Jackson Clark was not impressed with Chester Hedstrom’s hot dogs. He’d eaten half of one, tossed the rest in a garbage barrel, and went back to drinking beer. Once the picnic broke up, Jackson had made his way downtown to Buck’s Saloon, where he spent the next six hours socializing with the boys. Now, as he pushed himself back from the bar, his legs felt a tad wobbly, and he told himself it must be because—like a fool—he’d skipped his supper.
He drained the last bit of suds from the bottom of his mug, blotted his mustache with the back of his hand, and tossed Buck a two-fingered salute from the brim of his derby. “I’ll be seeing you, Buckley,” he said as he turned toward the door.
“Where you headed, Jackson? It’s still early yet.” Buckley Daggett was a ruddy-faced fellow with a thick chest and a gut that hung low over the front of his white apron. He was originally from Tennessee and had come to Wyoming as a young trooper in the army. Although sizeable and healthy-looking, Buck was an infirm man whose left arm was drawn up and shrunken. He had been stationed at Fort Fetterman during the Indian hostilities, and once while out on patrol, he’d taken an arrow in the shoulder. It was a painful and unpleasant experience, and his arm had never been the same since.
As a result, Mr. Daggett had no fondness for the red man. Many times he’d asked patrons whose features were darker than average, “You ain’t an Injun, are ya, mister?” He was mindful of the Wyoming Statute prohibiting the sale of spiritous drink to Indians. And he took it as his duty to warn any customers of that law whose appearance suggested an ancestry on this continent that might predate the Mayflower’s famous voyage. He would give them this warning with a wicked smile while jabbing the thumb attached to his good arm toward a sign behind the bar that proclaimed in blood-red letters, “No Indians Allowed.”
Except for this prejudice, he was a friendly enough man with a personality suited to the dram-shop trade.
“You’re welcome to one on the house,” he called out to Jackson. Buckley was a shrewd businessman and often coaxed his customers into having just one more. But Jackson Clark always stayed until he was done, then, even with the promise of a free drink, he would leave.
“No, sir. Thanks, though,” he said. “Except for half of some kind of sandwich that defies description and two of those vinegary eggs of yours—” He pointed toward a large jar of hardboiled eggs at the end of the bar. “—I’ve not had a bite to eat since breakfast. It’s time I was on my way.” He bade farewell to all his cronies and stepped out into the night.
Once outside, Jackson pulled his watch from a vest pocket. He held it out the full length of his arm, both in an effort to catch the light that spilled from the barroom window and to bring the numerals, which seemed to get smaller every year, into better focus.
Not quite ten.
He wondered if Lottie’s would still be open. He craned his neck in an effort to see up Second Street, but he couldn’t tell if her lights were lit or not.
Lottie’s Café was not officially recognized as offering the best food in town. That reputation went to the restaurant in the Glendale House Hotel. But let the travelers and passersby do their dining there. The locals and the railroaders alike knew the truth: Whether all you wanted was a steak and potatoes, or some of that strange Louisiana French stuff she liked to serve, Lottie Charbunneau’s was the place to eat in Probity.
Jackson made his way down Second, and once there, he saw lights were still burning; but when he tried the front door, it was locked. He rattled the knob a couple of times trying to find the right degree of jiggle to communicate an eagerness to come in without being brusque. He prided himself on his ability to walk thin lines between getting what he wanted and accomplishing it without seeming pushy. He liked to think he acquired that characteristic as part of his lawyerly training, but he knew in truth it was one of the many traits that kept him from success. The most successful lawyers didn’t give a whit if someone thought they were pushy. Many of them honed their pushiness skills both night and day.
After a bit, Lottie herself, wiping her hands on a rag, came out from the back of the café and cracked open the door.
“Lottie, dear,” Jackson said, giving her his most pitiful but charming smile, “I realize you’re closed for the evening, but what’s the chance you could fry me up a steak? I’m starving, and you’re my only hope.”
Jackson had known the woman ever since she’d landed in town eighteen years before. Lottie, her husband, Gaston, and their daughter had been traveling from Louisiana to the Yellowstone country Gaston loved so well. They had made it as far as Probity when Gaston took a slight fever. It didn’t seem serious at the time, but a week later the Frenchman was dead. Jackson Clark had openly questioned the Gallic ability to ward off disease ever since.
“Are you drunk, Jackson?” the woman asked in her scolding Southern drawl. She was small and thin, but she had the voice of a woman twice her size.
“Drunk? Why Madame Charbunneau, you know I would never attempt to enter your premises while intoxicated.”
She cocked her head and looked him in what he suspected were his bloodshot eyes. It was his eyes that often gave him away. “Don’t you lie to me, lawyer,” she said.
