Buffalo Girls (11 page)

Trix was much the most cheerful person at the hotel, which was one reason Teat had determined to marry her. He himself needed a lot of help staying happy, and Trix was the only one who tried to help him in his efforts.

“Teat, go outside and dig a hole or something,” Trix would say, if she found him looking gloomy. “What does a cute boy like you have to be gloomy about?”

Teat took Trix's words to be command; he went outside and attempted to dig a hole in the icy ground, but Miss Dora looked out the window and saw him. In a minute she came to the back steps and informed him that Trix had only been teasing. “It's the wrong season for hole-digging,” Dora said, amused by the boy's literalness.

Teat's family had been wiped out in a pointless skirmish around the time of the battle of the Rosebud. He showed up in town with a trader who claimed to have gotten him from the Crows. He was an appealing boy: Dora had liked his looks and persuaded the trader to leave him with her. He had been with her now for six years and was a good worker, though a little small for his age—he must have been at least fourteen. At some stage,
too little food or too much misery had affected his physical development, though not his brain. He had learned to read English almost without help, and when there was nothing to do could always be found in the kitchen, reading stories to Doosie out of the magazines Dora took. Everyone liked the boy.

One of the biggest problems Teat had to contend with at the Hotel Hope was his name. Miss Dora had thought he ought to change it—she had suggested several names, but Teat was nervous about making such a change. He discussed the matter with No Ears, explaining that his name had nothing to do with bad morals, as some white people seemed to think. He had been a dark baby, as dark as a cow buffalo's teat, thus his name.

Privately No Ears thought the boy's parents had been in error to name him Teat—a name derived from some part of a he-buffalo would have been more appropriate, since the boy himself was a he. But he knew that naming was an imprecise affair; parents experiencing all the bother of a new baby often chose the first name that came into their minds. Witness his own name, Two Toes Broken. If the horse had not stepped on his tiny foot, he might have started life under an entirely different name.

No Ears didn't discuss his reservations with Teat. He was a nice boy with excellent manners, and if he wanted to keep the name, that was all right.

Morning was Teat's favorite time at the Hotel Hope. Dora kept the doors closed until two. Often the last customer didn't depart much before dawn, and after a busy night it took some time for the staff to make the place presentable again; time, too, for the girls to make
themselves
presentable. Usually they would begin to drift down in the late morning, to drink coffee and experiment with one another's hair.

In Teat's tribe, only warriors had taken as much trouble with their hair as Trix and Skeedle and Ginny. They were always examining Miss Dora's papers and magazines, looking for pictures that might suggest interesting new ways to fix their hair.
Teat, who was busy at that hour emptying cuspidors and sweeping out debris, was often required to give his opinion on a particular experiment. Once he had been laughed out of the house for innocently suggesting that bear grease might improve the look of their hair. The women had laughed so hard that his feelings had been a little hurt. What was wrong with bear grease? In his tribe everyone had known that it was good for your hair—but the women in the Hotel Hope saw matters differently.

Trix knew Teat was in love with her; it was good news, as far as she was concerned. He was such a nice-looking boy, and so well mannered, that it would be a feather in any woman's cap to have him in love with her. “Teat's my real sweetheart,” she was fond of saying, even in company—and in a way, she meant it.

The first time Dora heard her say it she immediately asked Trix to come to her room for a little chat. Trix was a child of the California gold fields; she had grown up in San Francisco, where attitudes about romance were somewhat more advanced than they were in Miles City. Dora had never been to San Francisco, but she assumed that such a great city would breed more advanced attitudes than one could expect to find in a frontier town on the plains.

“I wouldn't be calling Teat your sweetheart in front of the customers,” Dora cautioned.

“Well, he is, why can't I say it?” Trix said, rather hotly—Trix was young and defiant. To Dora she looked Italian.

“It might get him hurt, that's why,” Dora said. “A good many of the customers want to think you're
their
sweetheart. That's why they come—to have a sweetheart for a few minutes.”

“I guess I can pick my own sweetheart,” Trix complained, still hot. “My customers just come to slobber and squirt off. They're ugly. Who wants an ugly sweetheart?”

“Nobody, but plenty of people have one,” Dora said. “Be in love with Teat—I don't care. Just don't mention it in front of customers. They don't like Indians in this town, and plenty of hard
men show up here. If one of the hard ones decided he was in love with you, and then got jealous of Teat, what do you think would happen?”

“I don't know what would happen,” Trix said, defiance replaced by a look of uneasiness. Her black eyes snapped when she was angry, but they weren't snapping now.

“What?” she asked timidly.

“They'd probably just shoot Teat down,” Dora said. “Or else make up a party of drunks and take him out and hang him.”

Trix left in tears at the thought that such a fate might befall Teat. Dora mentioned the matter to Calamity one morning, hoping to get her interested in something. Calamity was still low. She spent her days in bed, staring out the window at the snowy plains. Dora had seen her low before, but never for so long. Nothing interested her, nothing pleased her.

“You think I ought to send Teat away before something bad happens?” Dora asked.

“No. If they get after him just send him up here,” Calamity said. “I'll shoot it out with 'em. I'd just as soon go out in a gunfight as to just get old and die.”

“Don't you vex me—you will if you talk about dying,” Dora said. “Here you've got a clean room to rest in, and Billy Cody sent you candy. Don't be talking about gunfights.”

In fact, Billy had been the soul of courtesy. He had sent Calamity candy three times, visited her often, and offered her employment in his show. Calamity had scarcely responded, though the candy had disappeared little by little.

