Hour Glass Page 3

  Dora DuFran ceased her laughing, suddenly looking very serious. She scowled at Jane. Her look told me more than words could.

  “Jane, you ain’t got a place to stay.”

  Calamity Jane returned her level look. She had the air of someone about to gear up for an argument they planned on winning by sheer will alone. By the way Dora DuFran was settling into her own stance, I figured this might be just another battle in an ongoing war between them. They both had the appearance of seasoned veterans of such arguments.

  “Did you or did you not just this morning offer me a room in your establishment? I believe yer words were regarding my service to Deadwood in the pest tent.”

  “Yes, I said that, but . . .”

  “And did you not say that a servant of the city such as myself ought not be sleepin’ on the streets and in the alleys?”

  “I did, but . . .”

  “Was I mistaken in hearing from your own lips something to the effect of: as a citizen and business owner in a community such as this, you wouldn’t be worth yer fuckin’ salt if you didn’t allow a civil servant such as myself shelter in this hour of fuckin’ need?”

  “Now Jane, you know I did . . .”

  “Well then, it sounds to me like I got a fuckin’ place to stay, doesn’t it?”

  Dora DuFran, in all her extravagance, smirked at Jane. She seemed bemused by the whole thing, but Jane looked overly annoyed. The mood was thick and made the air between them pert near soupy with tension. I didn’t know what to say to relieve the pressure, but without something to relieve it, the very space between them was liable to explode. Then, in the midst of the silence of that particular bit of thoroughfare, I heard a sound I hadn’t heard in years. It was the music of a little girl giggling. That sound could cure just about any illness in the world as far as I was concerned. The sound wasn’t coming from just any girl either. As I turned around, I saw the laughter was coming from my own sister. She was staring at the two women, giggling for all she was worth.

  I hadn’t heard her laugh at anything in years. No one had.

  The battle was over, and my sister, of all people, had ended it.

  3

  The room in question was a barely-used storeroom in the back of Madame Dora DuFran’s brothel. Calamity Jane herself helped us with our packs as Dora led us through the saloon, past the kitchen, and into the storeroom beyond. As we made our way, I saw so many women in various stages of dress,that it made my head swim. A candy store of girls painted all sorts of colors. The bits behind my eyes strained from trying to take it all in. My sister, on the other hand, barely looked up from the floor to notice.

  The place was called Diddlin’ Dora’s, and Dora herself escorted us, in all our filth and mud-caked clothes, through her establishment; she smiled and charmed with every step. Men from the bar called out to her as though she were a dear friend, offering to buy her a drink. She merely smiled and replied that all her drinks were on the house. Raucous laughter ensued—the kind that only came from the desperately drunk and the deliriously happy.

  With every smile, every nod, and every wink, Dora DuFran further exuded the virtues of her Diddlin’ Dora’s motto: “Come here to have fun with the three D’s: dining, drinking, and dancing.” Apparently, Deadwood was not her only location. The ambitious Madame had begun opening Diddlin’ Dora’s locations in Sturgis, Rapid City, and Belle Fourche.

  We entered the backroom set aside for Jane and were ambushed by the scent of sawdust. It was roomy, at the very least, inside that wooden storeroom. A few pine boxes filled with whatnots were stacked up here and there. The windows were a blessing if I’d ever seen one because the light it let in kept the place from feeling completely like a coffin. Dust floated in the beams of light pouring in through the panes of glass. There were walls though, real ones—a fact that elevated the room higher than our drafty shanty made of canvas any day.

  A single cot sat lonely off to one side.

  “We’ll just get two more cots and fit ’em down here, won’t we, Joseph?”

  Madam DuFran directed the question at the squat man who had recently returned from aiding in Pa’s journey to the pest tent. By way of deduction, he must have been Joseph, and by the way she smiled at him, I guessed him to be her husband. The pair had the matching rings of married people, all right.

  “Yes’m. I reckon I know where I can grab a few things here and there to make a nice bed for the youngins.”

