Chapter 2
Posted: June 15, 2007 - 12:09:43 pm


We pushed Mr. Bemis's herd into the cow pens on the north side of El Paso, around noon on the seventh day of my trip back in time. Once we had the cattle all accounted for, Mr. Bemis spotted each of us drovers a five-dollar advance on our pay, and sent us off so he could negotiate with the buyers. I figured I was making some headway towards fixing my bad reputation, when a couple of the other cowboys invited me to hit the saloon with them. I put them off by telling them I'd be there in a while.

I walked Melosa to the livery stable and rented her a stall. I flipped the stable hand a quarter and told him to rub her down good and treat her to some oats. With my horse basking in the lap of luxury, I grabbed my saddlebags and rifle and headed towards the barbershop. I spent fifty cents on a bath, shave, haircut, and to have my clothes brushed with a whiskbroom. The barber was happy enough with my business to throw in the lilac scented talcum powder for free.

While at the barbershop, I saw my new face in the mirror for the first time. My only impression of what I looked like was my uncle's ego-distorted high opinion of himself. I had to admit that I could have done worse for myself in picking out a mug to slap on the front of my head. I had a square jaw, sandy blonde hair and dark blue eyes. I had definitely traded up in looks. I already knew my body here was better, but that was mostly the result of my new youth. In this century, I was six feet, one inch tall, and weighed about one hundred and eighty pounds. Before, I was an inch taller and probably twenty (more like thirty) pounds heavier. I wasn't exactly skinny here and now, but I certainly wasn't fighting love handles any longer.

From the barbershop I strolled over to the mercantile. I made the shopkeeper's day by spending eighteen dollars on a new wardrobe and two more for a canvass and leather valise to put it in. I will say one thing about clothes shopping in El Paso in 1877: you can buy a lot of clothes for a gold double eagle. I walked out of the mercantile with two pair of black wool pants, four white cotton shirts, a herring bone vest, a string tie and a frock coat. While the shopkeeper's buxom wife altered the clothes for my long, lean frame, I had my boots shined and my Stetson pig bristle brushed.

My next stop was at the gunsmiths. The pistol I had inherited was, as I said before, a Single Action Army Colt in .45 caliber. A single action revolver has to be manually cocked by pulling the hammer back before you can fire it by pulling the trigger. My ancestor's revolver had a very heavy trigger pull that felt as if something internal was binding. The gunsmith knew his Colts, and had the problem fixed in a jiffy, he even filed the sear to lighten the trigger pull a tad.

While I was watching him work, I noticed that he had a few very nicely tooled leather gunbelt-holster rigs for sale. I left his shop wearing one of them, and feeling much more comfortable about my ability to draw my pistol. I also left with a brand new box of shells for both my rifle and pistol. I even had the opportunity to fire a dozen rounds through the colt on the gunsmith's small shooting gallery behind his shop. The pistol shot true were I pointed it at fifteen yards.

My last stop was the Hotel Magnífico de El Paso, the El Paso Grand Hotel. I had the opportunity to use my excellent Spanish on the Mexican desk clerk, and took a room for the week. The room was a dollar and a quarter a night, but that included your choice of suppers off their specials menu. I thought it was still a lot to pay for a room compared to the cost of everything else, but I had made a point of picking out one of the best hotels in town. Once up in my room, I stashed my rifle under the bed, unpacked and put away my clothes, and tested out the mattress on the big double bed.

I woke up from my siesta at about six in the evening. My stomach let me know it was time for my free supper. As I walked down the stairs from my second floor hotel room, it dawned on me that I was dressed almost exactly like my character Black Bart from the old west show. You know: black boots, pants, vest and hat. The white shirt was all that was out of character, as even my new gunbelt and holster were black.

I eased my way into the hotel's dining room and picked me a table, making sure I sat facing the door. I wasn't expecting any sort of trouble, but if some found me, I didn't want my face buried in my plate, facing the wrong direction when it showed up. The night's menu was written on a slate standing on an easel as you walked in the double doors of the room. I decided I'd opt for the steak and potatoes, with home made biscuits and a couple of cups of coffee. Believe it or not, the coffee excited me more than the steak, after a week of swilling down the bitter chicory brew Jose made on the trail.

My butt had barely hit the seat of my chair, when a cute Mexican girl came scurrying over to my table. Her English, while accented, was very good. I ordered up my steak and asked her about the coffee. When she told me it was the real deal, I put in dibs on a cup. I flirted a little with the young woman and sent her back to the kitchen rosy cheeked. I guess a little flirting in the nineteenth century wasn't a bad thing, as she kept returning to my table with the coffee pot, and my steak was big and juicy. As this century's Ty McGuinn, I spoke to her only in English, even though I probably spoke her native language as well as she did. I don't exactly know why, but I decided from here on to keep my ability to speak Spanish to myself.

