October, 2013

Issue #49

The Laramie Gambler
by RLB Hartmann

There he was. Drunk. I could see that at first glance, as he sprawled on his back on my bed. One arm over his eyes shut out the spring sunshine, while from one hand dangled a nearly empty flat brown bottle.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded, removing my gloves and bonnet and tossing them on the dresser. I'd come from the mercantile, where an argument over rotten sewing thread had left me in no mood for Brewer. He had never been in my house, and to find him here like this was disturbing.

He opened bleary eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment before turning them on me. "I came to visit you."

Inebriety was Brewer's usual state, though I'd never known him to get dog drunk. "Well, you can come back when you're sober."

I went into the kitchen and started clearing away evidence of breakfast still cluttering the table. It was noon now, and I had worked up an appetite in the fight over the thread. I didn't welcome the idea of a second fight, not with Brewer. Throwing the grease-crusted skillet into the dishpan, I regretted the day we had met. It was about six months ago, when he first came to El Paso.

I'd gone down to the livery which I owned, just to check on things, and he was trying to talk my stableman into giving him a job.

"You don't look like the kind of gent who'd take to shoveling out stalls," I observed. "You look like an out-of-luck gambler."

"Man'll do anything, he gets hungry enough."

Brewer's suit was shiny from wear, and the hat he crushed in nervous hands was far from new. He appeared to be about thirty, a bit less than average height, lean without being wiry. His dark brown hair fell straight from the crown and needed a trim. So did his ample mustache. His dark brown eyes held an elusive sparkle which touched some place inside me that I preferred not to acknowledge. Since our meeting, it seemed, everywhere I turned, there was Brewer. He joined me on the street, opened doors for me, carried my packages. He must have had a first name, but I didn't ask what it was. Somehow, he knew mine.

"Rosemary," he called now from the other room, "you're a hellava friend."

Unable to tell from his tone whether he intended to insult or compliment, I continued to tidy up. Afterward, I mixed a pan of cornbread and put it into the oven. A pot of strong coffee already sent its fragrance riding the air currents. Torn between pity and distaste, I wasn't sure whether to risk further involvement by showing compassion, or keep my distance by making him leave. Maybe I could do both. Sober him up so the sheriff wouldn't arrest him, then insist he pull himself together or I would be obliged to fire him. Associating with Brewer was bad for my reputation.

The cups were on the tray, and I'd started to fill them, when his voice behind me almost startled me into dropping the pot.

"You think that no-good cowboy is in love with you, don't you?" he said, lips curving down beneath his thick mustache.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I retorted, though I did know, very well. The cowboy and I had become engaged last year. One day, we were planning our wedding; the next day he was gone, leaving me with a hastily scrawled apology. The pain still flashed through my heart on long sleepless nights.

"You think he's going to come back," Brewer persisted, leaning unsteadily against the door frame. "But he's not. An' you know why?"

"I don't care to discuss it with you," I said, passing him with the tray. In the living room, I sat in my wing chair, sipping hot coffee and perspiring from heat and uneasiness. Brewer was no fool. He had learned something about Raymond that I didn't know. Didn't want to know.

Raymond and I had loved each other. My feelings hadn't changed—:and I didn't believe his had, either. His cryptic note, I'M SORRY, gave no clue as to what had gone wrong. I didn't know where he was, or why, but Brewer was right: I waited for him to return.

"I'll tell you why he ain't ever comin' back," Brewer confided, stumbling over a rag rug and falling loosely onto the sofa. "It's because of that girl."

Girl? There was no other girl when I met Raymond, and he'd never hinted at one.

"You're making it up," I accused. "You're drunk out of your skull. Get out of my house before I yell for the sheriff."

Brewer looked hurt. He stood up, a little too quickly, for he swayed, one hand grabbing his forehead. Instead of leaving, he went into the bedroom. I could hear him rummaging around, like he was down on his knees looking under the bed. He staggered back out with the whiskey bottle raised to his mouth, draining the last dregs. He flung the empty container across the floor.

"Yell if you want to," he challenged.

Suddenly, he laughed softly—mocking, I thought—and sat down, legs extended carelessly in front of him and arms reaching above his head in a stretch. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, crouching as if prepared to spring.

I gathered myself, ready to run for the door if he twitched a muscle. We sat for a minute, separated by eight feet of faded carpet, examining each other. All the time, however, I was thinking of what Brewer had said about Raymond. It couldn't be true.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked at last.

"You got a right to know, don't you? Figure I can do that much, after you hired me, an' all."

His quiet, slurred voice caressed that same spot inside me that his eyes usually touched. I wanted him to shut up and leave, yet I couldn't use force and doubted that persuasion would accomplish much.