  He tried to smile at me. I nodded the way a man might to another. The idea of being dealt the card of a youngin didn’t sit right with my blossoming male sensibilities. With a puff of my chest, I tried to make myself seem taller. Air and bluster were weapons when need be. I caught Jane sizing me up with a gaze that could cut crystal. Joseph hurried off after supplies for our stay without seeming to notice my manly display.

  “Think you’re big for yer britches, kid?” asked Jane.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, I think you fuckin’ proved a bit of your grit, pullin’ yer pa all the way here by yourself. That must’ve been quite a ways.”

  “Jane, you probably shouldn’t cuss in front of the kids,” scolded Dora.

  “I don’t reckon this one is much of a kid, as far as kids go. Still got the face of one, though. You best keep your girls on a tight leash in case they mistake him fer a new pet.”

  “My girls’ll smell the lack of money on his person and leave him be.”

  Dora DuFran crossed her arms over her bosom with effort. Any commotion over such a mountain would definitely have required extra effort. I tried not to stare, as it would not befit a gentleman to do so. Not to mention the bosom in question belonged to the woman who was kind enough to put us up while our pa recovered in the pest tent. Admittedly, the idea of working Pa’s claim and keeping an eye on my sister was not something that I looked upon with interest. Thankful didn’t begin to properly describe the feeling I had for our little place in the sawdust storeroom.

  Jane knelt down and looked me in the eye. Her tanned face twisted in a manner that read she was taking my measure once again. Those crystal-blue eyes stared into mine like a sky that both comforted and frightened me. For a second, I thought of my sister and the way her eyes looked when she actually focused them on a person. Such intimacy in this stare, but I could smell the liquor on her breath, and the whites of her eyes were not as bright as they could have been.

  “Please, ma’am. Is Pa gonna be all right?”

  She put a calloused hand on my shoulder. It was rough and warm.

  “I don’t rightly know, son. With a thing like smallpox, there ain’t much to be done but to nurse ’em and provide ’em comfort while they ride out the symptoms. I promise, I’ll do my damnedest to help your pa.”

  “Jane’s been nursing all the folks who are infected, kid. She’s a regular angel,” added Dora with a sideways grin.

  Jane stood back up, spurred on by Dora’s verbal invitation.

  “And don’t you go listenin’ to a word this woman says neither. Ain’t a bit of truth comes out of her gullet, just like the rest of her limey ancestors.”

  I smiled and wanted to laugh at the mock angry face Dora put on for us all. These women were so odd in their banter. Trying to remain serious was a chore.

  “Better than some piss-poor prairie trash, Miss Calamity Jane!”

  Jane laughed and sidled up to me. She threw a rough arm around my shoulder and hugged me like a friend. Her whisper was loud and comedic.

  “Never trust a fuckin’ Englishwoman, especially those that hail from Liverpool. Ain’t nothin’ but bastards and bedrails up that a-way.”

  I had no idea what most of it meant, but I laughed on cue as I gathered I was meant to. Dora fussed at us both and called us each a bastard in turn. It was all in good fun until the women noticed that my sister wasn’t looking at any of us. There was no laughter from her. She had
n’t even managed to lift her head from the floor. Everything here was new, and my poor girl was not good with new.

  Jane and Dora focused on the girl staring at the boards. To me, her manner was habit, one I knew so well. It wasn’t until we made the effort to be around people that I saw how others reacted to her peculiar ways. They’d hover around her a little, staring like she was hiding the part of her that was human from them. It was probably how I should have acted around her, but I just couldn’t. She was my sister, and I understood her.

  “Ah see, Jane. I told you. We shouldn’t be cussing around the little one. We embarrassed her something awful, I bet. She’s blushing.”

  “She don’t really talk much. It ain’t you,” I struggled to explain.

  Jane pointed that focus of hers on my sister, and I tensed all over. Everything that was hard in me was fragile in her and for her. My hair was all burnt blond, meant to blend into the trees, and my eyes were dark and solid to the sun. Her hair was jet black and slick, and her clear blue eyes gave away her mixed heritage, if you could get her to look at you. As Jane moved closer to her, I wanted to stop her, but she walked so delicately, as if approaching a scared horse.

