Chapter 2

We pushed Mr. Bemis’s herd into the cow pens on the north side of El Paso, around noon on the seventh day of my trip back in time. Once we had the cattle all accounted for, Mr. Bemis spotted each of us drovers a five-dollar advance on our pay, and sent us off so he could negotiate with the buyers. I figured I was making some headway towards fixing my bad reputation, when a couple of the other cowboys invited me to hit the saloon with them. I put them off by telling them I’d be there in a while.

I walked Melosa to the livery stable and rented her a stall. I flipped the stable hand a quarter and told him to rub her down good and treat her to some oats. With my horse basking in the lap of luxury, I grabbed my saddlebags and rifle and headed towards the barbershop. I spent fifty cents on a bath, shave, haircut, and to have my clothes brushed with a whisk broom. The barber was happy enough with my business to throw in the lilac scented talcum powder for free.

While at the barbershop, I saw my new face in the mirror for the first time. My only impression of what I looked like, was my uncle’s ego-distorted high opinion of himself. I had to admit that I could have done worse for myself in picking out a mug to slap on the front of my head. I had a square jaw, sandy blonde hair and dark blue eyes. I had definitely traded up in looks. I already knew my body here was better, but that was mostly the result of my new youth. In this century, I was six feet, one inch tall, and weighed about one hundred and eighty pounds. Before, I was an inch taller and probably twenty (more like thirty) pounds heavier. I wasn’t exactly skinny here and now, but I certainly wasn’t fighting love handles any longer.

From the barbershop I strolled over to the mercantile. I made the shopkeeper’s day by spending eighteen dollars on a new wardrobe and two more for a canvass and leather valise to put it in. I will say one thing about clothes shopping in El Paso in 1877: you can buy a lot of clothes for a gold double eagle. I walked out of the mercantile with two pair of black wool pants, four white cotton shirts, a herring bone vest, a string tie and a frock coat. While the shopkeeper’s buxom wife altered the clothes for my long, lean frame, I had my boots shined and my Stetson pig bristle brushed.

My next stop was at the gunsmiths. The pistol I had inherited was, as I said before, a Single Action Army Colt in .45 caliber. A single action revolver has to be manually cocked by pulling the hammer back before you can fire it by pulling the trigger. My ancestor’s revolver had a very heavy trigger pull that felt as if something internal was binding. The gunsmith knew his Colts, and had the problem fixed in a jiffy, he even filed the sear to lighten the trigger pull a tad.

While I was watching him work, I noticed that he had a few very nicely tooled leather gunbelt and holster rigs for sale. I left his shop wearing one of them, and feeling much more comfortable about my ability to draw my pistol. I also left with a brand new box of shells for both my rifle and pistol. I even had the opportunity to fire a dozen rounds through the Colt on the gunsmith’s small shooting gallery behind his shop. The pistol shot true where I pointed it at fifteen yards.

My last stop was the Hotel Magnífico de El Paso, the El Paso Grand Hotel. I had the opportunity to use my excellent Spanish on the Mexican desk clerk, and took a room for the week. The room was a dollar and a quarter a night, but that included your choice of suppers off their specials menu. I thought it was still a lot to pay for a room compared to the cost of everything else, but I had made a point of picking out one of the best hotels in town. Once up in my room, I stashed my rifle under the bed, unpacked and put away my clothes, and tested out the mattress on the big double bed.

I woke up from my siesta at about six in the evening. My stomach let me know it was time for my free supper. As I walked down the stairs from my second floor hotel room, it dawned on me that I was dressed almost exactly like my character Black Bart from the old west show. You know: black boots, pants, vest and hat. The white shirt was all that was out of character, as even my new gunbelt and holster were black.

I eased my way into the hotel’s dining room and picked me a table, making sure I sat facing the door. I wasn’t expecting any sort of trouble, but if some found me, I didn’t want my face buried in my plate, facing the wrong direction when it showed up. The night’s menu was written on a slate standing on an easel as you walked in the double doors of the room. I decided I’d opt for the steak and potatoes, with home made biscuits and a couple of cups of coffee. Believe it or not, the coffee excited me more than the steak, after a week of swilling down the bitter chicory brew Jose made on the trail.

My butt had barely hit the seat of my chair, when a cute Mexican girl came scurrying over to my table. Her English, while accented, was very good. I ordered up my steak and asked her about the coffee. When she told me it was the real deal, I put in dibs on a cup. I flirted a little with the young woman and sent her back to the kitchen rosy cheeked. I guess a little flirting in the nineteenth century wasn’t a bad thing, as she kept returning to my table with the coffee pot, and my steak was big and juicy. As this century’s Ty McGuinn, I spoke to her only in English, even though I probably spoke her native language as well as she did. I don’t exactly know why, but I decided from here on to keep my ability to speak Spanish to myself.

After my dinner, I strolled out onto the dusty main street, just as the sun was sinking in the west. I turned left as I exited the hotel, and ducked into the first saloon I came across. The saloon was named ‘Cowboy Heaven.’ The place was packed with obnoxious cowboys blowing off steam. There were a few desultory floozies cadging drinks and not a card game was in sight. As soon as I saw the inside, I turned around and pushed back through the doors, beating a hasty retreat.

Yeah, I was looking for a card game. I figured that would be the best way to increase Uncle Ty’s bankroll, given that I had both his knowledge (which was mostly how to cheat) and my own at poker playing to draw from. I passed on two more saloons before I found what I was looking for.

The place was called the Gold Nugget, and it was slightly more upscale than the other three places. The women at the Nugget were prettier too, but the big attraction to me was the card games going on at three big tables in the back. I eliminated one of the tables immediately, as it was set up for playing Faro. Faro was a sucker bet, not because of the odds of the game, but because there was no such thing as an honest Faro banker (dealer). However, the two poker tables drew me like magnets.

The 1877 version of poker was the old standard: five-card draw. It was all about betting and bluffing. I stood and watched the players at both tables for almost an hour, evaluating the players and looking for cheats. Finally, a cowboy went bust and I took his seat. Fortunately, the seat that opened was at the table I wanted to play, and it conveniently faced the door. I wanted to play that table, because it had at least two professional gamblers at it, and I had spotted both of their ‘tells’ during the hour I watched them. A tell is something a gambler does unconsciously that tips you off as to a play he is making. I’ve been told that every gambler has at least one, but the good players’ tells are so subtle, you never notice them.

I took my chair and pulled out the twenty-five dollars I’d allotted myself for gambling. I introduced myself around the table. I told the other players my name and that I had just gotten to town pushing cows from Malvernia Ranch, two hundred miles to the north. The other five men at the table shared their names, two of them were drovers like me, the two professional gamblers claimed to be traveling drummers (salesmen), and the last man was a railroad man, who called himself Burt. He was in town scouting out land for a spur line out to the El Paso salt flats. Burt was one of those handsome flashy dandies, from his slicked back hair to his diamond stick pin.