Mary puffed idly at the half-finished cigar between her lips, the three successive pulls leaving a trail of smoke in the air. She enjoyed the occasional smoke, that and a shot of whiskey did wonders to help ease the soreness of days traveling on horseback. Though what Mary truly enjoyed was seeing the startled expressions on men’s faces when they saw her smoking casually. It was a sin, she was told. A hobby unbefitting a woman such as herself. She didn’t like the sound of that one bit. The things she did to uppity men like that… Well…
Mary looked up at the greasy man glaring at her from beside the bar, a cotton rag held up against a bloodied nose he received not ten minutes earlier. Not only had the greaseball gotten between Mary and her last cigar, but he had also roughly suggested she replace it with a rather inappropriate member beneath his pants. At that Mary had merely chuckled, grabbed him by the loose hair of his balding head, and slammed his nose right into the countertop. The bartender, who had witnessed the whole thing, merely shook his head and tossed the bleeding man a rag to soak up the blood now gushing from his nasal cavity. She locked eyes with the man and blew another long plume of smoke matched by a devilish smile. The ol’ greaseball stormed out of the saloon, the stomp of his boots on the hardwood floor attracting a few annoyed glances on the way out. She heaved a heavy sigh. From the looks of him, Mary could tell he posed no real danger. There was undoubtedly a tired wife and children waiting for him at home. Still, she would sleep with a gun under her pillow tonight – Mary rarely didn’t these days.
Her attention turned to the table where Mistihkoman and the colored man were sparking a conversation. She listened intently as the Indian spoke his name. Not being one to wait until spoken to, Mary quickly chimed in.
“Misty-what now?” She raised a confused eyebrow. Her experience with Natives had only been through pseudonyms, they took American names that were more easily pronounced by the English tongue.
“I outta call you Big Knife, then. Sadly, those Indian names sound like a mouthful of nails to me.”
Mary glanced at her cards on the table, letting slip a small smile before quickly recovering her nonchalant expression. She had absolutely nothing, but no one else needed to know that. She needed to win money any way she could anyhow. The room at the inn wasn’t cheap and she would have to win big if she wanted to last the month.
“I’m Mary. Mary Johnson. It's a pleasure." She loosed a charming smile, a stark contrast to a pair of hungry sea-green eyes.
Mary looked up at the greasy man glaring at her from beside the bar, a cotton rag held up against a bloodied nose he received not ten minutes earlier. Not only had the greaseball gotten between Mary and her last cigar, but he had also roughly suggested she replace it with a rather inappropriate member beneath his pants. At that Mary had merely chuckled, grabbed him by the loose hair of his balding head, and slammed his nose right into the countertop. The bartender, who had witnessed the whole thing, merely shook his head and tossed the bleeding man a rag to soak up the blood now gushing from his nasal cavity. She locked eyes with the man and blew another long plume of smoke matched by a devilish smile. The ol’ greaseball stormed out of the saloon, the stomp of his boots on the hardwood floor attracting a few annoyed glances on the way out. She heaved a heavy sigh. From the looks of him, Mary could tell he posed no real danger. There was undoubtedly a tired wife and children waiting for him at home. Still, she would sleep with a gun under her pillow tonight – Mary rarely didn’t these days.
Her attention turned to the table where Mistihkoman and the colored man were sparking a conversation. She listened intently as the Indian spoke his name. Not being one to wait until spoken to, Mary quickly chimed in.
“Misty-what now?” She raised a confused eyebrow. Her experience with Natives had only been through pseudonyms, they took American names that were more easily pronounced by the English tongue.
“I outta call you Big Knife, then. Sadly, those Indian names sound like a mouthful of nails to me.”
Mary glanced at her cards on the table, letting slip a small smile before quickly recovering her nonchalant expression. She had absolutely nothing, but no one else needed to know that. She needed to win money any way she could anyhow. The room at the inn wasn’t cheap and she would have to win big if she wanted to last the month.
“I’m Mary. Mary Johnson. It's a pleasure." She loosed a charming smile, a stark contrast to a pair of hungry sea-green eyes.
