Chapter 9: Buttons & Bows

Early one morning, Molly smiled at Cayuse and me, “You’re going for a walk with us. Time to see the nicer side of town.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, wasn’t even an invitation. Cayuse and I were going for a walk with them to see the nicer side of town.

We were quite a crowd — the Robinsons, the Gilmore Girls, Miss Melanie, Cayuse and me. He and I had already covered the entire city several times, but I knew we hadn’t seen it through their eyes.

It was still snowing so everyone bundled up. No one remarked on the handguns that Cayuse and I strapped on. Nor on his Bowie knife or my scattergun. In fact, I knew that the Gilmore Girls were also armed with Autry’s revolvers tucked away in their canvas tote bags.

We made a slight detour to walk down State Street, the Fun House Street stretch of it. I watched the ladies as they checked themselves out in the mirror-like angled windows. Then they checked out the ones coming behind them. It wasn’t that the women were vain, but they did pay attention to appearances.

Molly acted as our tour guide; she had been doing the bulk of the research here in Helena. We made our way west and turned onto Madison Street. The houses were large with a lot of space between them.

What trees there were, were mostly skinny little saplings. They’d grow, though, and would be providing shade for the owners’ children and grandchildren. I’d had a fourth-grade teacher, Miss Darlington, who once told us, “Planting a tree is one of the most unselfish things you can do. You won’t live long enough to appreciate its beauty, but future generations will.”

I’d always remembered that for some reason.

Molly pointed, “Former Governor Samuel T. Hauser built this beauty in 1885.”

And it was a beauty. Solid, made of brick, three stories high. Cayuse and I had seen it before, but I hadn’t even thought about the owners, who they were, what they did.

Molly said, “This neighborhood is called the Westside and it’s the grandest in town.”

All in all, we spent a good hour walking slowly, gawking, listening to Molly tell the story of some pretty damned impressive structures. We saw two houses on Dearborn where each one of them took up the entire block. But even the smaller ones had a look ... had a special look to them.

Molly said, “Marshal Autry told me that there is so much money in Helena that almost twenty architectural firms have set up shop here.”

Emma kept Barney Feiffer hopping throughout our stay in the Lenoir. He knocked on her door early every morning with two fresh-brewed cups of coffee. For Emma and Miss Melanie.

“Thank you, Barnyard, you’re my little boyfriend. Secret little boyfriend. Now take Smokey Lonesome out for his morning constitutional, that’s a good lad.”

Rebecca and I had been walking down the corridor to breakfast early one day and Emma was standing behind her open door. Everything was covered, but she was obviously nude. She gave Rebecca and me a cheerful wink as Barney stood there, ears on fire.

I hadn’t seen him in town, but Molly told me, “That head guard out at the mining claim has been meeting here with Varner.”

John Wesley Harmon.

“Well, Varner hired him.”

“I know. It’s just that he gives me the creeps. Those droopy eyes. But he’s not sleepy. I know it’s silly, Flint, but he reminds me of a cat. All smooth-moving and slinky. But a feral cat.”

It was now a routine, a habit, with Cayuse and me. As we’d done in Little River, we rode out of town two or three days a week and practiced up on our shooting skills. It was cold work, winter work, often in heavy snow. But winter was what we had.

Some mornings we took Rebecca and Rosie with us. They weren’t near as comfortable with weapons as the Gilmore Girls, but time would help. Should help.

Cayuse and I spent a little time with our long guns — his Sharps buffalo rifle and my lever-action Winchester. But mostly we worked with our handguns — my Peacemaker and his horn-handled Colt. We each had a breakaway pommel holster and were now comfortable wearing them on our belt. Confident with them.

I practiced drawing and shooting my Peacemaker with and without gloves. I was a fraction quicker without them, but had taught myself long ago how to manage when wearing canvas on my hands.

I didn’t bother to practice with my scattergun. I knew how to pull the triggers, and I knew what damage would be done. With or without aiming.

Then I changed my mind. I went through a physical drill with my 8-gauge that I’d imagined myself doing in an emergency situation. It was different way of thinking — challenging — but it was better to know my capabilities than not. And my liabilities.

And the downside was immediately apparent. My first practice shot was wildly off. And I almost broke my thumb. My hand felt like I’d torn something inside.

Cayuse watched closely, then made an upside-down motion with his hand.

I shook my hand to work out the pain and nodded, “Next time.”

Since I’d had that Butte history lesson from Molly, Cayuse and I took to riding north every once in a while, riding up to the Miracle Mine claim. One time we saw Gil Olbaum come out of the mine, but usually there were just two guards in place. The other four stayed in Helena until it was time for a shift change.

John Wesley Harmon must have hired a sixth man, because he was never around when Cayuse and I showed up. I asked Autry about it and he just shrugged, “Six men, seven, it doesn’t really make that much difference. Still too many guns in that outfit.”

Autry had a working relationship with the stationmaster at the Helena Depot. A gent named Mr. Roger Rogers kept the marshal informed about local comings and goings — strangers arriving and residents leaving. Another line of thought that wouldn’t have occurred to me.

Autry told us, “Rogers likes his ladies and I worked out an arrangement with Chicago Joe.”

Emma said, “Very enterprising, Territorial Marshal Orvon Grover George Autry. I’m sure the City Charter spells out how to allocate pussy to cooperative citizens.”

