Chapter 1: Spittoons

“The frontiers of your mind are far more hazardous than any strange lands into which you may venture.”

Disraeli Hawking, London, 1861.

Masie, breathless, rushed up to me in the dining room, “Flint, it’s that Rufus again. Room six.” She was hugging herself like her tummy ached.

“Sarah?

“Sarah.”

“Wait down here.”

I picked up my eight-gauge shotgun and took the stairs two at a time. I could hear quiet sobbing sounds and the slap of a hand against flesh. The room was locked from the inside, but I had the master key that opened every door in the Bighorn Hotel.

Sarah, Mrs. Chambers’ newest whore, was curled into a ball on her rumpled bed. A thick naked man, buffalo skinner by the smell, brought his fist down hard, striking her ribs.

Sarah screamed, she’d been trying to hold it in.

I whipped him across the face with the barrel. Squashed his nose and shattered several front teeth. He shook his head, blood splattering, snarled, and leaped into the butt of my scattergun.

I caught him square on the forehead and he went down hard, out for the count. He was sprawled on his back, but his chest was moving up and down; he was breathing steadily.

Mrs. Chambers, full-length dress, perfect posture, came in. Shook her head, “Ugly mutt. Rank too.” She bent down, examined the two face wounds. Shook her head again, “There is no education in the second kick of a mule.”

“He was a slow learner.”

She looked back toward the hallway, “Lee!”

Three small Chinamen hustled in, hefted up the body, and carried him away. I kept his small .32 — a hammerless pocket pistol. I opened his wallet and placed all fourteen dollars on Sarah’s dresser.

A fourth Chinaman padded silently in, gathered boots, clothing, a black bowler hat. I tossed the empty wallet into the hat.

Mrs. Chambers watched for a moment as Gabby and Domino tried to comfort Sarah, tried to gentle her down. I went back downstairs. It was nine in the morning; the Bighorn Saloon would be pretty quiet until the miners and the sawyers got off shift around four.

I checked my Parker shotgun — none the worse for encountering the buffalo skinner’s head. Damascus barrels, solid English walnut for the butt. I had stopped worrying about nicking it years ago. One of the men who had courted my mother back in Indianapolis had drilled it into me — a weapon is a tool. Care for it, but use it when you need to.

Safeguarding whorehouse ladies hadn’t been a career goal. I’d left home to see the world. Had a year at a land grant college back in Laramie. Grew bored, ran low on funds, joined the Cavalry. It was still overpopulated by former Civil War officers and undermanned on the enlisted side.

Didn’t see much action out of Fort Laramie. By the time I saddled up, desertion was more of an Army problem than the Lakota and the other tribes. A few skirmishes that sure got my attention, but mostly it was a quiet hitch. The little Indian fighting I got into was usually at rifle distance. Our Company hadn’t lost a man in battle during my time in uniform.

A little book learning, a little Armying, I was 28 and drifted off again to see whatever else was out there. It was 1887 and I headed west, thinking I might look into what all that San Francisco talk was about. Got as far as Little River in the Territory of Montana.

My first day in town I slowed down, took a good look around. I usually did that before I drew rein. Then I paid the stable owner, Lou, twenty-five cents to board Scarface, my Appaloosa.

“Hotel?”

“Bighorn’s the best, but it’s expensive.”

My last meal had been some trail hardtack that I had to soak in coffee to soften up. A couple of days earlier I’d run out of salt pork and biscuit dough for my Dutch Oven, so I was ready for some pampering. A jot of whiskey, bath, dinner, maybe a sporting lady, a bed.

The bartender held up a bottle of Jameson, a question on his face. I nodded, been a while since I’d had anything but raw corn whiskey. He wore a crisp white shirt with a black string tie and green sleeve-garters.

He poured with a generous hand and said, “You’re a big fella.”

I shrugged. He wasn’t looking for trouble like some short men do.

“Mrs. Chambers is needing someone to oversee her operation. Security side.”

“Mrs. Chambers?”

“Owns the hotel and the whores. The restaurant too. Her husband has this saloon and the emporium next door. Part of the bank as well. Most of it from what I hear. And the Chink laundry.”

I nodded.

He held out his hand, “I’m Cheney.”

“Flint. What happened to the last guard?”

“A drunk gut-shot him. Bled out. Like to meet Mrs. Chambers?”

“Maybe. Bath first. Then dinner.”

He nodded at my eight-gauge, “What you hunt with that thing, locomotives?”

After we got past our one little dispute, Mrs. Chambers and I came to a handshake agreement. We’d try each other out for a week.

“One dollar a day, room and board.”

She had offered to throw in access to her whores as part of the deal, but I turned that down. “Figure the girls got a right to be paid.”

“They do what I tell them to.”

I shrugged, never got far arguing.

She looked at me oddly. A proud-looking woman, good looking, always wearing a full-length dress buttoned to the neck. “Don’t like girls?”

“Like ‘em fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

She tilted her head, looked up, “Anyone tell you how blue your eyes are?”

“Not lately.”

Masie beckoned to me from the little railing at the top of the stairs. No urgency, so I got up from the tall chair beside the bar and walked up. Taking my scattergun as always. Felt sort of undressed without it.

She was short and plump and apple-cheeked, “Sarah sure was grateful for you.”

“My job.”

Masie winked, “She’d like to show you how grateful.” Added, “On the house,” in case I wasn’t following along.