"Alice. Name's Alice." The last of the whiskey was taking effect. He lay down on my sofa, his legs draped over the arm, hands clasped on his chest like a corpse, and continued.

"You gotta understan' she wasn' no ordinary girl, Alice. Little thing. Real pretty. Long curly blonde hair. Young, and blonde. That's the way he likes 'em. Same as me."

Clenching my fists, I kept myself from flying into him and beating him even more senseless than he was. I told myself he didn't know what he was saying, but I listened to his addled discourse.

"She was top-notch. I give ol' Ray this much: he knows how to pick 'em. You think I'm jealous? Naaaw. Let her love him. I don' care." He looked up, eyes narrowed. "But you care, don't you."

"Mister Brewer, I want you out of my house right now." My voice trembled a bit, making me even angrier. My back had begun to ache from sitting ramrod stiff, eyes on the cold coffee in my cup.

He gave a brief, mirthless chuckle. "There's comin' a time when you'll be glad to have my company." He looked around for his hat, but must have lost it before he got here because it wasn't to be found.

During the next week, I avoided the stables. I knew if I saw Brewer I would start asking questions, and I determined not to give him that satisfaction. I avoided going to town, too, fearful of his popping up at my elbow in the middle of main street. By the end of the second week, my supplies were exhausted. Either go into town, or starve.

The lonely days and nights had done little to improve my disposition. What if Brewer was right? He knew about Alice. Was he telling the truth about her relationship with Raymond? Brewer's denial of being jealous told me that he loved Alice, and she had rejected him. I had to admit I was curious about that. Where was she now? With Raymond?

My buggy horse, Jake, suddenly broke stride and whuffed, ears alert to something in the road ahead. I felt an instant of fear that it might be a mountain lion, for I owned no gun; but shading my eyes I saw that it was a man, resting on a sizeable rock. Closer, I recognized Brewer.

"Ride into town?" he asked as I stopped. He didn't wait for my reply, but swung himself onto the seat by the rigging and gave me a sly cut of his eyes before staring straight ahead.

"What're you doing out here?" I wanted to know. His rooming house was on the other end of town. He shrugged. I couldn't tell how drunk he was, but his spirits seemed pretty low. He sat hunched over his knees, hands dangling.

We rode for nearly half a mile in silence, sneaking glances that each hoped the other hadn't seen, until I finally inquired, peevishly, "Why aren't you at the stable?" He shrugged again, his answer muffled in the open collar of his shirt. His manner was self-pitying, and I decided that if he started whining more twaddle about Raymond, I would make him get off the buggy and walk.

We drove in silence for another half mile. And the farther we went, the more angry I became. Brewer was a villain, upsetting my comfortable dreams that Raymond would return and explain the dreadful farewell note which had caused me such misery. Unable to keep quiet, I went on: "What is it you want, anyway? Nothing you can tell me will make me stop loving Raymond, if that's what you had in mind."

"What I had in mind is my business."

"Not when you're interfering in MY life."

His sardonic chuckle grew until he roared with laughter.

"Stop that!" I cried, indignant, reining in and attempting to push him out. He teetered on the seat, holding on to the rigging, and his laughter stopped. The glitter in his eyes frightened me. I pushed harder to dislodge him, only half aware that I was standing, the reins slipping through my fingers, and it wasn't until the wheel hit a rock and jounced me into his lap that I realized the horse was running.

Almost in my ear, Brewer shouted, "Whoa! Whoa . . . ." When the buggy rocked to a halt, in the grove of willows at the edge of town, he had a firm hold on both the reins and me. His face brushed mine, beard stubble a couple of days old scratching my cheek.

With detachment, I watched him declare wrathfully, "You could've turned us over!" Trying to twist away from his clasp and regain my dignity, I found that I was crying.

He held me, hissing, "Be still! Be still, will you, I want to say I'm sorry."

Since I wasn't making any progress in escaping, I ducked my face against his shoulder and set up a wail, partly from annoyance at being here at all, mostly from frustration over not knowing whether he was right about Raymond. The idea that Brewer had comforted dozens of women this way distracted me somewhat, so that gradually I stopped and waited to see what he would do next.

The hand not holding the reins was around my shoulders. He grasped my hair so I couldn't turn away from his kiss. There was a faint taste of whiskey, but I suspected he was more sober than he'd let on. I resented his taking advantage of me practically in sight of townspeople, at a time when my emotions were wounded and vulnerable. When he released me, I jerked the lines away from him and slapped Jake's rump.

I drove him straight to the saloon and said, "You'll have to find another ride if you want to go back to wandering the countryside."

He sat looking at me with an expression I failed to understand. "I'm sorry, Rosemary." He jumped down, and walked into the saloon without looking back. But he didn't walk like a drunk man.

