A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
The doors of the Stardust Saloon swung open to reveal a somewhat less than completely foreign figure.
Roland had been here once before, meeting the acquaintance of the lovely Caroline. Unfortunately, his visit today was likely to be a shade or three more contentious and less welcome. Word had finally reached him that the clown he'd 'hired' had shot up this establishment and ruined a work of art. That was not conducive to creating the sort of public image he desired for his shop.
Worse still, the gun had been lost in the process.
Well... they said if you paid a fool's wage, you'd only ever have fools in your employ. Roland had never intended to hire the yokel to begin with. It was always a scheme to arm Clara's musketeer husband with something more formidable. But the man had taken offense ...And sent in the clown.
Roland had felt compelled to make a similar offer to the man, lest his scheme be laid bare. He didn't want Clara's husband to know that it had all been engineered merely for his benefit. So to hide an act of charity, he'd hired a buffoon. And now he had to come begging to the saloon-owner because of it all.
Not the impression he'd hoped to make. But perhaps he could redeem himself.
As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the different lighting conditions within the Saloon, he would be seen as a marginally less polished and more rugged figure than he'd been a few days ago. He was experimenting with growing his beard out a bit, and he'd bought some articles of clothing that hadn't come from London or New York. If this evolution continued, he might not be recognizable as a foreigner within six months' time.
Well... until he spoke, at least.
"Roland Smith. I wonder if I might gain an audience with the owner," he proposed at last, identifying an employee of the establishment.
"Roland Smith. I wonder if I might gain an audience with the owner."
Actually other than the negro cook in the back, there were only three employees in the small saloon - Ralph the bartender, Caroline the saloon girl jack of all trades, and their part time blind piano playing young miss, Frances. So the relative newcomer had misidentified this so-called employee. Maybe because he was not in cowpoke garb.
"Oh? Umm, I don't really know the owner, mister. I'm new here, just came in from the stage to have a drink," the man smiled, "I'm a traveling salesman. Sorry."
By then though Caroline spotted Roland and recognized him right off. She had enjoyed their last conversation and, in fact, hoped he'd be back in again sometime. She excused herself from what had been some light flirting with a young cowpoke who was well on his way to getting drunk. Least the boy was a pleasant drunk, there were some men who were not.
Caroline sauntered right up to the Englishman, "Well, if it isn't my favorite English gun shop owner! You look like you're beginning to blend in around here. Didn't take long."
"Can I get ya somethin'?" Caroline almost never forgot her job duties, one of them being to get customers to buy drinks...then more drinks. Oh and drinks for her too.
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
"Pardon the error, Sir. You exude an air of substance," Roland apologized to the salesman.
But soon enough Caroline appeared to rescue him. "Miss Caroline. Ever more bewitching with each new day's light." She also commented on his appearance and he smiled, "What do they say? The nail that stands out gets hammered down? I supposed it was best if the locals do not see me as both foreign and strange during the same interval." He winked at her.
When she inquired about a beverage, Roland hesitated. It was ingrained in him not to refuse an offer of that kind, and even in a pub it was a hard thing to do.
"Perhaps you could help me with three drinks," he suggested. "One for you, one for me, and one for the owner, with whom I crave a conversation."
More quietly, he added, "I'll buy a bottle of whatever it is he drinks, if it's less than a week's wage."
"Miss Caroline. Ever more bewitching with each new day's light."
She chuckled and smiled, "One way to look at getting another day older. Thanks, hon."
She also commented on his appearance and he smiled. "What do they say? The nail that stands out gets hammered down? I supposed it was best if the locals do not see me as both foreign and strange during the same interval."
"Don't be afraid, I don't even got a hammer on me. Though I do remember as a girl my father asked me ta help him as he was working on somethin' needing fixing. In our saloon. He held the nail and asked me to use the hammer to pound it in. Well, I missed one swing and hit his finger. I sure did hear a lot of swear words that day," Caroline recalled with amusement.
"Moral of the story is don't ask me ta do any carpenter work," she pointed out to him. She moved on to her work though, asking if he was gonna buy a drink? Or more would be good too.
"Perhaps you could help me with three drinks," he suggested. "One for you, one for me, and one for the owner, with whom I crave a conversation."
"Three huh? Sure thing, hon," she nodded then glanced up toward the second floor, "The boss is upstairs right now. He doesn't spend a lot a time down here unless he is palavering with his old friend or playin' cards."
She leaned in to him and whispered, "Word to the wise, don't play cards with that man." The look that accompanied the warning seemed dead serious too.
Now he added, "I'll buy a bottle of whatever it is he drinks, if it's less than a week's wage."
"He does like the stuff from our 'special' row out of sight of the customers and yeah, it's real expensive. Do ya have a hand or a leg you can spare or an oldest child you can pay for it?" she grinned.
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
"Well," Roland said with a wicked smile after hearing the carpentry tale, "I shall be sure that if you need any nailing, I'll do the hammering." It was a rather suggestive turn of phrase, and he hoped he hadn't overstepped the bounds of saloon etiquette.
His mood sobered somewhat upon hearing the likely prices associated with the owner's special stock.
"I hope to part with something that will grow back, at least," he said, forcing a new smile to his features. "I have amends to make with that man, so I suppose I can't skimp. But can it be had for three dollars? Or am I living in fantasy?"
