"Alright! Alright!" He complained as they stood on either side of him. "If you're aimin' to get me to my quarters, best get me up the outside way. I don't think it would be good for my image to be hauled across the saloon floor. Do you?"
"Quite right" agreed Flo, who never seemed to disagree with Hiram Priest from this day forward, and yet so often seemed to get what she wanted. "You must preserve your amour propre at all costs!"
Hitherto, Franklin Fortner had seemed to be the dominant partner of the ill assorted pair, but Hiram Priest had just received reinforcements.
"He what now?" queried Messalina as she puffed up the stairs behind the old gadger, half carrying half supporting him while Miss Whatsit Forde walked before him, leading him by one dainty hand, the other held to her stomach, making sure the nugget didn't slip out of her corsets.
They got him to his room and sat him on the bed; the creaking noise that sounded presumably that of the bed springs, rather than Hiram's own rusted joints.
"And better get that drug for me. Here's some money."
Florence took the $10 bill and passed it to Messalina.
"Please dispatch the girl to the druggist and inform her that a draught of Warner’s cordial or an equivalent anodyne should cost no more than a dollar ten, so we shall expect eight dollars ninety cents residual" she ordered the black woman with haughty precision.
"I shall assist Mr Priest in disrobing" she added.
Mrs McMahon's eyes bulged.
"Ain't you worried about yo reputation, Miss?!" she blurted.
"I should rather my reputation lie in tatters, than this fine gentleman's discomfort be extenuated by the smallest iota!" Flo pronounced airily "Now fly!"
The plump cook waddled out of the room muttering "Bless me if dat gal ain't swallered a dictionary!"
Once Messalina had made her exit, Florence turned to the old man.
"Now, let us get you out of those stuffy clothes, shall we?"
Address me as Hon. Hiram Priest, esq.
"I shall assist Mr Priest in disrobing" she added.
Mrs McMahon's eyes bulged.
Priest's eyes bulged.
"Ain't you worried about yo reputation, Miss?!" she blurted.
"I should rather my reputation lie in tatters, than this fine gentleman's discomfort be extenuated by the smallest iota!" Flo pronounced airily "Now fly!"
The plump cook waddled out of the room muttering "Bless me if dat gal ain't swallered a dictionary!"
Once Messalina had made her exit, Florence turned to the old man.
"Now, let us get you out of those stuffy clothes, shall we?"
His quarters were quite modest. There was a poster bed, a small bureau with a porcelain pitcher atop it, and a nightstand beside the bed where sat a kerosene lamp and a tattered Bible. The window across from the bed was in need of washing but, nevertheless, offered a view of the side of the sundry next door to the saloon.
Priest sat on the side of the bed proceeded to unlace his shoes.
"You know, this is quite generous of you, Miss Patterson-Forde. It was just a spell that I suffered from; nothing more. But your kindness overwhelming."
The bed squeaked and groaned as he struggled to pull his high top shoes off.
"Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us!" he spat, using Hamlet's words as an oath while, bent at the waist, he tugged.
The bed squeaked and groaned as he struggled to pull his high top shoes off.
"Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us!" he spat, using Hamlet's words as an oath while, bent at the waist, he tugged.
"Mister Priest!" Flo snapped forcefully "You will give yourself an apoplectic stroke!"
She eased him back up straight.
"Now, you will allow me to undress you. I will not take 'no' for an answer. If there is an inappropriate moment I shall... I shall avert my gaze."
She sank to her knees on the carpet beside the bed and deftly pulled his boots off, then his socks, then lifted his feet up so he naturally went into his back. She was stronger than she looked.
She then picked up a nightshirt from the back of his chair and held it up.
"Now, let's get you into this and make you comfy."
Address me as Hon. Hiram Priest, esq.
"Mister Priest!" Flo snapped forcefully "You will give yourself an apoplectic stroke!"
"Oh for pity's sake," grumbled Priest.
She eased him back up straight.
"Now, you will allow me to undress you. I will not take 'no' for an answer. If there is an inappropriate moment I shall... I shall avert my gaze."
"I should hope so, young woman," he intoned, all prurient thoughts now vanished from his mind.
She sank to her knees on the carpet beside the bed and deftly pulled his boots off, then his socks, then lifted his feet up so he naturally went into his back. She was stronger than she looked.
Priest felt weakened.
She then picked up a nightshirt from the back of his chair and held it up.
"Now, let's get you into this and make you comfy."
"That's my favorite nightshirt," Priest moaned. It's got a moth hole in it now, though."
