by Karl Quentin
Katy Kelly stood outside the Golden Nugget saloon (and cathouse) taking a deep breath to steady herself. In her pale blue and white gingham dress and poke bonnet she looked every last sixty-seventh inch the schoolmarm that she was. She had never in her twenty-four years set foot inside a saloon, and only the dire necessity of love and fear could force her to go forward now. The tinny sounds of an off-key player piano mingled with the roar of male voices unstrung by hard liquor, greed, anger and lust. On the first floor a bedpost was being banged into a wall. A smell of raw rotgut and spilled beer penetrated her reluctant nostrils, sickening her. At her feet lay a puddle of last night's vomit, over which someone had carelessly sprinkled a light cover of sawdust. There was a patch of dried blood on the first step too. Even Katy had heard about Mangler McGee being shot dead there two nights ago. After all, her fiancé was the federal marshal, Ben Cassidy, and he had had to go in after the killer and arrest him.
It was the thought of what Ben was proposing to do at high noon tomorrow that forced her onwards at last. Picking up her skirts she mounted the three steps to the boardwalk and made herself push through the swing doors of the saloon. The piano roll came to an abrupt end just as she cautiously entered, and a sudden silence fell on the room. She trembled and something fluttered in her throat as she felt thirty-odd pairs of men's eyes boring into her. It smelt so of unwashed cowboys and gamblers and miners and trappers, as well as of liquor and something else she couldn't place. If she represented civilisation, these fellers represented barbarism. If she was sweetness, they sure as shootin' didn't represent light! But she hadn't braved this den of vice for any of them. She was looking for the blackjack dealer.
Over there, by the bottom of the staircase, was the blackjack table, and there, card paddle in hand, stood the tiny person of the dealer, Gracia Jurado. One fourth Mexican, one fourth Scots, one fourth Cherokee and one fourth the devil's - and all hellion! Jake Roberts's (Katy blushed to think of the word) whore.
"Hey, if it ain't Miss Katy Kelly!" called a young cowboy. "You come to teach us some manners, Miss Kelly? Ain't ya brought yer paddle?"
"Hey, schoolmarm, show us yer drawers!" yelled a drunken miner.
"Come 'n settle yer little pink tushy on my lap, Miss Katy! But watch out fer my pistol!"
"Miss Kelly! You lookin' fer yer pussy?"
These were some of the less shameful remarks and ribaldries sent Katy's way. She blushed scarlet but made her way with determination to the blackjack table. A scarred and dark-faced cowpoke stuck out his spur and began to lift her dress with it. Angrily, Katy untangled it, while hands were pulling at her clothing from the other side.
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