The Miner's Lady Page 4

  Leo motioned him to take a seat at the table. Marco moved closer but didn’t sit. One of the drunks took a look at his cards. “I’ll take one,” he commanded, discarding the same.

  The bar owner smiled and dealt a seven of clubs. The drunk moaned and fell back against his chair. “I fold.”

  The man at his right shook his head. “Ain’t natural you losin’ another hand.” His slurred Italian was barely understandable.

  “Maybe you boys should call it a night,” Leo said, gathering the cards.

  “Not until I win back my money,” the first man declared.

  Marco knew the man only by reputation. The boys at the mine called him Coscia d’agnello or Leg of Lamb, because of the Italian revolver he carried. The pistol held that affectionate nickname, and so it seemed natural to carry it over to the only man in their area to own one. However, the man was also known for a temperament that was far more aggressive than any lamb.

  “Let’s go again,” the man demanded.

  “You in this time?” Leo asked Marco.

  He considered refusing, then thought better of it. The tension was already palpable, and Marco didn’t want to offend Leo by refusing. He took the seat beside Leg of Lamb and pulled some money from his pocket. “I might as well.” Bianca appeared just then with his beer. Marco took a long drink as the woman began to rub the knots in his neck.

  “Let’s see if lady luck is with you now,” Leo said and began dealing the cards.

  The next few hands went peacefully, much to Marco’s relief. Lamb won enough back to remain intrigued and said nothing more. Marco didn’t do so bad himself, although he couldn’t claim quite the victory that Lamb was enjoying. The man bet aggressively as if he had nothing to lose, but when the cards failed him, he pounded the table with his fists. Losing didn’t sit well, but with the next hand he recouped his losses and was content once again. It went on and on like this for the next hour.

  Marco lost track of how many beers he’d had. His head was spinning and his vision blurred as he studied the cards in his hand. He had a pair of sevens, but little else. Lamb had already raised the stakes, and Marco didn’t feel confident enough of his pair to continue. He folded instead and drained the schooner once again.

  “You want another?” Bianca asked.

  He looked at her, knowing she was still hoping he would pay for her services. Instead, Marco took several coins from his winnings and handed them to her. “I’m done for the night. You were good company, so this is for you.” She smiled, but he could tell she wasn’t pleased. Even so, she knew when it was time to leave.

  Lamb roared in approval as another hand went his way. Marco started to gather his money, but Leo put out his hand.

  “The night’s still young. Stick around.”

  Marco couldn’t suppress a yawn. “I’m done in.”

  “Nonsense,” Leo said. “You’re doing just fine.”

  Marco shrugged and leaned back in the chair. “I guess a few more rounds won’t hurt.”

  With Lamb’s confidence returning, he became more reckless as other players came and went. He also became more boastful and outrageous with his comments. Marco couldn’t imagine that Leo would put up with the man for long, but the barkeep said nothing and just continued dealing the cards.

  The hours blurred together and Marco found himself wishing he hadn’t sent Bianca away. His mouth felt dry—full of cotton stuffing. He would have enjoyed a drink right about now. Especially in light of the game’s intensity. Lamb now seemed bent on showing Leo up. He argued and snarled insults when the cards weren’t to his liking and sat back in smug satisfaction when things went his way. However, when another losing streak seemed to hit, Lamb began to cheat. At least Marco thought he was. The beer clouded his mind, but it seemed from time to time the man played some sort of sleight of hand. Even so, Marco couldn’t be sure enough to challenge him.

  The other players eventually cleared out, leaving Leo, Lamb, and Marco to their game. Alfredo ambled in after a time, and Marco could see that he had grown bored with the place.

  “I’m headin’ home,” he told Marco.

  Without warning, Leo jumped to his feet and pointed at the table. “You shouldn’t have laid that ace on the table, Lamb. I don’t hold with cheating around here.”

  Before Marco realized what was happening, Lamb had drawn his revolver. With drunken hands he waved the pistol at Leo. The barkeep seemed undaunted.