When I returned to the buggy after shopping, I saw his knee, clad in pin-striped blue trousers, before I came round enough to see his face. He was working on another brown bottle, and held a large flat box across his lap.

"I told you you're not coming back with me," I said sharply, climbing into the buggy and thinking there was little I could do to prevent it, short of causing a public disturbance.

He must have known that, because he gave the reins a little flip and we started out. I sat as near my end of the seat as I could without falling off, and let him down half the bottle before remarking, "That stuff is going to be the end of you someday."

"What do you care?" He was sullen.

"I don't," I said, but felt guilty. There was something attractive about Brewer, but it was buried under so much trash there was nothing one could point to and say, 'This is why I like him.' There was much about him I didn't like. His weakness, which made me pity him. His taunts about Raymond. The way he'd come into my life and stuck to me like a piece of cholla.

Curious about what was in the box, I made up my mind I wouldn't ask. He probably wouldn't tell me. I hoped it was a new suit. The one he wore was threadbare and far from clean. Sprucing up would improve his looks, if not his disposition.

"Where do you think you're going?" I asked at last, as my house was the only one this far from town. "You're not planning to move in with me, I hope." I tried to laugh as if I'd made a joke.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I'll get along."

"I'm not driving you back to town, either," I warned. "If you want to sleep under the stars with the rattlesnakes and scorpions, that's fine with me."

"I said, don't worry," he snapped.

I stopped Jake in my yard and Brewer helped me alight. He handed me my package, and took Jake for a rubdown. I carried my purchases inside and started a pot of coffee. Glancing out the front window, I saw him coming up the walk, carrying the flat box. Suddenly I knew what it contained. Not a suit. A dress.

He stepped up on the porch, and there was no denying him entrance as the door was wide open and he could see me standing in the hallway. He knocked perfunctorily and brought the box through the front room and put it into my hands. Helplessly I held it while he removed the lid and rustled the white paper, fumbling but extracting a light blue silk dress like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a top hat.

"I can't accept this," I said, the words coming out choked.

"Why not?" His frown accentuated the puzzled look in his intense brown eyes. "It's new."

"It's a bribe," I blurted, hating myself for hurting him. Hating him for making me hurt him. Why didn't he leave me alone?

He didn't seem to be making any move to leave. In fact, he tossed the dress on the sofa and sat down. He drew the whiskey bottle from his coat pocket and took a drink. "Try it on," he suggested, gesturing toward the dress.

"No. You have to return it."

"Can't. It was on sale. No returns."

I started folding the dress, but he stopped me. His warm hand on my cold wrist made me aware of his strength. "I told you about Alice, didn't I? How pretty she is. I gave her a dress once, back in Laramie. We were goin' to get married. Then she met Raymond. They were in love, they said."

I was confused. "If he knew her before he came here, and they were so in love, why didn't he stay with her?"

Brewer's sodden grin made me wonder what I would do if he passed out here in my house.

"Quarrel. They fought all the time. But they liked to fight. That's why she sent for him."

I heard the coffee begin to boil over and hurried to snatch it off the stove. My hands shook as I arranged things on the tray. She sent for him. That would explain his hasty departure. I no longer mattered. Alice wanted him back. Well, she could have him.

When I returned to where Brewer sat, I decided he needed that coffee more than I did. His eyes seemed vague and unfocused. He began searching the floor, the sofa cushions, the dress box, his pockets, for the bottle he had forgotten was empty. It had rolled under the sofa. I could see the neck of it sticking out.

"Here." I thrust a cup at him.

He took a few sips before it slipped from his hand, and he slumped forward. I caught him in time to keep his chin from hitting the low table next to the sofa. Pushing him onto the cushion, I straightened his legs into a comfortable position, knocking the dress to the floor in the process.

Standing back with my hands on my hips, I sighed. What now? Brewer would sleep off his stupor in a few hours. Meanwhile, I might as well try on the dress. It was an attractive color, and well made. Income from the livery didn't allow for unnecessary purchases.

I was wearing Brewer's gift when his eyes flickered open and he sat up. "You're still here," he observed.

"I live here," I reminded him.

He stared at me, then rapidly rubbed his face as if to clear his brain, and stared some more. "You're keeping it."

"Yes. Thank you." We were self-consciously silent while my hall clock ticked two dozen times. "How did you know it would fit?"

He grinned. "Gamblers take chances."

"I'm not a gambler," I warned him.

"Maybe you need to learn."

"I like El Paso. I might not like Laramie." I'd heard it was cold and snowy there in winter, and I was used to desert heat.

"The world is a big place."

"It's full of liquor. You'd have to give that up."

He was quiet for a long moment before he said, "I wouldn't need red-eye, if I had a woman who loved me."

"What makes you think I love you?"

He grinned again, and I could feel my defenses melting. "If you didn't, you'd've had me put in jail long before now."