Saloon Girls
by Leslie G. Nelson

Laughter and chatter overflowed the dressing room and spilled into the saloon. The room became still as the girls followed their sound.

Two lingered behind. With trembling hands Caroline fastened the garters for her lace stockings. Rose held out a small pistol. "Tuck it in between your breasts or into your kid boots."

"But you said that the miners and cowboys are good to dance hall girls."

"Honey, I said mostly good. Take the pistol. I have another one. You'll make enough in a week to pay me back for it and then some."

"But I – "

"Take it. Charlie looks out for us girls pretty good, but he can't watch everybody every minute. And put on more lipstick." Rose laid the pistol on the table, gave her a wink, and left the room.

Caroline took the pistol and slid it into her boot. Self-consciously, her hands pulled at her skirt – still, it barely covered her knees. Her hands touched her bare shoulders and her exposed chest. She felt only half-dressed. If Mama could see me, she would know that I didn't come here to teach as I told her. She shook her head, and put on some lipstick, bright red like summer strawberries.

As Caroline peered towards the dance hall, she found it transformed. When she had seen it earlier it was empty. Now the long bar was crowded with men of various ages, like horses at a watering trough. The floor was muddied and showed evidence that they were incapable or unwilling to use the spittoons. Someone was playing the piano, and the dance floor was filled with men and saloon girls. The tables around the room were all occupied by men, some holding girls on their laps, some playing cards, others just talking, but all of them drinking. Sounds of music, laughter, and voices intertwined. Caroline inhaled deeply as if her breath could reach down and bring up some courage lying deep within. Then she stepped out into the saloon.

A young cowboy was at her side instantly, pulling her to the dance floor. She could tell he was a cowboy by his smell. Cowboys stank of sweat and horses, Rose had told her, miners of sweat and dust. Her first steps on the floor felt awkward. She had danced at home, but in a more formal style. Her cowboy, who seemed to be losing a battle with his spurs, didn't seem to notice. He smiled at her like she was hot supper at the end of a hard day. See Mama, this really isn't going to be so bad. Not like things at home with . . . well, never mind. She could never tell her mother about that.

Caroline's next partner was a miner, musty and dusty. He was a good dancer but he held her very close and his dark eyes beneath bushy black eyebrows transformed her into the last drop of water in the canteen. After their dance concluded, he drifted off to another partner. She exhaled in relief.

After a couple more dances, Charlie asked her to sing. This was another new experience. At home she had sung to herself while doing the washing, or a lullaby for her younger brothers, and, of course, she sang in church, but she didn't consider herself a performer. All the girls in the dance hall sang for the men, though. Any feminine voice was music to them – talent was not a prerequisite. She was grateful for the reprieve. Her new boots were not broken in yet and her feet were letting her know it. Her repertoire of songs was not large, but it didn't matter. Mama, I think they wouldn't mind if I sang the same song over and over, like you used to do when Papa was drunk.

On the dance floor, a girl screamed. From a nearby table, a man jumped to his feet and without waiting for an explanation, hammered his fist into the jaw of the girl's dancing partner. The fist, combined with the whiskey he'd consumed, put the offender on the floor without a rebuttal. The other stood over him, "We treat our girls right here, Mister, ya hear?"

The man on the floor nodded then slowly rose. He tipped his hat to the girl, "My apologies, Miss." He looked at the glowering Charlie as if seeking approval, did not receive it, and left.

Feeling nervous, Caroline looked through the crowd for Rose and caught her eye. Rose winked.

The swinging doors were cue enough for the piano to begin again. Caroline was whisked off the stage by another partner. This cowboy was tall and lean, with green eyes that did a dance of their own. Handsome really, she thought. When the first dance ended, he asked for another and Caroline gladly accepted. He'd have asked for a third, but Charlie intervened. "Plenty of girls here, plenty of girls. Have a look around." The cowboy smiled at Caroline once more and then moved away.

"I lose more girls to marriage than anything else," Charlie muttered as he walked away.

Imagine that Mama. You would be proud of me if I married, right? Papa said no one would want me after – Her thoughts were interrupted by another dance request.

This one had a handle-bar mustache, and announced himself as Bill. He spoke with breath that seemed to be part whiskey and part dead skunk. As the music played, his hands, with snake-like fingers, attempted to travel over every inch of her small frame. His dance steps reminded her of a headless chicken running around before it realizes it's dead. But with each step, he managed to guide her to the edge of the dance floor near the swinging doors.

"What'd ya say we take a walk," he slurred, alcoholic skunk breath washing over her like an avalanche.

"No, thank you," she replied. Too prim? Oh well, maybe if I'm not nice he'll go away. He reminds me of Papa.

"Think ya's too good fer me, don't ya?" he said loudly, even though he was so close that his spongy lips touched her ear. Her heart quivered like a rattler's tail and the walls seemed to creep closer. She was no longer a dance hall girl in a saloon, but a child trapped in the arms of her alcohol-addled father. His hands knew no boundaries when he was drunk. She was powerless to fight back then, against her father, and now with Bill.

"No Papa," she whispered, but couldn't say more. In some distant part of her brain an alarm sounded, but she was like a wild animal whose survival instinct is to play dead. She was paralyzed.

A young man near the door stood up. "Hey, she doesn't – "

Abruptly, two other men, apparently friends of Bill, shoved the would-be hero out the door, and followed. The saloon was alive with the sounds of music, loud laughter and drunken voices. No one seemed to notice the scene being played out near the door.

Caroline saw the doorway getting larger and larger. Her mouth was sawdust. Black spots began to cloud her vision.

Then came a voice, strong and clear above the din of the saloon. "She's not going anywhere with you."

Bill barked out a laugh that sounded more hyena than man, "Who's gonna stop me?"

"Me and my pistol," said Rose as she cocked the gun.

With a start, he released Caroline, who stumbled and fell to the floor. He whirled and lunged for Rose. But the hate in his eyes gave way to fear as the pistol roared and blood blossomed from his chest, turning the front of his dirt-covered shirt into a crimson-muddied smear. An expression of disbelief flashed across his face and had barely begun to give way to understanding when his body fell near Caroline's.

The dance hall was suddenly quiet. People quickly stepped aside to let Charlie pass by. He looked at the two on the floor and then at Rose. There was no need to vocalize the question that his face made clear.

Rose shrugged, "He insulted her."

Charlie nodded as if he had suspected as much. "Alright boys, get that mess out of here. Rose help the girl. The rest of you men, watch your manners." As he strode away, sounds from the piano and voices sprung up again. A couple of men took Bill's body roughly by his arms and shoulders and dragged him out, leaving his feet trailing behind. The bartender came out with a mop to clean the floor. As Rose helped her to her feet, Caroline felt the cold metal of the pistol still in her boot.

"Helluva first night, girl." Rose whispered. "Helluva first night."