  “Alfredo, on your way out I’d appreciate it if you’d get the marshal in here. He needs to arrest this dirty rotten cheat.”

  “Nobody’s . . . ’restin’ me.” Lamb’s words were hopelessly slurred. He pointed the gun at Marco for a moment, then seemed to realize Leo was the one he wanted to shoot.

  Alfredo hurried from the room, leaving only Marco, Leo, and Lamb in the Snake Room. Marco edged away from the table while Leo shook his head in disgust. “You can’t always get your way with a gun.”

  Marco wasn’t so sure. He took another step back and realized he’d hit the wall. There was nowhere else to go.

  “You’re the cheat,” Lamb began again. “You . . . you . . . robbed me. I’m a better player than that.”

  “You’re a stupid drunk,” Leo said, and to Marco’s surprise he charged at the man. In one sleek, catlike move, Leo grabbed the weapon and pressed the barrel of the gun under Lamb’s neck. When the pistol fired, Marco’s hands flew to his chest as if he’d been shot.

  “That’s that,” Leo said, stepping away from Lamb as his body crumpled to the floor.

  Marco didn’t know what to say. His head was spinning from the liquor, and his ears were ringing from the close proximity of the gunshot. Leo glanced at the table a moment, then gathered the remains of Lamb’s winnings for himself.

  When Alfredo and the marshal entered the room moments later, Marco was still staring dumbly at Lamb’s motionless body.

  “What happened here?” the lawman asked.

  “Caught him cheating. Guess he couldn’t bear the shame,” Leo said, gathering his chips and cards. “Killed himself.”

  The marshal looked to Marco, then knelt down to check the body. “That right, Panetta?”

  Marco blinked several times, hoping it might clear his head. It didn’t. “What?” he asked, stalling for time. He looked to Leo, who only gave a slight nod.

  “I asked if that was right,” the marshal replied, looking up.

  Nodding, Marco affirmed his friend’s statement. Maybe it wasn’t like it seemed. Maybe the liquor had clouded his understanding. After all, Lamb had been cheating—even Marco was sure of that. Blood pooled on the floor, and the sight of it turned Marco’s stomach.

  He clutched his belly. “Alfredo, I need to get outta here.”

  They’d no sooner hit the street than Marco lost the contents of his stomach. In the dim glow of light from the street and buildings, Marco imagined it was blood. He shuddered and heaved again.

  When the nausea passed he straightened. “Get me home.”

  Alfredo took hold of his arm. “So what happened in there? Lamb really kill himself?”

  Marco grunted but gave no other reply. Alfredo continued. “Marshal says there’s been a lot of dying going on at Leo’s. Lot of suicides. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  He had no desire to discuss the matter further. “Shut up and get me home, Alfredo. I gotta lie down.”

  Chapter 5

  Chantel shifted her weight to get comfortable in the hard-bottomed chair. Around her, dozens of women sat speaking in hushed whispers. Most of the women were dressed in their Sunday best, even though it was a weekday. There were very few events to dress up for in Ely, and having an out-of-town speaker was definitely one of them. Today they would hear from a traveling minister, the Reverend Black, who had once been a slave to the demon alcohol. Because the event was held on a weekday, it was attended primarily by women. However, Chantel spied a few men among the numbers.

  The Finnish Temperance Society assured their audience
that this man’s stories would convince any doubters, no matter their ethnicity, of the problems liquor could cause. Chantel was surprised that her mother had wanted to come, but Isabella confided that ever since Marco and Alfredo had started frequenting the local saloons, their mother had taken a strong stand against alcohol. The only exception was the wine she sometimes used in cooking.

  “They have quite the crowd,” Chantel murmured in her sister’s direction.

  Isabella smoothed down the ruffle of her white muslin blouse and leaned closer. “They are planning to build a Temperance Hall, and this is how they raise money. The speakers get paid, of course, but the rest of the money they charge to attend the event goes into the collection for the new building.”