  “I heard you laughin’ earlier, little one, so I know you can talk.”

  “She talks to me but normally don’t with other people. She don’t much like lookin’ at people either, not even me and Pa most of the time.”

  “What’s your names?” asked Jane as she settled into a squat in front of my sister.

  “I’m James Glass, but folks call me Jimmy.”

  “Glass, huh? What sorta name is that?”

  “German, I think. Pa says we’re German somewheres back. His pappy or somethin’.”

  Jane tried to make eye contact with my sister, but she just stood quiet, staring at the floor. Her little shoulders were stiff. She was curling in on herself slowly. Everything in me wanted to rush to her and protect her, but doing so let on too much. These women weren’t stupid.

  “And you, little poppet, who are you?”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “Yeh, I figured as much, but she looks a little different.”

  I swallowed a big breath and let it out. They’d know sooner or later. Time to bet on them being the kind type. So far they hadn’t shown me otherwise.

  “Her mama ain’t mine. My mama died when I was born, and her mama was Lakota. She died, too, a few years back.”

  Jane nodded slowly.

  There rarely was a way of knowing what people would do when confronted with a half-breed like my sister. Folks around the hills rarely took an Indian’s presence kindly. But Jane smiled at the helpless girl in front of her, and it eased the hairs on my neck.

  “I can see that with all the purdy black hair,” she said sweetly as she rustled my sister’s hair.

  Tension stiffened my back and hers at the same time. I could not recollect any time anyone had done such a thing to her, not even me or Pa. Touching was normally on her terms. A routine. How she would react to this, I did not know. In a second, her face was looking up into Jane’s with an expression I hadn’t seen before. It was a kind of reverence, a wonder. Two sets of crystal-blue eyes searching for answers in one another. My mouth fell agape watching the spectacle, but Dora and Jane just smiled.

  “Don’t worry, poppet. I don’t mind Injuns none.”

  With all the new things happening, I almost expected her to say something to Jane, but nothing came from her but air, as was her usual when talking to strangers. She still stared at Jane though. It was wordless but more than she normally gave up.

  “What is your name then, Miss Glass?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, and the tiniest hint of a whisper came out. More of a breath of a word than a proper one.

  “Ower.”

  “Hour? Yer name is Hour Glass?”

  “That ain’t her name,” I tried to interject.

  “You’re meanin’ to tell me yer name is Hour Glass?”

  “No, it ain’t.”

  “Well, if that don’t beat all. You know, with a face as purdy as yours, I bet you will fill out into an hourglass. None of this face and figure for you, little darlin’,” said Jane, gesturing to her own face. “If’n I were a bettin’ woman, I’d bet you’ll grow up to have an hourglass figure, better than Madame Dora DuFran right over there. Wouldn’t that be somethin’?”

  Jane smiled so grandly at her that it was infectious. Even my sister’s face seemed to light up. Her little mouth closed, and the tiniest of grins pulled at the ends of her lips. I didn’t want to spoil the whole thing, but someone had to set them straight.

  “Her name ain’t Hour, it’s Flower. Her mama was Lakota, like I said, and . . .”

  “Oh, pish posh,” scolded Dora. “You think half the people walking around Deadwood use the names they were given at birth? Not a chance! Jimmy Glass, you might be the only one using the name that your parents gave you. Just ask good ole Calamity Jane, here. Hour is a fine name.”

  “Littlelin’, if you’d like us to call you by your proper name, just say so.”

  She stared up at Jane with nary a sound. Jane smiled greatly at her.

  “And if you want us to call you Hour from now on, I ain’t gonna make you talk. I just want you to nod that purdy head of hair you got.”

  Without a pause, Flower, now Hour, nodded her head. Never in her life had I seen her react like that to a stranger. She barely conversed with me that much. Something in the air, maybe, made her take to someone like Jane the way she did. It had been since we lost her mama that she responded to any woman, let alone a complete stranger.

  Calamity Jane jumped up and made a spectacle with her theatrical bow.

  “Well, hot damn, Hour Glass. It is a pleasure and a privilege to meet you at long last.”

