A Few More Dollars

PROLOGUE

Wednesday, October 9, 1867

Three miles east of South Pass City, Wyoming Territory

It was approaching sundown when Polly Bartlett spied the doctor from her parlor window. He had turned off the Oregon Road onto the rougher track leading into Slaughterhouse Gulch and subsequently into the yard of her father’s inn. If you could label dirt and sagebrush a yard, she thought. She knew he was a physician simply from the bag strapped to the pommel of his saddle, all doctors carried just that style of valise to hold medications, along with the tools of their trade. She felt that old warm sensation inside when she noted his broad shoulders and the black hair poking out from underneath the brim of his hat. He looked to be a well-made man, unusual for one of his profession.

She called out to her father as she was making her way to the front door, “We got a guest, Papa.” She opened the heavy portal and stood just outside on the porch, watching as the man tied his chestnut horse to the hitching rail in front, eyeing the shape of the muscles in his buttocks as he looped the reins.

“Can I help you, mister? she asked him, keeping her voice smooth as silk. Sensual, she thought to herself.

“Room and a meal?” he asked, making eye contact only after giving the rest of her form a quick appraisal. Indeed, Polly worked hard at being appealing. She favored dresses that accentuated her curvaceous figure and she never came out in the morning without her raven-black hair set in ringlets, a dab of blush on her cheeks. Looking the part of a hostess beat the hell out of having to cook and clean. Her cousin Hattie took care of the odious things. She stood aside to allow the doctor to enter, and so she could get a better look at him without his noticing. Seemed like a dreary Wednesday afternoon was beginning to shape up nicely.

She hadn’t always been Polly Bartlett. She had been born Mary Schwaub in the dingy little room above the tavern on Northern Row that her father rented and operated. The Gateway Quarter, Across-the-Rhine in Cincinnati, where all the German immigrants lived. It was a meager existence to begin with, but when the local gang had put pressure on her father to pay for protection and provide free beer for their organization, a man had been killed and they had to leave in the middle of the night. Hence Stephan Schwaub, her father, had become ‘Old Jim’ Bartlett and she had become Polly. But hell, half the people she had met in the Wyoming Territory were on the run from somewhere, under assumed names.

Polly directed the doctor toward a counter they had set up on the left side of the main room. A guest book lay there, open, with pen and ink. The remainder of the counter was used as a bar of sorts, three stools for patrons to sit and drink. There was even a small table set under the big front window, although most of the men preferred the bar. Polly slipped behind the counter, turning the ledger to face the man. “Dollar a night,” she told him. “Four bits for the meal.”

“A bit expensive,” he said, looking around the room. He raised his eyebrows at the rough-hewn board walls, devoid of any sort of decoration.

“Buffalo steak with all the fixins for supper,” she told him. “Besides, we pride ourselves on our hospitality!” She followed that statement with a wink and saw that he picked up on it, a twinkle appearing in his eye. She thought that she had yet to meet a man who didn’t understand what that meant.

The doctor pulled out a leather purse that was attached to his belt and fished out a silver dollar and two quarters. Polly did her best, craning her neck to peruse the contents of the sack and was rewarded with the glint of gold coins. Not a big stack, but every little bit helped. And she wanted all of them. That feeling began growing again, deep down inside.

After the man signed the book, Polly swiveled it back around. The notation read, ‘Doc Carlile’, and ‘Cairo IL’. “Well, Doc Carlile, what should I call you?”

“How about not late for supper,” he responded.

That caught her off guard and she felt herself blushing a little, something she hadn’t had happen in a while. “Hattie’ll have supper ready for you in about an hour,” she stammered. “I’ll give you a call when it’s time.” Polly suddenly felt a little out of control for just a second when he gave her a crisp bow. Like he was in a class above her. And that made her a little angry.

Using her routine to cover her feelings, Polly grabbed a key and led the doctor down a hallway toward the rear of the building. The inn was made of split logs, but very sturdy and tightly caulked. The plank floors kept the cold out for the most part. It was a single story, about three times deeper than it was wide. Down the hall to the left was the kitchen, then the family’s quarters. To the right were three small rooms for guests. She took him to the first room back, they had no other customers currently, then gave him the key. “Dad’ll put up your horse in the barn,” she told him. Where I’m going to enjoy bedding you. Where I’m really going to enjoy killing you and taking your money. The worms have a way of making everyone equal, in the long run.

Polly went next to the kitchen, where her cousin Hattie was scrubbing on things. “Steak dinner for our new guest,” Polly told her. “Make it real special.” Then she peeked in on her father. “We got another one,” she told him. He gave her a semi-toothless grin in response. The doctor would be number four, on their list of permanent lodgers.

Her next stop was behind the bar once more. She fished out a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the well. No use wasting a new one, she thought. Then she bent further down and grabbed a smaller bottle, the one marked with the skull-and-crossbones. With the word ‘POISON’ in bold letters. They had obtained the arsenic in Colorado, when they were living in their wagon. It not only kept the varmints out of their food, but kept the ticks away as well. She pulled the cork from the whiskey, then using a small tin funnel, tapped a couple of teaspoons of the white powder into the liquor bottle. The arsenic clouded the whiskey briefly, then disappeared when she swirled it around to mix it in.