Shamed, he lifted his thumb and index finger and held them an inch apart. “All right,” he said, “maybe this much.”
She nodded. “At least that much and more, I’d wager.” But she opened the door wider and allowed him in. She often bent her rules for Jackson. He’d helped her establish herself in this community when no one else would. “Lock that door after you,” she said as she tightened her apron. “I’ll fix you up a steak—a small one—but if you ain’t done by the time I’m finished my cleanin’, you’ll be leavin’ anyway, and what’s left of your supper’ll be goin’ to Rufus.” Rufus was the small terrier that always slept under the table at the rear of the café. It was a table reserved for Lottie to do her books and was never used by customers.
“Lottie,” Jackson said as he slid into a chair, “you’re a lifesaver. A Samaritan. A—”
He was about to go on, but the tiny woman stopped him with an arched eyebrow. “I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “I know that almost never stops you, Jackson Clark, but it’s late, and I’ve had myself a long day.”
“Well, then, my dear, with that you may count on me to remain as quiet as a mouse. I’ll not say a word. Silence shall become my motto. If I—”
She gave him a look, and he ended his sentence by clearing his throat.
He enjoyed teasing Lottie, but he knew he could only go so far. Although he’d never asked, he guessed that Lottie was not yet fifty. Though she was not unattractive, he had to admit she looked every bit that old. But she’d had a hard life, one full of labor. They were friends, and she had told him some about her early years.
She’d been born a slave in Iberia Parish, Louisiana, and had lived as one until Mr. Lincoln had signed his proclamation and beyond since the war raged on as it did. During her slavery days, she’d taken a husband and born him two sons. Reconstruction was not well accepted in south Louisiana, and Lottie’s husband had been an outspoken sort of fellow. Outspoken Negroes did not endear themselves to the local population, and one night their house was set afire and the husband and both boys died. Lottie might have died too, but at the time she was a live-in maid at a mill owner’s home outside of New Iberia, and she spent only one night a week with her family.
She was twenty-two when that happened. The day after the funerals she asked the mill owner for her pay, and she left Iberia Parish and moved to New Orleans. It was there while working in a restaurant she met Gaston Charbunneau.
He was a Frenchman who had immigrated to Canada and after a bit came to America by way of the Rocky Mountains. He loved the high country, but he’d always longed to see the city of New Orleans.
“We was in love from the second we laid eyes on each other,” Lottie had once told Jackson. “We was married in a week, and nine quick months later we had us a baby girl.”
They continued to live in New Orleans for the next five years, but their lives were hard. Folks did not take to a white man, even a Frenchman, marrying a colored. Eventually Gaston had enough. “He’d always promised to show me the geysers, so one day we jus’ picked up and headed north for the Yellowstone. Left Loosi-anna forever, and good riddance to it,” Lottie had said.
She pulled an onion from under a cupboard and sliced it into the frying pan. “I reckon you’ll be wantin’ onions on top of this steak and some potatoes on the side as well,” she said in a put-upon voice.
“Well, Lottie, I am mighty hungry,” Jackson admitted. “I haven’t had much in the way of food today.”
“If you paid as much attention to your eatin’ as you do your drinkin’ I expect you’d be a whole lot fleshier.”
“I’d planned to eat, Lottie,” Jackson said, defending himself. “It’s not like I forgot. I went to a picnic Dr. Hedstrom put on up at the park. I was going to eat there, but you would not believe what that man was serving. Long skinny sandwiches with the strangest meat you ever did see.”
Lottie laughed. “That Dr. Hedstrom, he is the beatin’est, ain’t he?” She flipped Jackson’s steak and stirred the onions. “This afternoon one of my customers said he saw the doctor ridin’ some kind of motor-powered bicycle right down the middle of Main Street. He had horses and people runnin’ every which way.” She took a pot from the stove and poured Jackson a cup of coffee. “What was he havin’ a picnic for, anyway?”
“It was a welcome-home party for his friend Micah McConners. Seems I have some new competition in town.” He lifted the cup and took a sip. “Micah was admitted to the bar a couple of days ago. He’s come home to practice law.”
As he said that, Jackson felt eyes on him, and he looked toward the far end of the room. Lottie’s daughter stared at him from the doorway that led to the back. Jackson was always pleased to see the girl. She was bright, pleasant, and, at least to Jackson’s way of thinking, the prettiest girl in town. “Why, hello there, Fay, darlin’,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in. How long’ve you been standing there?” The girl didn’t answer. She stared at the old lawyer without answering. “What’s the matter, girl?” he asked with a smile. “Has the cat got your tongue?”