Molly said, “Emma.”

But Autry was still bright red. Not a poker player, this Territorial Marshal.

However his foresight in keeping track of travelers could turn out to be useful. I’m not sure what it meant, but Varner left for Bozeman on a Tuesday. The next day, Gil Olbaum and his mining engineer, Richardson, bought tickets to Billings.

Autry said, “No telling what their real destination is.”

He assumed, like I did, that the two Californians were quite possibly heading up to Chicago. Perhaps to make a presentation to the moneymen up there.

That left, so far as I could figure out, John Wesley Harmon in charge of the Miracle Mine. And if it had been salted like Molly and I suspected might be the case, the only logical reason for spending all that money on guards must be to trick any potential investors. A new way, a second way, of salting a mine.

Autry joined us for breakfast at the Lenoir once or twice a week when he was in town. Even though Emma often teased him, made him blush, it was like he couldn’t stay away. Or didn’t want to.

Emma crossed her arms and glared at him across the table, “Georgie, why did you never tell me about Fun House Street? Why did we have to discover it on our own? Is it because you don’t think girls should have fun?”

But sometimes Autry gave as good as he got, “Girls? Fact is, Fun House Street owes its very existence to girls. And butter.”

“Butter? Have you been backsliding into Kuang’s? Without me? Butter?”

Molly smiled, “I sense a story coming.”

Autry leaned back, took a sip of coffee, “Louanna and Elsie Butts arrived here — to the Last Chance Gulch — in the Spring of 1865. They came all the way from Missouri.”

Riles said, “Missouri? Rebecca, did you and Rosie know the Butts family?”

Rebecca frowned, “No, I don’t think so. I mean Kansas City had over a hundred thousand people when we lived there.”

Autry continued, “Louanna and Elsie eventually settled on what’s now called Park Avenue — these days they call that original house the Pioneer Cabin. Anyway, they came west in a wagon train and guess what was in the back of their wagon? The first ever window glass in the Territory. Packed it tightly in sawdust, but it was still a miracle that it made it all that distance.”

Emma said, “I’m not hearing anything about butter.”

“See, the thing is, Louanna had to tie Elsie to the back of that wagon for the whole trip.”

That quieted everyone; then Riles burst out laughing, “A cow! Elsie was a cow.”

“You’re right. And Louanna sold butter for $2.50 a pound. Packed it in salt and stored it in a dugout shelter to keep it sweet.”

On a hunch, I went through that unmarked depot door and handed Sammy Clemens a note. “Please send this to Captain Roger McIntyre at Fort Laramie.”

He’d been in the Wyoming Territory a lot longer than I had and might have heard something worthwhile.

Still wearing green sleeve garters and a green bowtie, Clemens tapped away:

“Do you know John Wesley Harmon? Flint Murdock.”

As I was leaving, Sammy held up his palm, “I know. Confidential.”

Before we caught Patcheye and Stumpy, Cayuse and I were working during what I thought of as the ‘killing hours’. The quiet times after the last customers had begun leaving the whorehouses and when the girls started waking up for another day.

Now though, we went on duty starting around nine or so in the evening. By then some of the downstairs customers had had a few drinks and a few of them might be feeling a little too frisky.

A few hours later we would leave when the last men did; usually around midnight or one or two. These days, we were more for show, for reassurance, than anything else. And since Rebecca and Rosie were working at the Red Light and the Castle, Cayuse and I escorted them home. Well, to our hotel.

We also patrolled the Palace where the Gilmore Girls were taking turns running that operation with Miss Melanie.

This new schedule meant that Rebecca and I were going to bed — undressing, and washing up, at the same time. And one thing led to another pretty regular. Not every night, but more often than not. We’d grown close as a couple and had learned how to pleasure each other. How to draw things out. Or, some nights, how to speed things up.

“Mr. Murdock, y’all do know your way around my little button.”

“Oh?”

“Not as good as Miss Melanie, but not bad for a clumsy ole boy with big, thick fingers.”

I flipped her over my lap and administered a pretty smart spanking as she windmilled her legs back and forth in the air, squealing and giggling all the while.

Cayuse and I were heading back to the hotel to escort Rosie and Rebecca to work. Even though it was only around eight at night, it had been dark for hours.

Big Elk waved from across the street and we waited for him to join us. Usually he had a joke or some new gossip to pass along. But not this time.

“Someone is following little Rosie, peeking in windows at the Castle.” He looked at Cayuse, “The gunfighter.”

John Wesley Harmon.

Emma had been the first to visit Kuang’s den, and Molly wasn’t that far behind. I accompanied her one snowy morning and had to admit it was pretty interesting. I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, partake myself, not with the threat of the EagleLeague hanging over us.

I’d seen the Gilmore Girls get a little tipsy from time to time, but this was different. Slower, somehow dreamier. Molly sighed lazily and looked so relaxed, it was almost like her body was melting into that sofa. She lay on her side with her head on a blue silk pillow, and the long pipe was positioned at just the right height. It was made of what looked to me like silver and bone. Sort of elegant.

Later that afternoon, back at the hotel, Molly said, “Riles, you absolutely have to go! It tasted as sweet as fresh honey. I felt so ... languid, like I was floating in air.”