After my dinner, I strolled out onto the dusty main street, just as the sun was sinking in the west. I turned left as I exited the hotel, and ducked into the first saloon I came across. The saloon was named 'Cowboy Heaven'. The place was packed with obnoxious cowboys blowing off steam. There were a few desultory floosies cadging drinks and not a card game was in sight. As soon as I saw the inside, I turned around and pushed back through the doors, beating a hasty retreat.

Yeah, I was looking for a card game. I figured that would be the best way to increase Uncle Ty's bankroll, given that I had both his knowledge (which was mostly how to cheat) and my own at poker playing to draw from. I passed on two more saloons before I found what I was looking for.

The place was called the Gold Nugget, and it was slightly more upscale than the other three places. The women at the Nugget were prettier too, but the big attraction to me was the card games going on at three big tables in the back. I eliminated one of the tables immediately, as it was set up for playing Faro. Faro was a sucker bet, not because of the odds of the game, but because there was no such thing as an honest Faro banker (dealer). However, the two poker tables drew me like magnets.

The 1877 version of poker was standard old five-card draw, and was all about betting and bluffing. I stood and watched the players at both tables for almost an hour, evaluating the players and looking for cheats. Finally, a cowboy went bust and I took his seat. Fortunately, the seat that opened was at the table I wanted to play, and it conveniently faced the door. I wanted to play that table, because it had at least two professional gamblers at it, and I had spotted both of their 'tells' during the hour I watched them. A tell is something a gambler does unconsciously that tips you off as to a play he is making. I've been told that every gambler has at least one, but the good players' tells are so subtle, you never notice them.

I took my chair and pulled out the twenty-five dollars I'd allotted myself for gambling. I introduced myself around the table. I told the other players my name and that I had just gotten to town pushing cows from Malvernia Ranch, two hundred miles to the north. The other five men at the table shared their names, two of them were drovers like me, the two professional gamblers claimed to be traveling drummers (salesmen), and the last man was a railroad man, who called himself Burt. He was in town scouting out land for a spur line out to the El Paso salt flats. Burt was one of those handsome flashy dandies, from his slicked back hair to his diamond stick pin.

It only took me a few hands to figure out the two gamblers were in cahoots, and the railroad man was their intended mark. The gamblers had some sort of signal between them so they never bumped heads for a pot. The man with the weaker hand would only stay in the hand to keep the railroad agent betting. I watched and played conservatively, trying to stay out of the crosshairs of the professionals. As a result, I walked away three hours later with sixteen more dollars than I had when I started.

Yeah, I know, its not a fortune, but when you consider that I won as much as I made a month punching cows, it puts it in perspective. Oh, and I'd definitely be back, patiently looking for my chance to make some serious money, while I made a nice living. I'm one of those people who can walk away whether I'm winning or loosing, so gambling would just be a job for me.

I had no sooner dropped my winnings and my stake into my poke, than one of the dancehall women sidled up to me. She put her hand on my arm and leaned close enough to me for the scent of her perfume to waft out of her considerable cleavage and straight to my little brain.

"Hey handsome, I saw you winning over there. Why don't you spend some of that found money dancing with me?"

I looked her over before I answered. She was no raving beauty, but she was pleasantly pretty and had a voluptuous figure that was hard to ignore.

"I might just do that, you pretty little thing, but I warn you — once you dance with me, these other cowboys are going to loose their appeal."

She laughed gaily and managed to rub that impressively stayed bosom against my arm.

"Aren't you the Romeo? Go see Charlie and get a ticket, then you can impress me with your footwork."

I sauntered up to the bar and plunked down one of the silver dollars that I had just won. The barman, whom I assumed was Charlie, wrote the date on a ticket and handed it to me with a flourish.

"Best watch out for Miss Liz, tenderfoot, she eats young boys like you for breakfast."

I returned his grin and waggled my eyebrows.

"Yeah, Charlie, but what a way to go, heh?"

Now we need to stop right here and get a couple of things straight. I told you I didn't have a problem with gambling, and I don't drink much either. I don't smoke, dip or chew and I have never tried drugs. No, my personal demon is women. I have this weakness that makes me fall half-assed in love with every woman that catches my eye. Want proof? Ask any of my four ex-wives.

"And why," you might ask, "am I about to show the voluptuous Miss Liz how to two-step, when I know that Feleena Montoya, the girl of my dreams, is just across the street at Rosa's Cantina?"