Polly served him supper in the parlor off the main room, watching as he displayed impeccable manners to dissect his food. She continually touched his forearm and the back of his hand, trying hard to get him to pull her down into his lap, or at least return the touch. She liked the feeling of being chased. It made things exciting, even if the outcome was never in question. However, he paid far more attention to the food. Her frustration made her want him even more, and hate him even more than that, so she embarked on a different plan.

She left him alone to finish his meal, then after clearing the dishes, asked, “It’s a lovely evening, would you care for a walk in the moonlight?” When he raised his eyebrows she added, “Told you we go all in on our hospitality!” She had noticed previously that he was not wearing a gun belt, but as he leaned over to get around the table while standing up, she saw the butt of a revolver in some kind of shoulder contraption under his coat. Good to know.

He offered his arm as they headed toward the front door, but she pulled him with her toward the bar counter, pausing long enough to grab the half-full whiskey bottle on their way by. Then, laughing merrily, she allowed the doctor to hold the door for her as she pranced through onto the porch.

It had been a warm day, but without any cloud cover the temperature was dropping rapidly. They were, after all, well up in the mountains and it would probably get below freezing tonight, Polly reasoned. There would be no frost, though. Not enough humidity for that.

Now clear of the porch she squeezed his bicep, pulling him close then gave him a bump with her hip, accompanied by a laugh. This maneuver served two purposes. It turned him around the side of the inn, toward the barn and got him to pull her back into him, he put his arm possessively around her shoulder. With practiced perfection, she turned into his embrace, forcing him to stop. As he brought his other arm around her, she tipped her head back slightly, closing her eyes just enough so she could continue to watch him through her eyelashes. It worked like a charm, he kissed her. A firm and passionate kiss.

She broke free with another laugh, grabbing his hand and pulling him along toward the barn. Once she had him inside she grabbed a lantern off the peg by the door and, lighting it, set it down on a small table that was pushed against the wood column supporting the main beam of the structure. She wanted the ambient light. Besides, it cast long shadows and she was afraid of any imperfections he might notice in her body. She noted the limpid pools that were reflections in the eyes of the horses looking out in curiosity from their stalls.

Starting up the ladder to the haymow, she called back, “The view is much better from up here!”

Looking up at her, still on the ladder, he remarked, “The view seems pretty spectacular from down here!”

“Get up here,” she responded. “I can’t wait for you any longer.” She liked the smell of the hay immersing her, even more, she liked the pokey, scratchy feel of it on her skin. It added another dimension to the whole experience.

She made love to him almost violently, sating her appetite if not quite her hate. At one point he even remarked, “Ease up a little there, honey.” “We have plenty of time.”

But Polly didn’t have plenty of time. She wanted his money. Besides, from outside she could hear the faint sound of a shovel biting into dirt. The sound of her father digging the doctor’s grave. It was a little distracting. Her first mission accomplished, Polly reached into the hay and pulled out the whiskey bottle she had brought with her. She pulled the cork and handed it to him, saying, “Have a couple of drinks to get you relaxed, then I’ll have another go at you!” Two or three drinks would be all it would take. He would be dead in less than five minutes.

Then the doctor did something unexpected. He held the bottle up to the light, inspecting the label. “Not this stuff, it’s really bad,” he said flatly, handing the bottle back to her. Mistaking the look on her face, he added, “Not you, you were terrific.” Rolling on his side, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flask. Unscrewing the top, he took a swig. “Try this,” he said, proffering the flask. “Elijah Wood’s single batch Missouri bourbon.” “Might help you take the edge off.”

Now Polly was at a loss for words. “That. . . wouldn’t. . . be very hospitable,” she stammered out. “I mean, making you drink your own whiskey.” She saw him doing that eyebrow thing again and struggled to think of an angle she might use to consummate her plan. Then she heard it, the unmistakable sound of the barn door opening. Her father, coming to help her with the body. A little desperate now, she said, “I could go and get you a beer. . .”

But the doctor had heard it, too. He capped the flask and in a fluid movement he swept Polly behind his back with one hand and pulled his revolver from the holster with the other. He turned, putting his index finger to his lips, gesturing for her to be quiet.

“What is it?” she said, a little too loudly. Hoping to warn her father away. But there was his head, poking up above the level of the haymow. The look on his face upon seeing the doctor alive was complete guilt. She started to say something further, but the doctor cut her off.

Cocking the hammer back on his pistol, he said forcefully, “We are trying to get a little privacy here, we don’t need a peeping Tom!” Then, “Go be a sheepskin pounder somewhere else.”

Well, that made Polly’s anger bubble over, but in the same instant she realized that the doctor had no clue about the plan she had in store for him. “Don’t you talk to my father that way,” she screeched out. Pulling her dress up to cover her exposed body she shouted, “Get out! Both of you!” “Get. . . OUT!” Putting on an act, Polly began sobbing uncontrollably.

It worked. Her father disappeared, the barn door slamming behind him. The doctor cleared his throat, said, “Hmm,” then collected his belongings. He climbed down and began saddling his horse. Before he left he called softly up to her, “Sorry to make such a mess of things. . .”

Then he was gone, riding off into the cold night. Polly remained in the haymow even after she heard his horse make the turn back onto the Oregon Road, toward South Pass City. Only after the night resumed its complete silence did she reluctantly get dressed and return to the inn.