“I got no complaint about Billy,” Calamity added—she felt a little guilty about having received him so listlessly. After all, she had risked her life coming to hire on; why couldn't she just say she'd hire on? Somehow the words stuck in her throat, along with all other words.

“Billy's perfect,” she said, a little later. “If you had good sense you'd marry him.”

“We won't talk about that,” Dora said quickly. “I can't marry him, and anyway he
is
married.”

“
Won't
marry him, you mean,” Calamity said, stirring a little at the thought of Dora's stubbornness in refusing good-looking Billy Cody.

“Won't or can't—it's between me and Billy,” Dora reminded her, feeling her temper rise. It almost always rose when she and Calamity got on the subject of matrimony. Calamity, who had never got within a mile of being married, nonetheless felt perfectly free to advise her on the matter.

“You won't even go to work for him, yet you expect me to marry him!” Dora said more loudly, her temper rising higher.

“Oh, shush down and bring me a rifle,” Calamity said. “I want to be ready, in case I have to shoot.”

Dora turned toward the window; when she turned back, Calamity saw tears on her cheeks—once again she had gone too far.

“Can't you get mad without crying?” Calamity said meekly.

“No—I can't and you know it!” Dora said.

“Don't bring me the rifle,” Calamity said. “You might shoot me with it. I think I'll get up and get drunk.”

It took another hour for her to actually get out of bed and into her clothes, but she did it. Then, while she was downstairs at the bar in the process of fulfilling her resolution, the door to the kitchen swung open and T. Blue walked in, his cheeks red from the chill, and his spurs jingling.

“Howdy, cowboy,” Calamity said, feeling better already.

S
TOP DRINKING THAT DAMN BEER AND DRINK WHISKEY WITH
me,” Calamity demanded, an hour later. She was glad to see Blue; he was one of those rare fellows who stayed so cheerful himself that his arrival could lift the spirits of a whole town, at least if it was a small town. For some reason, though, he was being irritatingly proper, sipping beer like a Missouri farmer and looking lofty as a deacon.

“Now, Martha, I'm reformed,” Blue said. “I have been asked to stand for judge, and a judge can't be drinking too much whiskey. I might show up in court drunk and hang the wrong fellow.”

“I consider that a joke,” Calamity said. “A territory that would consider making you a judge has reached a bad pass. I'd probably be the first person you'd arrest, and I've known you all my life.”

She did like cowboys, though, Calamity reflected. Blue seemed to be the only one in the room, and he shone like a flare. The miners, gamblers, mule skinners, and general drifters just didn't have the shine Blue had. He was looking over the room as he sipped beer, sizing up the card games and flattering the whores with an occasional casual glance. Of course, the glances he bestowed on Ginny and Skeedle and Trix had to be mighty casual, for Dora was likely to come down any minute. Word
would soon get out that Blue was there—someone would holler his name, or Dora would just sense it.

“I suppose you heard I nearly got lost in a blizzard,” Calamity said. She looked around for No Ears. In her mind the old man had saved her twice, for when she'd stepped off Satan in the blizzard she felt sure she would have stumbled off in the wrong direction and never seen the box of light if he hadn't kept a firm hold on her coat. Since then she liked to be reassured that No Ears was still around. If he wandered off and died—or if he just wandered off and left her—she knew she was going to be very afraid.

“It's the talk of the Territory,” Blue said. “I prefer to stay in camp and trim my toenails on days when the snow's blowing. I got my directions mixed once in one of them blows and was in the middle of Canada before I noticed my mistake. I had a hell of a time getting the cattle back, too,” he added.

“Yes, but you deserve trouble,” Calamity said. “I don't.”

Blue was far too nonchalant to bat an eye at her remark. Though his nonchalance was what made him so appealing, there were times when he overdid it. This was one of the times—she felt like kicking him in the kneecaps.

“Now what would tempt you to say a wild thing like that?” Blue asked. “Who's that dwarf over there?”

Doc Ramses had just walked through the swinging doors. If he had been a few inches shorter he could have walked under them. As usual he wore his yellow tie with the big stickpin in it.

Fred, who was perched at the head of the banister, had taken a fancy to Doc Ramses. He walked down the banister and squawked until the Doc came over and offered him an arm to perch on.

“He's a fortune-teller,” Calamity said. “He works with Billy Cody. They say he's even told the fortune of the Queen of England.”

“I bet he made up some pretty lies that time,” Blue said. “The
Queen of England could chop your head off if you gave her a bad fortune.”

“Billy's been courting Dora,” Calamity informed him. “He brings her champagne once or twice a day. I bet he'd bring her bouquets, too, if he could find one in Miles City in the winter.”

“I seen that dwarf before,” Blue said. “I just can't think where. I expect he's a train robber or something.”

“You're going to be mighty annoyed when Dora marries Billy,” Calamity said. “You'll lope into town one day and find she's gone to China or somewhere.”

“Why, Dora wouldn't marry that rooster,” Blue said.

“What makes you think she won't?” Calamity asked.

“Well, what if she didn't like China?” Blue said. “She'd be stuck.”

“You're married—are you stuck?”

“I'm bogged, but I ain't quite stuck yet,” Blue said with his winning grin. He looked up and saw Dora watching them from the head of the stairs.

“There she is now—she still looks like my girl,” he said.

Dora had been watching them for some time, trying to fight down her feelings before descending to the saloon. She was not succeeding, though—it was like fighting down a flood. Struggling with the flood left her trembly in the legs, a feeling she hated. T. Blue looked as happy as ever; she wondered sometimes if he could imagine the heartache he caused her, coming and going. Sometimes she began to fear his going almost at the moment of his arrival. Where was the time for joy in such a life?