On his back and in a fit of pique, Priest reached over to where is hat lay on the bed sheets. He picked it up and flung it off the bed to where it landed on his nightstand, sending the Bible to the floor. And, as happened either by accident or some divine intervention, the Good Book opened and out flew a French Postcard, ostensibly used as a bookmark.
The card depicted a nubile woman stepping into a bathtub. Her back is to the viewer and she is draped in a filmy white covering, though it didn't cover up the top half of her buttocks. She is looking over her shoulder at the viewer, her face with a come hither look.
On his back and staring at the ceiling, Priest didn't realize this predicament.
"Come along. Let's get this over with," he grumped.
On his back and staring at the ceiling, Priest didn't realize his predicament.
"Come along. Let's get this over with," he grumped.
Flo and her sister Pat had, at one point in their lives, had to take care of their invalid Grandfather, and the girl was more than capable of getting a man undressed and into his nightshirt. She overtly averted her gaze, of course, when his 'kidney prodder' was exposed, but her peripheral vision told her that the man, who must have only actually been in his early 50s, was not wanting in the wedding night department.
Yes, take away the stove-pipe hat and the spectacles, ignore the hair, white with worry (or an-ill spent youth) and Mr Priest was not as decrepit as one first assumed. The next thing that happened proved his virility was still, if not rampant, then a force in his life.
Flo stooped down to pick up the fallen Bible and noticed that a photograph had fallen out. Once she had goggled at it for a second or two, mouth gaping, she recovered her wits enough to bounce to the bed and sit beside him, showing him her find.
"Oh, Mister Priest, what a devout bookmark you have... it is a portrait of Pharoah's Daughter, is it not, bathing in the Nile just before finding Moses in the Bullrushes?" She had never seen such a portrait before in her life, but she flattered herself that her own derriere was as plump and shapely as the model in the carte de visite image.
Address me as Hon. Hiram Priest, esq.
Flo and her sister Pat had, at one point in their lives, had to take care of their invalid Grandfather, and the girl was more than capable of getting a man undressed and into his nightshirt. She overtly averted her gaze, of course, when his 'kidney prodder' was exposed, but her peripheral vision told her that the man, who must have only actually been in his early 50s, was not wanting in the wedding night department.
Yes, take away the stove-pipe hat and the spectacles, ignore the hair, white with worry (or an-ill spent youth) and Mr Priest was not as decrepit as one first assumed. The next thing that happened proved his virility was still, if not rampant, then a force in his life.
It had been so long. Yes, so long since he'd been prone in front of a young woman --- and such a young woman. Her commanding manner caused a strange feeling of surrender in the Mr. Priest Esq. He enjoyed the feeling it gave him and it ultimately led to a rush of blood to "parts south", as he liked to refer to his "Excalibur."
Flo stooped down to pick up the fallen Bible and noticed that a photograph had fallen out. Once she had goggled at it for a second or two, mouth gaping, she recovered her wits enough to bounce to the bed and sit beside him, showing him her find.
"Oh, Mister Priest, what a devout bookmark you have... it is a portrait of Pharoah's Daughter, is it not, bathing in the Nile just before finding Moses in the Bullrushes?" She had never seen such a portrait before in her life, but she flattered herself that her own derriere was as plump and shapely as the model in the carte de visite image.
"Oh THAT!" he answered her, bemusedly. "It's a good bookmark, that one. I picked up that one in a seedy shop in New York City, a few years ago. I consider it artwork, my dear."
She has seen a secret of his, and he began to throb.
"Please. Let us get the nightshirt on," he suggested.
Miss Patterson Forde, pretending not to notice the inflammation of Mr Priest's passions, sat upon the bed next to the naked man and asked him about the photograph, the lump of gold inside her corsets prodding her ribs and irritating her like a pebble in her shoe.
"Oh THAT!" he answered her, bemusedly. "It's a good bookmark, that one. I picked up that one in a seedy shop in New York City, a few years ago. I consider it artwork, my dear."
Florence traced the line of the girl's rump on the photograph with her finger.
"I am probably flattering myself, Mister Priest, but I fancy that this young lady bears a passing resemblance to myself. Some features are very like!" she enthused and actually, there was a bit of a resemblance, apart from the lack of clothing on the model.
She has seen a secret of his, and he began to throb. "Please. Let us get the nightshirt on," he suggested.
"Oh, but when my sister and I looked after my Grandfather, he was always most insistent that, before pulling on his nightshirt, we rub his chest and arms and legs with Dr. Gregg's patent Liniment oil..." she illustrated what she was saying by running the fingers of her spare hand over his chest. She moved her hand down as she added "... he found it eased his stiffness considerably."