At most saloons, three dollars would buy you thirty shots of whiskey. But quality drinks had greater expense, especially when they had to be carted to the edge of nowhere.
He waited to hear the price of penance.
Well... the first price. This was just admission. He still had to pay for the show.
The smell of gunsmoke had abated by the time Franklin Fortner made his way from his upstairs office. He walked with an air of authority, his hands gripping the sides of his open coat. He'd watched the entire spectacle from the parapet and was happily impressed with his barman and his barmaid. They'd settled the cowpoke's hash and had him hustled off the premises. Those two would see his gratitude in their next pay envelope.
As he approached the bar, he saw a rugged appearing stranger making requests of Caroline, as many customers did, but there was something about him, that stranger, which Fortner felt warranted watching. For one thing, his speechifying had an almost stage-like delivery. It was off-putting.
He stepped beside Caroline.
"I'm Franklin Fortner, the proprietor, and, because you are a new customer, how about a drink on the house? What'll it be?" He nodded at Ralph.
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
In the midst of planning the proper lubrication for this encounter, the encounter descended upon him.
And now he was being offered the drink!
Roland regarded the man, taking off his hat in a gesture of respect.
"Mister Fortner. Pleasure to meet you. My name is Roland Smith.
You make a generous offer. Though I must confess I supped here briefly during my first night in town. Your famous house stew fortified me after a difficult journey from Oakdale. Though... the journey lingered longer still, if you trace it back across the pond to London."
He smiled, hoping to strike the right tone.
"And in fact, it is I that owe you a beverage, Sir. I was just inquiring with Miss Caroline here what your preferred vintage might be."
He hesitated, then added, "I must confess I am indirectly the cause of some trouble that came upon you the other day. I hoped we might sit and discuss appropriate reparations."
@[Steve Larimore]
"Well now here he is," Caroline noticed Fortner's approach and stepped away to allow her employer to come right up and meet Mr. Smith. After all the gunshop came there to speak with the owner. Caroline knew how to fade out of a scene, she knew her place.
"I'm Franklin Fortner, the proprietor, and, because you are a new customer, how about a drink on the house? What'll it be?" He nodded at Ralph.
Ralph nodded back and grabbed two shotglasses but so far he had no instruction of just what to pour. There was rotgut whiskey, he doubted Fortner ever touched that stuff. And then there was the real expensive stuff all the way from places like Scotland and Ireland. Cost a fortune too. Ralph did not pour that liquor without being sure it was what was expected. So he waited.
"And in fact, it is I that owe you a beverage, Sir. I was just inquiring with Miss Caroline here what your preferred vintage might be."
Roland hesitated, then added, "I must confess I am indirectly the cause of some trouble that came upon you the other day. I hoped we might sit and discuss appropriate reparations."
Caroline had it all figured out by now. He was in the saloon for that nice gun Scrappy had fired and at this very moment, in the saloon girl's possession. But she was going to let the men talk it out.
"Mister Fortner. Pleasure to meet you. My name is Roland Smith.
A pleasure, Mr. Smith. The Stardust is always in need of a gentleman like yourself to cross its threshold.
You make a generous offer. Though I must confess I supped here briefly during my first night in town. Your famous house stew fortified me after a difficult journey from Oakdale. Though... the journey lingered longer still, if you trace it back across the pond to London."
He smiled, hoping to strike the right tone.
Franklin muttered, "London?", and gave a nod that signaled that he was impressed.
"And in fact, it is I that owe you a beverage, Sir. I was just inquiring with Miss Caroline here what your preferred vintage might be."
He hesitated, then added, "I must confess I am indirectly the cause of some trouble that came upon you the other day. I hoped we might sit and discuss appropriate reparations."
"Well, Mr. Roland Smith. On the first point, our esteemed barkeep Ralph over there." He pointed at the chronically busy man behind the counter. "He's the best authority on our liquor and its vintage. But let's sit at my private table and lay our cards on the table." He loved using gambling expressions while talking business.
Fortner led him to the table reserved for Mr. Priest.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said, before catching Caroline's eye and beckoning her.
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland nodded and followed to the indicated table.
Now that introductions had been made, it was here that the negotiations would begin. Whether a negotiating table was set between heads of state or fellow businessmen, the nature of those negotiations was the same. Power, position, and respect were bid, and war or peace would follow from the result. It was Roland's hope that he could achieve that peace with a minimal loss.
No matter what happened, he could not afford to have his reputation tarnished so early in his tenure here. It would be fairly easy for the townsfolk to turn upon a newcomer. Someone like Fortner would have a well established web of contacts in the community. Irritating such a man as he would doubtless result in Roland being unable to do business here.
And so... tithing to the King was required, just as surely as if it was the Mayor himself seated here.
"Thank you, Sir. I was recently informed- much to my disappointment and horror- that a man I contracted with made a ruin of the tranquility of your establishment. And perhaps worse, he damaged a work of art for which this saloon is known. I assure you I would have come sooner to address it, had I heard of it sooner.
Naturally, the man himself did not deign to report his buffoonery to me. I had to hear it by way of rumor. Which only increased my dismay."
@[Steve_Larimore]