  Glancing around the room, Chantel couldn’t help but wonder what these women thought they could accomplish. Miners and loggers made up the bulk of the area’s population. These hardworking men loved their liquor. They weren’t going to be easily persuaded to give it up—new building or not.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Mrs. Maki. Welcome to our monthly lecture,” a severe-looking woman announced from the podium. “It is our desire to further the elimination of alcohol from our society. We see its evil effects daily here in Ely, and around our state thousands upon thousands suffer from the affliction of drunkenness, alcohol enslavement, and other abuses. It is up to God-fearing people to take a stand and reclaim the nation’s people and save our children. We are hopeful that you will aid us in this endeavor.”

  Chantel joined the others in clapping. She didn’t really know, however, if it was possible to eliminate the consumption of alcohol. It seemed to her that so long as there were men seeking to ease their miseries and forget their misfortune, there would be customers for liquor. As her brother had once told her, whiskey and beer were big business. As long as there was money to be made, men would find a way to keep the industry running. Not only that, but if the various temperance societies had their way and the substance was abolished, something else would rise up to take its place.

  “The Reverend Black has traveled from Duluth to speak to us today,” Mrs. Maki continued. “This man knows firsthand the sordid details of a life consumed by alcohol. Before he gave his life to the Almighty, he gave it to the bottle. Only the hand of God was able to pull him back from the very pit of hell, where liquor had taken him.” She looked to the side of the stage where the small, unassuming man sat dressed in a black suit. “I ask that you would listen carefully to what he has to say and give him a warm welcome. Reverend Black, please come and impart your wisdom to us today.”

  The audience again applauded as the short, frail man made his way to the podium. Chantel wondered if this tiny man could even begin to speak loudly enough for them to hear at the back of the room. She didn’t have long to worry about it, however. For all his smallness of stature, the Reverend Black had a most commanding voice.

  “Alcohol is the devil’s drink,” he boomed out to the crowd. “There is nothing of the Lord Jesus in a shot of whiskey. Nothing of our heavenly Father in a bottle of wine or a glass of beer.” He pointed his finger at the congregation. “But I can tell you don’t yet believe me.”

  Chantel dared a glance to her left and then to her right. She didn’t see anything to indicate that the reverend’s words weren’t believed. Chantel jumped, as did many in the audience, when Reverend Black slammed his Bible against the lectern.

  “God in heaven demands you hear my words and believe. Alcohol will lead to the destruction of our nation, just as it has many others. There are entire countries now long destroyed and forgotten because of this tool of Satan.

  “Oh, it starts out simple enough. After all, even the Good Book talks of taking a little wine for your stomach.” He slammed the Bible again, and the noise echoed throughout the otherwise silent room.

  “But the men and even women of this great country know nothing about taking ‘a little.’ This is a country of extremes—of plenty. We take a great deal when a little would do. We demand the king’s portion when we have need of no more than a pauper.”

  Despite the cold temperatures outside, Chantel was beginning to feel the heat of this man’s passion. She had been raised in a culture where wine was commonplace. No one gave it a second thought if it was served with meals. In fact, it would have been questioned had it been absent. Even so, her mother and father had never been much for its consumption, and they certainly had no taste for whiskey. Chantel knew, however, that her mother feared for her sons. The town’s many saloons enticed them, and she’d already witnessed her brothers becoming sick from drinking too much.

  “Friends, I tell you that God is not pleased. He is not happy with our refusal to act. He calls for His children to put an end to this madness. He commands us in His word to be not drunken, yet we allow for drunkenness in our towns and even, dare I say it, in our homes. We not only allow it—we encourage it. We welcome it in like a long-lost friend, then grieve when it robs us blind or kills those we love.”

  The Reverend Black’s rebuke went on for over half an hour before he began to speak on how he had once been a slave to whiskey. “As a boy, I was introduced early to whiskey,” he announced. “Godless men surrounded me and my days were dark. I sought comfort and refuge, but there was none to be found—except in a bottle. And what a sweet seductress that bottle was. She called to me as a Jezebel might, enticing me, promising me what she could not hope to give. I was taken in.”

