Page 48 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot
He picked up the glass Cecil poured him and nodded his thanks, then tipped back his shot.
“Where do you get this?” Owen asked after hissing out his breath.
“Never mind,” Cecil said belligerently. “I let you have that one on account of our good relationship, but that’s the last drink I’ll serve you.” Cecil firmly inserted the bottle’s stopper and gave it an extra bop with his palm. “If you’d opened your saloon in the spring, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, but winter is hard times. The men have all left town and the ones who stay are too busted to leave. There are already too many saloons in town. You don’t see me running out there to open up my own gold mining operation, do you?”
“I’m not stopping you.” Owen was amused by Cecil’s outrage, but surprised too. He’d always had a good relationship with the saloonkeepers in town. “And before you take up arms against me, maybe ask yourself where men got the money to buy your whiskey all summer.” Owen answered by tapping his own chest to indicate Quail’s Creek.
“That may be,” Cecil ran his dirty cloth along the bar top, doing nothing to improve its stained appearance.. “but I still say stick to your own business and stay out of mine.”
“And here I was hoping you’d teach me how to make whiskey,” Owen drawled.
“Over my dead body.” Cecil straightened to glare at him.
“Have you tried that gut-rot of yours?” He nodded at the glasses other men held. “It’s likely to happen sooner than you think.”
“You’re sure as hell not welcome in here if you’re going to insult me.” Cecil was red-faced now, and maybe Owen was shooting himself in the foot, but this spring, one of the men had brought a bottle of Dudley’s moonshine back to camp. They’d watched their labor force drop like flies, every one losing their stomach for days until they figured out what was causing it. Virgil had come straight here to chat with Cecil about it.
“That’s why I stick to beer when I’m here,” Frenchie said to his table.
“I don’t need your business so bad I need to listen to your lip,” Cecil blustered at Frenchie.
“Give it a week, Frenchie. Then my place will be open. You’ll always be welcome.” Owen resettled his hat and gave both Elmer and Cecil a polite nod. “I’d best get to minding my own business. That’s good advice, Cecil. Thanks for the drink.”
Owen caught up to Temperance at the mercantile. She was already taking her job very seriously, dickering over prices with Mick, the shopkeeper.
“And if we were to buy three dozen in one go, would there be a drop in price?” she asked.
“I could shave a half-penny off each, but I don’t cover breakage when I order in things like glassware. You’re better off buying those directly from the gaffer here in town. He’s more expensive, but you’ll get them sooner and you’ll get whole glasses. Oh, hey, Owen. I’m hearing you’re opening a saloon?”
“I am, Mick, so I’ll need whiskey. Good whiskey.”
“That’s always the trick, isn’t it? I have a shipment coming next week. I can set aside two casks for you. Let me write that down in my book.” He started to leaf through the pages of the ledger on his counter. “Will you be opening a new account for the saloon?”
“That’s wise,” Temperance advised. “Otherwise, your partners at the mine will have a devil of a time working out what’s-what.”
Owen nodded curtly, seeing the sense in it, but prickling with discomfort. He’d have Virgil double check it when he came to town, to be sure it was in order.
“Have you been waiting long for me?” Owen asked Temperance.
“Not really. Jane was here until a few minutes ago. You’ll never guess what she told me!” She clasped onto his arm as though her next words were likely to knock him over. “Mr. Fritz has proposed to Mavis.”
“Proposed marriage? Well now. She’s staying in town then?” That was liable to put a hornet down Elmer’s drawers, wasn’t it?
“Jane wasn’t sure if she’ll accept.”
“Is Mavis the lady who had the baby the other day?” Mick asked, looking up from his book and removing his spectacles.
“I shouldn’t be gossiping.” Temperance pressed contrite knuckles to her lips.
“Hell, yes, you should,” Owen assured her. “Saloons don’t just serve drinks. If all a man wants is to get himself drunk, he can do that fireside, all by himself.”
“That may be, but I won’t gossip about my friends.” Temperance tapped her pencil against the scrap of paper she held. “I think we should take Mr. Mick’s advice and ask the glassblower for a quote.”
“We’ll do that on our way to fetch our things from the corral. Let’s get what we need to settle in, then we’ll decide what we need for the saloon.” Owen bought coffee, oats, beans and cheese, keeping it to what they could carry.
They left everything at the mercantile while they walked up to the trading post, though, since the wind had died down and the sun was trying to penetrate the thin layer of clouds.
The trading post was a dead tree marking a spot where the Utes and Arapaho had been coming to trade with trappers for decades. Probably longer. Once gold-seekers had started coming into Pike’s Peak, trail pickers had begun turning up here, too, bringing whatever useful items they salvaged from the immigrants who’d died on their way to Utah and Oregon.