Episode 13

The Scent of Money

Joe Wiley and Ben Temple made their way down the partly constructed boardwalk. Joe kept an eye on the older man just in case, even if the need was a rare thing. The man was sure-footed, adjusted to his world of private darkness. Many folks met him, even spent time with him, unaware that he was sightless.

They walked past the usual variety of establishments found in new-born towns like Mercury Wells. A mercantile, a bank, an apothecary, dollar stores, a hostelry or two, a big cook tent, and saloons. Lots of saloons. Painted across their broad fronts was a promise of cold beer, fine liquor and fair tables. More civilization creeping into the west, Joe thought, or what passes for civilization in cow country.

There was some wagon traffic on the street and saddle horses and rigs hitched before the shops and saloons. People moved in the shade of the boardwalks. Sullen nesters with tired looking wives and dirty children in tow. The nesters looked about with their heads on swivels, eyeing the world through suspicious eyes. Men in fine clothes and shiny shoes sat smoking cigars on perambulating chairs under the awning before a saloon. Cowhands stood leaning on hitching posts, watching the street and exchanging remarks. Mexican vaqueros sat on benches along the wall of an alley between buildings, passing a clay jug and smoking rolled cigarettes. Some Chinese were chattering to one another in their sing-song tongue as they worked clothes in washtubs of steaming lye water before a laundry tent. A huckster stood before a dollar store speaking to everyone and no one, inviting the world inside to view his wares.

The population would grow after dark. This town would rise up then and kick the gong until sunrise. Joe could tell that by the number of saloons lining the street. It was simple arithmetic. A whole lot of liquor and too few whores to go around.

Joe turned them toward a shingle announcing The Grand Prairie Hotel. They crossed the dusty street to reach a building larger than its neighbors. It was certainly grand in comparison to the rest of the structures along the drag. Fresh paint on the boards, the name of the hotel written in fancy swirling crimson letters trimmed in gilt. A shake roof above a wide veranda off a second and third floor. Brass lanterns hung from red-painted porch rails. The place stood out like a jewel in the half-built camp town spreading out around it either side of the main street like a spill.

Joe and Ben made their way through glass-paneled doors into the lobby where they were immediately greeted by the front man, a ruddy-faced fellow with hair, brush mustache and mutton chops of coppery red.

“Welcome, gentlemen! Will ye be needin’ a room then?” the clerk asked eagerly.

“For quite a bit actually, if all goes well,” Joe answered. “You take monthly rental?”

“Certainly, sir! My name is Hamish MacDougal. You may call me Ham, as everyone who knows me does. I run this modest hostel.”

“Fine looking house. You stand to do well by yourself as this town grows,” Joe said. “I’m Joe Wiley. This is Ben Temple.”

“One hopes, sir. One hopes,” Ham said, and skirted around the desk to take his place at the register. “That is certainly the plan, sir. I have a very nice suite upstairs. Or are you wanting adjoining rooms?”

“What a waste,” Ben snorted.

“We’ll take adjoining rooms. He snores like a mud-stuck bull. A boy will be along with our things. Send him up when he gets here. What do I owe you?”

“Twenty dollars, monthly rate. The place across the road has the best meals in town,” Ham suggested. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Joe nodded. He and Ben followed Ham who took the stairs two at a time. There were doors to four rooms. Two suites of two adjoined rooms, Joe reckoned.

Ham gave them a tour of the rooms as Ben made his way about the room he’d chosen as his own, laying fingers on a dresser top, bed posts, a water pitcher on a dry sink. He was memorizing the room’s dimensions and the objects in it. He reached the windows to find large sash casement windows, three panels set in a wooden frame. The tips of his fingers played over panes and found them laced with muntins in a diamond shaped pattern. He stood feeling the sun on his face through the panes of cut glass, a hand running down the edge of lace curtains. Ham watched with mounting umbrage.

“I assure you, sir, you’ll find your room cleaner than any other you’d find in this town,” Ham said, chest swollen and nose raised.

“I can see that. Clean as a dog’s ass,” Ben said, taking the man’s meaning. “Only admiring these windows.”

Ham smiled with pride. “You’ve taken notice of my Queen Anne’s. A bit of bonnie Scotland in my new home in Texas.”

“I don’t supposed you have any ‘bonnie’ Scotch around your new home?” Ben said, winking a blind eye.

“The Grand does not, as yet, hold a license to sell liquor. But a wee dram between friends is within the law, am I right?” Ham grinned.

“I believe the law will abide a drink or two,” Joe said, stepping through the companion door between the rooms.

“You can practically see the entire town from these windows. Quite a view,” Ham said in the doorway.

“And a balcony as well.” Joe swung a window open to lean out. There were a few wooden chairs sitting out on the planks. He looked forward to sitting there of an evening, watching the sun set over the distant horizon. More than that, it was high ground. A man, a man who knew what to look for, could learn a lot from this vantage point.

“Will there be anything else, sirs?” Ham said.

“Where might I find the mayor this time of the day?” Joe asked.

“He has a fine house on the north end of town. But at this hour I’d swear he’d be at the post office. He’s postmaster here as well,” Ham said.

“I’ll be back once I’ve met him. Give this to the boy when he gets here with our goods. And this one is for you,” Joe said, taking Ham’s beefy hand and dropping two dollar coins into his palm.

“That I’ll do, sir,” Ham said and, with a curt bow, took his leave.

“Well, what do you think?” Joe said when they were alone.

“It’ll do. I ain’t tried the mattress yet,” Ben said and stooped to rest his behind on the edge of the bed.

“About the town,” Joe said, a smile on his mouth, knowing the older man understood precisely what he was asking about.

“I smell money under the cow shit, son,” Ben said with a sigh as he lay back on the bed, rocking his shoulders to work into a comfortable place.