  He stepped away from the podium, leaving the Bible behind. Balling his fists, he raised them toward the ceiling. “I was deceived!” he bellowed. Murmurs arose from the audience, but he held his ground and continued. “The great Deceiver himself—Satan—convinced me with his lies that there was nothing wrong in this indulgence, and so I drank.

  “And I didn’t just drink a little. Oh no.” He shook his head vehemently. “That is part of the seduction. It starts with just one glass, but it ends, my friends, in death!”

  A group of women on the far side of the room began to applaud, drawing the rest of the audience in rather awkwardly. Chantel could see from the looks on the faces of some of the women that they weren’t quite sure what they were clapping for.

  The reverend momentarily slowed down, as if to regroup his thoughts. He kept his audience waiting several minutes, in fact, while he went to a small table and poured himself a glass of water. Once he’d taken a long drink from the glass, he set it back down and returned again to the lectern.

  “Liquor is only one part of the problem,” Reverend Black began in a less imposing voice. “The companions of alcohol are many. Gambling, prostitution, thievery, and all manner of addictions and abuses walk hand in hand with liquor. My friends, they are the best of acquaintances and revel in each other’s company. If you doubt me, you have only to look as far as the saloons and brothels in your town.”

  He began to pick up speed and volume. “For good Christian people to sit back and do nothing—to look the other way when sin rears its ugly head—is in and of itself . . . sin! You are sinning if you sit idly by and do nothing to put an end to this problem. Furthermore,” he said, once again pointing his finger, “if you continue in this sin, you will burn in the pits of hell for all eternity!

  “Yea, even if you allow this sin, you will be found guilty. I tell you, have nothing to do with these people! Have no fellowship with them. Turn away from their wickedness, avert your eyes, and let Satan have them!”

  If it had been possible to leave unnoticed, Chantel might have gone. The man spoke the truth about the damages caused by drinking, but he seemed completely focused on judgment—not in the grace and mercy to be found in Jesus.

  Furthermore, what if those who drank to excess were unable to break away from the stronghold of liquor on their own? Would God truly condemn the man or woman who was trapped in their life’s woes while others turned away? And what of bearing one another’s burdens? Should Christians not reach out in love to help one another? Did God not call them to love even their
enemies?

  The speaker continued to rant about sin for nearly forty minutes, and Chantel found herself praying he would grow tired and conclude his tirade. She hated the ugliness of the saloons, brothels, and gaming houses just as much as the reverend seemed to. However, she couldn’t imagine that hatred would result in the change he was seeking. A dozen Bible verses ran through her mind that suggested God would have her show love and mercy.

  Reverend Black appeared to be winding down as he moved into rhetoric regarding what each individual could do to aid the cause. He told them how money was needed to further the mission and encouraged the audience to give above and beyond their regular tithes to the church, to see that the Temperance Movement was strengthened. By the time the noon whistle sounded, he had concluded his lecture. Mrs. Maki retook the stage to thank everyone for their time and attention.

  Mama looked to Chantel and smiled. “He had quite a bit to say, didn’t he?”

  Chantel nodded and turned to speak to Isabella but found her gone. “Isabella didn’t lose any time getting out of here.”

  They both looked around the room to see if they could spy the younger woman. “No doubt,” Mama began, “she’s hungry. I know I certainly am. I thought we would have been home well before now.”

  Chantel stood and did her best to stretch without seeming unladylike. Her blue-and-green-checked cheviot jacket fit her snugly, thanks to the well-drawn corset. It made a sharp contrast to a green woolen skirt that exactly matched the green of the coat. The outfit, however flattering, was not one to allow for much movement. Of course, a lady in public was not to be overly active.

  “Oh, Maria, I’m so glad you came today,” an older woman said in a heavy Italian cadence. “And, Chantel, how lovely you are. Italy must have agreed with you. That hat is quite darling.”