you can't be serious! It's off the wagon road. It
really is a rugged wilderness with no facilities for a lady. And
how do you know you can ride?"
She raised glowing eyes to his and responded softly, "Somehow I
know it. And you'll be with me, Mark. That's facility enough
for anyone."
He stared at her beauty and slowly took a breath. "We'll have to
get you some Levis."
Her whole face brightened in a smile. "Oh, I'm sure I'll love
Levis. They're masculine, too!"
* * * *
They went to Jones Equipage Emporium and bought her a new bodice,
along with a Stetson hat, a set of Levis and at the proprietor's
urging, a so-called "western skirt" that was divided into two
full halves, one for each leg. It was the only such skirt in his
stock. Tyler detected an air of relief in the man's wink to his
assistant as he bagged the garment. They returned to the hotel,
where she donned the new skirt and bodice and smiled at him. "I
feel so much freer," she declared. Of course he insisted on
gauging her new freedom by lifting the heavy breasts through the
cloth.
"That looks like a regular skirt," he said admiringly when he
stood back.
"And it will go over a horse's back without creeping up," she
agreed.
"You do remember riding!"
She frowned. "No. It's just logical."
Perhaps not, but her body remembered. They rented horses,
mustang geldings, with saddles and saddle bags for his equipment
plus a picnic lunch. He saw from her confident seat on the
well-cinched saddle and easy hold on the reins that she was more
than familiar with riding, even astride. When she had mounted,
her horse bent far around to study the full skirt halves that
covered its rear flanks, then tossed its head, perhaps in
approval of this defense against the biting flies.
From the livery stable they trotted northeast out of town on the
mining road. Neither mentioned the sheriff or the telegraph
office.
(End Part 1 of 2)
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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