I caught a glimpse of motion down the hall. Sarah, probably naked, was leaning around the door to number six. She beckoned. I walked over and she backed into the room.

She was both the newest whore and the youngest. Claimed to be 18; I’d guess 14 at the tops. Sarah had a shy smile, a quiet manner. Fat, I’d reckon around 170, maybe 180. Soft. An ugly purple bruise on her ribs.

She stood, hands down by her sides, “I’d like to give you a proper thank-you. No charge, Mrs. Chambers okayed it.”

“No need, I pay my way.” I leaned my shotgun against her dresser and reached for my belt buckle.

The Bighorn was located in the heart of Little River — 6th and Market, west side of the main drag. Hotel on the south side, dining room in the middle, saloon to the north. All three had doors that faced Market Street. And all three were connected inside. Tidy operation.

The three-story hotel housed the whores on the north side of the second floor. Regular guests were on the south side. Best rooms on the top floor.

The dining room served three meals a day and did a pretty steady business.

The saloon was mostly quiet when it was light outside — a few regular day-drinkers, some hotel guests — but livened up at night. Especially on Friday payday.

Mr. Chambers — “Call me Ollie” — was a portly dandy. Got a shave every morning from Gabby, one of his wife’s whores. Had a Chinamen shine his boots, iron his suits, starch his shirts. Gold cufflinks, gold watch chain across his vest. Acted like he wasn’t nervous about Mrs. Chambers.

“Flint, it’s been mighty peaceful since you came on board. Appreciate it.”

I nodded. It was easy duty until it wasn’t. Didn’t happen very often, but I had to watch for trouble pretty steady.

Ollie was one of the town leaders from what I could tell. The sawmill owner — Hank Mosby — was another. And Harlan Goodwin who owned the copper mine. I wasn’t sure where Mrs. Chambers ranked. If she did rank, being a woman.

Most mornings, early, I took Scarface out for some exercise. Staying cooped up in the stables and corral all day wouldn’t do him much good. He loved to run, had to slow him down from time to time. Then he’d meander along, head down, nibbling on grass. He no longer had to smell for water, he’d learned where the creeks and small streams were.

Some days we’d ride down Market Street and head south of town to where a dozen or so homestead families were trying to scratch out a living. A little farming, but mostly they were trying to fatten up the cattle that had made it through the worst winter anyone in Montana could remember.

Once in a while, Scarface and I rode further south to Cottonwood Bend. There was a rail spur there with a single track that ran down to Billings.

Other mornings, we’d ride north, heading uphill. The Harlan Goodwin Mine operation was a couple of miles off to the right. Copper. Hank Mosby’s sawmill was a mile or so to the left of the main road. Mountains that never lost their snowcaps, shimmered off in the distance.

Little River wasn’t exactly booming, but it had some seasonal growth to it. Come the thaw, new buildings began springing up. Another saloon, another church. Small houses, a couple of stores. It was like some pent-up need to replenish, to stretch the muscles after a harsh winter.

Now, it would have been better to wait for the lumber to dry, but Little River was too impatient. The green lumber would eventually warp, split, crack ... but that would be down the road.

The day I arrived in early March, there was still considerable snow on the ground. The town was twelve blocks, north to south. And two more blocks east plus three more west. I felt a sense of quiet urgency. A small settlement turning into a hamlet, now into a town.

Little River was named after a trickly waterway that the locals called Little Creek. I guess ‘River’ sounded grander so the creek got promoted.

After the worst of the winter passed, the sawmill hired up again, adding a second shift. The copper mine ran pretty much year round. The work was steady, not always safe, but steady. Both Mosby and Goodwin paid their crews in cash every Friday evening.

Drinks, cards, drinks, whores. The Bighorn had a tall sporting lady, name of Domino, who doubled as the piano player. Dramatic style — hands raised to shoulder height, then slammed down on the keys. More noise than music, but the customers didn’t seem to mind. And they didn’t seem to mind when someone took her upstairs for a poke.

Technically, I worked for Mrs. Chambers — her hotel, her whores. But I stationed myself in the tall lookout chair next to Cheney’s bar in the Bighorn Saloon. That’s where most of the customers came from. And that’s where trouble usually started.

The bar was well stocked compared with many of the ones I’d seen since I’d headed out West. Both the bar and the backbar were made of mahogany with that distinctive grain pattern. There was a big mirror behind the colorful liquor bottles. And a large, almost life-size painting — a nude woman reclining on a brass bed — hanging above the mirror. The woman bore some resemblance to Mrs. Chambers.

The card games were the standard ones, Faro being the most popular. But also Three-Card-Monte and Stud Poker.

After a week or so of watching drunks throw punches, upend card tables, reach for pistols, I realized it would make my life easier to settle saloon things down before they escalated to whorehouse things.

I tacked up a notice on the outside door that led to the swinging doors. ‘Check all guns at the bar.’

Two days later, I added, ‘Knives too.’

Then, ‘No pissing in the spittoons.’

Only a few of the customers could read very much, so I ended up explaining Flint’s Rules in person. There was some early grousing, but I think many of the customers were relieved. They weren’t gunfighters; they were mostly just working men in a town where everyone was heeled. Better a chipped tooth than getting shot during a stupid, drunken brawl.

The occasional professional gambler who drifted into Little River seemed grateful for the no-gun policy. The cowboys passing through town — well, some smiled and checked their guns; others needed a little persuading.