Good question. I was at the Gold Nugget because there were no card games at Rosa's. Even had I found a game there, I'd have avoided Feleena for the time being. Uncle Ty had rushed right into a relationship with her, centered on the cantina she worked in, and look at what that got him. Hell, he died right out the back door of the place. I was going to take a different approach. As soon as I figured one out, that is. Until I had that plan, I considered myself a free agent and would sign a short-term contract with Miss Liz in a New York minute.

By the time I had my ticket in hand, Liz was dancing with a Cavalry Sergeant from nearby Fort Bliss. Liz was trying to make conversation with the soldier while at the same time trying to keep her dainty little feet out from under his clodhoppers. That girl was a trouper. I could tell the sergeant was trying his damndest to get her upstairs into one of the rooms for that purpose, but she was adamantly shaking her head no. While she was dancing with the slew-footed sergeant, I went over to the two caballeros playing a fiddle and piano, slipped them a quarter, and asked them to play a waltz next.

I guess I need to explain how a saloon and dancehall operated in circa 1877 West Texas. Generally, two types of women worked in the saloons: dancers and prostitutes. Men bought tickets, usually for a dollar, for the privilege of dancing with the dancehall women. The dancers split half the money the barman collected, and made a damn good living. Consequently, not all the dancers slept with the patrons for money. The prostitutes took clients to rooms upstairs after the client paid the barman for the woman's services. Both the dancers and hookers also tried to get men to buy them watered down drinks that they received a kickback from. I guess I needed to explain that to show that Miss Liz wasn't going to sleep with me for money. I'd have to charm my way into her good graces.

I started the ball rolling as soon as the song to which she was dancing ended. When the two-man-band whipped into a Spanish waltz, I was beside Liz with my arm extended.

"Elizabeth, my name is Tyler McGuinn, may I have this dance?" I asked suavely.

Liz cocked her eyebrow at me, but smiled and extended her hand. I took her small soft hand in my big calloused one and bowed slightly over it. Then I took her in my arms and twirled her around the floor.

Now I'm not bragging (oh yes I am) but if I can't do anything else, I can dance. See, Carmen, wifey number two, wait, Carmen was number three, Grace was number two. Anyway, Carmen was an instructor at Arthur Murray, and a competitive ballroom dancer. Since she didn't trust me out of her sight, she taught me to be her partner. Grace had a different take on the fidelity thing, when she thought I was stepping out on her (a vicious and mostly untrue rumor) she unloaded a .32 automatic into my truck about five seconds after I'd stepped out of it.

Well Miss Liz was no slouch at tripping the light fantastic either. For a woman with her incredible... er... assets, she was nimble on her feet. After the dance, I pleasantly surprised her by leading her to the bar for an over priced drink. I did that so I could monopolize her time, as she wasn't supposed to dance with one fellow twice in a row. You can understand that rule better if you were one of the twenty guys with tickets and there were only eight women.

Liz told me her story as we leaned back against the bar with our drinks and watched the other dancers.

"I was a ballet student back in New York until I sprouted these (she nodded down towards her magnificent creamy cleavage). They, of course, ended my career as a dancer. I was inconsolable and ended up married to a business associate of my father. He was much older than me, but worse than that, he was cruel and violent. I ran away from him two years ago and headed west. This is where I ran out of money, so this is where I stopped."

I believed her story, and it explained her refined accent. Being around her put me on my best manners; my grandmother would have kissed her for that. I danced with her one more time. We were synchronized perfectly by then, and drew an ovation when we came to rest. Before I left, I bought her another drink and asked her to accompany me to dinner the next evening at the hotel.

"You wouldn't mind being seen in a place like that with someone like me?" she asked, incredulously.

"On the contrary, Elizabeth," I replied gallantly. "I'd be proud to have you on my arm."

I walked back to the hotel with a spring in my step. My first day as a gentleman gambler was a success. Even after counting the money I invested impressing Liz, I still netted twelve dollars and some change. Of course, I wasn't guaranteed to win every night, but I was confident I could make a careful living off the fringes of the serious gamblers for a while. Add the fact that I scored a date with a very attractive woman for tomorrow, and things were looking up.

Back in my room at the hotel, I washed up and crawled into bed. I didn't know what time it was (a watch was definitely in my future) but it had to be after midnight. I smiled when I thought about being able to sleep in tomorrow as I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Wet Dream-Girl edited this story, any mistakes that remain are all my fault.

I'll post a chapter or two every three days.

Several authors are coming out with stories based on three songs by Marty Robbins: El Paso, Faleena and El Paso City. The story titles will be: "El Paso - author's name" e.g. "El Paso – Jake Rivers"

Read them all, you'll be glad you did.

This is a follow on to Jake’s first "invitational" in the fall of 2006 with entries based on the Statler Brother's song, "This Bed of Rose's." If there is continuing support, he might make this a regular semi-annual event.
Joe J & Wet Dream-Girl
El Paso 3