Jaysus, glad I made it.
Pete Southie shook off his oilskin and stepped into the main bar at the Glenelg Inn in Casterton. Others had crowded inside before him and the air was thick, all tobacco smoke. Blokes were yellin’ across the crowded room, ale was spilled, rum slopped. Busy place. The bar counter was packed with men except for a corner on the other side. Only one fella sat there, nursing a glass filled to the brim. He didn’t look happy.
It was the only place to stand and Pete angled his way over. He kept his coat close to him and his hand in his pants pocket, feeling the warm coins there. He got to the vacant space, called over the din to the barman for a rum. He slapped a coin into the man’s hand and took his change.
The fella alongside was surly. Barely even looked up. No matter. He didn’t need conversation. Not yet, anyway. Soon as he’d had a drink, found something to eat, he’d check around for those Goody girls, see if they’d headed here like the rabbito-kid said. Well, he would if the bloody rain let up. Was only luck me horse didn’t slide off the road and do a fetlock comin’ into town. As it was, he had to tie up his poor nag out the back with others. There was little shelter around.
If Miz Putney was here, he’d tell her about Frank. Come right out and say it, he reckoned. Miz Putney, Frank is dead. He’d tried out other ways, kept himself occupied with it gettin’ over here, but he kept coming back to simple, and to the point. Frank is dead.
Old town back home weren’t the same with the bakery shut. Miz Putney would take it over, for sure, when she got back, and have young Elsa help her out. Pete could run the farm, get a few trees in, get a vegetable garden going. The ladies like a good garden. Get a crop in maybe, this year if he was lucky. If he was smart. Some sorta crop, anyhow. He’d figure it out learning from a few of the others. He’d never been a croppie before. Would be better to run sheep. Maybe dairy cows. Yeah. He could see himself doing a fine job. Having a fine time. If he got it right.
He’d get Miss Elsa on side, he could see she was itchin’ for him, playing that hard-to-get game. She’d see his way of thinking. And he’d have none of her independent-lady thinking. He’d wear the pants. ’Course, that other thing she done was just a mistake—messing up his tea that last day. Poor little lady woulda been all sad, and her mind woulda been turned upside down. Damned near poisoned a man, whatever she give him ’stead of sugar. Can’t have a woman all blithered in the head like that, allowed to vote like she wanted to do. No wonder everyone was agin it. Gov’ment’s gone damn stupid—dunno what it’s doin’ givin’ women the vote. He shook his head.
He took a long gulp of rum. Looked at the fella next to him and nodded. The man eyed him, nodded back, and took a long swallow of whatever was in his glass. Whisky, maybe. Lucky bastard. No one dirt-poor could get whisky. Must be a rich local.
Pete still had a bit of money left, could buy another drink for himself. He signalled the barman, then he’d strike up a conversation, see what he could get out of the bloke standing all quiet-like beside him.
Could be an interestin’ conversation with a rich fella—never talked to a bloke with gold in his teeth before.