  4

  The sound of heavy boots ended our impromptu revelry. Joseph DuFran rounded the corner and pushed his way into the room without a word of polite conversation. He tossed an armload of blankets and buffalo skins into the room, his forehead sweating from exertion. The plump man was a little out of breath. Excitement followed in his wake.

  “What’s the fuss, Joseph?”

  “Charlie Utter is back, Dora. He brung what you asked for. Told me I ought to hustle to get you since he’s good and ready to be rid of the cargo.”

  “Why’s he in such a goddamned hurry?” asked Jane.

  “’Cause I think he’s having him a . . . well . . . some kinda reaction,” replied Joseph.

  “To the cargo? What’s that mean?” Jane said, twisting up a scowl. “Dora, what the blue blazes did you order Charlie to bring you?”

  “Cats.”

  The room grew suddenly silent as several pairs of incredulous eyes made their way to Madame Dora DuFran’s spot in the room. She shrugged and smiled.

  “You hired Charlie Utter to haul that ugly wagon of his all the way to Cheyenne for a bunch of cats?” Jane asked with a crooked face.

  “Don’t be foolish, Jane. I had him bring ’em from Rapid City.”

  A laugh escaped my mouth, followed by a snort. I couldn’t help it. This whole affair was the funniest thing I ever heard of. Someone had to be playing a joke.

  “Don’t encourage her, Jimmy Glass. She ain’t half as clever as a mule.”

  “And you’re twice as stubborn, Jane. Come on with me, if’n you’re so disbelieving.”

  Dora stormed out of the small room with Joseph and Jane on her heels. Not wanting to miss a beat, I grabbed Hour’s hand and followed behind them. Through the saloon we sped, leaving a trail of confused girls in our wake. We made our way out of Diddlin’ Dora’s and into the crowded thoroughfare. There was already a number of people surrounding a wagon with a red-faced man atop it. A distinct mewing sound trilled in the air, drawing a small crowd.

  Jane wasn’t kidding a
bout the ugliness of the wagon. Never had I seen a wagon painted so garish, with a hodgepodge of colors that didn’t match one bit. Even the letters on the side were in different colors, like someone trying to make a thing colorful but only achieving the look of someone who had a lot of different paint buckets to empty. Charlie Utter was dismounting from the driver’s seat as Dora strode up to him as prim as a peacock.

  “Charlie Utter, as I live and breathe.”

  “At least you is breathing,” said the red-faced man. “I tell you what, Dora. There ain’t no way I’m gonna make a trip like that again for you. I don’t care how much you pay me.”

  He wore a rounder hat, like a Jacobson but with a shorter brim. It covered a sweat-stained head with flattened hair that curled at the ends. Charlie was a shorter fellow but capable. A person could tell by the way of his eyes. Not to mention he was wound tight and strong. His face was reddened and not by the sun. His nose had the look of someone who had been sneezing often, raw and rubbed away.

  “Oh Charlie, ain’t but a crate of cats,” cooed Dora.

  With a flick of his hand, Charlie removed the blanket that was covering the cargo in the back of his wagon. Several sacks of mail surrounded a large wooden crate filled with meowing masses of fur. The din of meows turned into yowls as he made the great reveal. The slates of the crate were wide enough to ventilate the creatures’ piteous moans for freedom, but not so large as to allow them an escape route. Several heaps of fur within bustled about and began hissing at one another as well as the humans outside.

  “Oh Charlie, they’re perfect.”

  “I don’t know how perfect they are, but I will tell you they’re ornery. Bunch of hissing, spitting devils, the lot of them. Why did you want all females anyhow? Girl cats don’t get along with each other too well.”

  “I didn’t want any Toms yowlin’ and sprayin’ all over the place. We get enough of that as it is with the clientele.”

  “Well, you just be glad I picked up some mail while there, or else the trip wouldn’t a’been worth the dollar for extra handkerchiefs I’m gonna charge you. I swear it were the most unruly and aggravated cargo I ever did haul. Cornered Injuns put up less of a fuss. That’s the truth of it.”