Poor old Hiram then had the choice of three sights: Miss Patterson Forde's innocent face, smiling benignly beside him, like some golden version of her namesake, Miss Nightingale; secondly the sight of her not so innocent hand, gently stroking his priapus, or thirdly, the sight of the naked girl in the photograph.
"It is pleasant, is it not?" she asked, as if trying out a new cake recipe on the poor old bugger.
Address me as Hon. Hiram Priest, esq.
I am probably flattering myself, Mister Priest, but I fancy that this young lady bears a passing resemblance to myself. Some features are very like!" she enthused and actually, there was a bit of a resemblance, apart from the lack of clothing on the model.
She has seen a secret of his, and he began to throb. "Please. Let us get the nightshirt on," he suggested.
"Oh, but when my sister and I looked after my Grandfather, he was always most insistent that, before pulling on his nightshirt, we rub his chest and arms and legs with Dr. Gregg's patent Liniment oil..." she illustrated what she was saying by running the fingers of her spare hand over his chest. She moved her hand down as she added "... he found it eased his stiffness considerably."
Hiram gasped.
Poor old Hiram then had the choice of three sights: Miss Patterson Forde's innocent face, smiling benignly beside him, like some golden version of her namesake, Miss Nightingale; secondly the sight of her not so innocent hand, gently stroking his priapus, or thirdly, the sight of the naked girl in the photograph.
The choice was a hard one (no pun intended), but her velvet hand held sway.
"It is pleasant, is it not?" she asked, as if trying out a new cake recipe on the poor old bugger.
For the first time in years, he surrendered to flesh. This was so wrong to his mind, so undignified, so lascivious, and so wonderful. "Yes," he gasped. "Yes. Yes. Yes." And, same as in year's gone by, an urgency began to grow deep within the bony, pale thighs. Yes, he was climbing the mountainside as in days of yore. It had been so long ago but he knew the way and understood the milestones.
And still he climbed.
Then, as a dark cloud chases away crowds at a picnic, the image of that belligerent cook interfered with his journey upward; her round, chubby, and scornful face.
"What if that colored woman comes back?" His lawyerly mind reasoned. "And wasn't someone getting medicine? What if they come in and catch us?"
"What if that colored woman comes back?" His lawyerly mind reasoned. "And wasn't someone getting medicine? What if they come in and catch us?"
And as suddenly as her hopes to secure the rich old geezer's affection had sprung into life, so they began to wilt in her hands. She gingerly held it between her thumb and forefinger, lifted it and let go, watching it flop like a swooning maiden.
"Hmmm." she gave him a reassuring smile. "Let's get that nightshirt on, Mr Priest. And tomorrow we shall have a further little talk about photography" she said, tucking the photograph back into the bible and placing it where it belonged: unread on the bedside table.
Maybe it was as well; Sally arrived back soon afterward with the medicine, which Flo insisted upon measuring out herself on a spoon and feeding him like a baby. Then she entertained him with Mister Twain's Innocents Abroad which though instructive, did make her laugh somewhat immoderately even as she read it out loud. And after that, Miss Patterson Forde went to start looking through the books while Miss Cutts took over the care of the 'Invalid.'
When they were alone, Sally asked the old man confidentially.
"Mister Priest... none of my business, but..." she realised this sounded a bit odd "... I'm Flo's friend and everything, and I'm glad she's got a job working for you and all, but... she... she's not taking advantage of you, is she??"
Address me as Hon. Hiram Priest, esq.
Finally in the relative safety of Sally Cutts, Hiram was able to collect himself. He was sitting up, propped against a fat pillow, safe in bed. His nightshirt buttoned high to his throat, and a white nightcap planted on his head.
It had been a close call, having almost erupted into "the bookkeeper's" hand. The memory of the incident was front-and-center since his aged gonads ached with unrealized climax. He never dreamed that such an incident would ever happen, but it did; but in reality, things had never been the same since he'd settled in Kalispell.
Sally's presence was reassuring to him. She was so angelic and caring. There was nothing hidden about her. She was like an open book, and he was quite taken with her.
As she fussed around him, she asked a question.
"Mister Priest... none of my business, but..." she realised this sounded a bit odd "... I'm Flo's friend and everything, and I'm glad she's got a job working for you and all, but... she... she's not taking advantage of you, is she??"
Priest was flabbergasted. Was his and Flo's relationship, such as it was, so obvious to others? He would now try to finesse his answer to her.
"I don't believe so. The business arrangement we've made for her family's company to provide goods and services to the mine is quite well constructed with .. er.. mutual advantages."
There .. that was perfect, he thought.