Six Ways From Sunday. William W. Johnstone
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to the red-lamp variety.
“We like comfort,” Scruples said. “And if this district runs out of ore, we’ll take our comfort with us.”
He motioned me toward a narrow corridor along one side, and we emerged into a compact dining area with a kitchen at the other end of the car. I warn’t feeling very pleasured by it. This place was full of stuff, like oil paintings on the wall and tablecloths. I’d heard of them tablecloths, but this was the first I’d ever laid eyes on one. This here one was a mess of white cloth laid over a table, just waitin’ to sop up stains. And napkins, too. I’d seen a few of those, but not these white ones sitting in rings of something that looked like silver. Maybe it was pewter. I hardly knew one from another, except it wasn’t gold. But there was gold around there. Them picture frames looked to be gold, and them spoons and forks, the handles was gold anyway. And them plates was purple and gold, like the colors outside.
Without asking, he poured me some coffee from a fancy jug, or whatever it was, and handed it to me. He poured one for himself, and motioned me to sit, which I did, sinking into a soft leather cushion. I sure had no notion why people lived like that. It seemed a mess of work to me, and no time off to have a beer.
“We have an investment company that’s buying up mining properties in the district,” Scruples said. “Mostly properties that are delinquent in paying taxes, or have faulty deeds. The problem is, it’s hard to remove the previous owners from our property after we acquire it. You saw exactly what can happen. The loss of four of our men sets back our plans, and we’ll have to push to return to schedule.” He paused. “We intend to own the entire Swamp Creek Mining District.”
That coffee, I’d never tasted the like. It was like them beans got burnt. It was strong enough to stain the rear end of an antelope brown. But I sort of liked the flavor, and thought maybe if I roasted some Arbuckle’s beans hard before grinding them up, maybe I could do her.
Scruples, he looked me over amiably, his gaze focusing on me to see how I was responding to all this here stuff, so I just gazed back, wishing that blonde would show up out of one of them closed-off rooms. I didn’t half mind this man Scruples, even if he was as real as a three-dollar bill.
He smiled. “We lost about half of our work force,” he said. “And that’s where you come in. I’ve made inquiries and found you’re handy at a lot of things.”
I sort of knew what he was driving at, but long as he was using big words like inquiries, I’d have to sort it out later.
“You could quickly become a top man with the Scruples Company,” he said. “Maybe the straw boss. We’ve ten or fifteen evictions ahead of us, and then we’ll own every mining property we think has promise.”
“What’s evictions?” I asked.
“Oh, persuading people like Mr. Cork it would be wise to pack up and leave.”
“That’s all? Just talkin’ people into leaving?”
Scruples smiled in a way as if he thought I was dumber than a stump, and maybe I am.
“By whatever means,” he said.
I knew right then he was working around the truth of it with a mouthful of fancies.
“You mean push ’em out at gunpoint,” I said, “and using them guns if I have to.”
Scruples smiled. “It’s worth a hundred dollars a month to you.”
Holy cats, that’s more money than I ever seen before, and it made me itch. But I’d have to use my six-guns to kill people just for hanging on to the mines they started up. I thought about that, and I thought about the two slicks I’d met today, the one near the Mint and the one he called Lugar, and I didn’t much like the idea.
“I think not, Mr. Scruples,” I said.
“I don’t ask a second time,” he said.
I collected my sweaty old hat and stood up, and holy cats, that blonde walked in, and her hair was down around her shoulders, and I plumb stopped whatever I was doing right then and there.
Chapter Four
Well, I’d wandered up the hill and dickered with this here Scruples, and there she was, standing there and smiling, and I went weak at the knees.
“Mr. Cotton,” she said, extending a creamy hand.
I hardly dared take hold, but I managed it, and pumped away until it occurred to me I oughter stop.
“I’m Amanda Trouville, and pleased to meet you.”
I just gawked there, not being in control of my senses, and words just wouldn’t fill my mouth or even come into my poor old head.
I guess you’d call her a golden blonde. Least, that’s how it come to me. She had that soft blond hair, my ma used to call it dishwater blond because it had a bit of light brown in it, but you couldn’t use that there word, dishwater, on Amanda Trouville. It just didn’t fit. That flesh, my ma used to call it peaches and creamy, and maybe that fit well enough. Peaches, that was pretty good. Her eyes, they were purple, I’d make an oath to it, first purple peepers I ever seen. But that hardly describes her. She was above medium, and curvy, but not too curvy, and well formed, far as I could tell. She wore a simple gray dress, and darned if it didn’t have pleats in it, something I hardly ever seen, and it was unbuttoned a bit at the neck, where that peachy flesh sort of disappeared.
I was half crazy, and was thinkin’ maybe I’d better just vamoose now that I got a good look. She was a rich man’s woman, and not for the likes of old Cotton.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, makin’ me more nervous than I’ve ever got in all my life. What’d she hear? Probably no good, for sure.
“Do sit down, Cotton. I’ll have some coffee with you.”
Scruples, he just settled a cup and saucer before her.
“Cat got your tongue, Cotton?” she asked, and them purple eyes sort of took me in, scraping over me like I had no secrets left.
“Well, ma’am, I was just wonderin’ how come you’re Trouville and he’s Scruples, or maybe I’m just getting myself into more trouble here.”
“Oh, we’re not married, Cotton. We’re partners. We’re equal owners of an enterprise. We’re in business together.”
Well, there’s business and there’s business, and I didn’t dare ask what sort of business.
“Our company’s called Transactions, Incorporated. Carter and I believe that all of life’s a transaction.”
“Ma’am, I don’t know one end of that word from the other.”
“Oh, of course you do. Transactions are agreements. We believe in negotiating agreements with others, and that’s how we live. Our personal arrangements are a transaction. I am his lover and he supports me. He pays me a thousand dollars a month to go to bed with me. But it’s not an exclusive contract. I am free to made my own arrangements.”
I was getting mighty flustered here, and I sort of thought maybe I’d gotten into something I couldn’t get no handle on. I thought there’s married people, and people who go to whorehouses, and people who work in whorehouses, and I didn’t know anything else was floating around except old maid schoolmarms.
She didn’t look mean neither. I always thought them women were hard as a Dutch oven, but her gaze was sweet, and she had little smileys around her eyes. I sure couldn’t make no sense of her, but I didn’t have to. Every time she shifted around, all I could think about was what was hidden from my poor eyes.
Carter Scruples, he must of seen me making moon eyes, because he sorta took over.
“Amanda, Mr. Cotton doesn’t think he’ll join us.”
I hated like hell to be called Cotton, that not being my real handle, but I