Chapter IV
A Visitor
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Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
After that meeting with Old Injun, Asiago's routine changed. To his regular breakfast and wine tasting visits, he appeared almost everyday to sit down and chat with Old Injun. Sometimes these talks would last a few minutes; sometimes hours. They would gabble in English or in Injun or both. Their talk was low and serious. With all that talking amongst themselves, my dinner with Asiago was forgotten. No matter. No place to eat in Keenan's but the Rusty Nail and I could eat there anytime.
Now Old Injun was a fixture around the Rusty Nail. Whenever we was opened he was there, and we was mostly open all the time. Business wasn't so great that I could afford to pass up paying customers. If thinks got slow, I would go to my room upstairs and catch some sleep. Between the creaking door and the noise most cowboys make, I never had any trouble figurin' out if someone needed something. So it's not like I kept regular hours. All hours of the day and night were regular hours for a saloon in our forgotten part of Wyoming. The Clapper was the same, and men would often bounce back between our places throughout the night until their money ran out. Them whores was smart enough not to extend credit, and I wasn't going to either.
I wouldn't say Old Injun was employed by the Rusty Nail. He just kind of settled in. When he first shown up, I was inclined to boot him out. He didn't have much money, and Injuns were generally not welcome where whites drank and recreated. But the few locals didn't mind him and the passers thru were mostly interested in getting drunk and getting a poke, so didn't pay much him much mind either. I would keep his coffee cup filled during the day; he didn't drink whiskey or wine--said liquor was white man's devil juice and wine was just a waste of good grapes. Soon he was picking up a broom and sweeping, or fixing a chair or table, or helping unload supplies, or whatever job need doin' and I didn't do. After Mr. Muldoon passed, I found it useful to have some muscle around, and he seemed willing to help out in exchange for cups of coffee, a plate of eggs once in awhile, and a place to rest his butt.
In short, Old Injun was just part of the scenery to me, like the dust and the weeds, the cowboys, the old trappers, the shacks, and the smell of horseshit from the street. There wasn't much conversation between me and him, or between him and anyone else. That is, not until Asiago showed up.
Now I would say that Asiago himself wasn't much of a talker. He would bandy with me some, but he ignored my other customers. He might praise Heinz on the eggs, but otherwise was quiet.
With Old Injun, Asiago was different, and with Asiago, Old Injun was different From what I could see, they didn't have conversations so much as lessons, with Old Injun the teacher and Asiago the pupil. Soon, Old Injun was joinin' Asiago up by the graveyard; I guess they was both talking to those spirits that Asiago found up there. After a year or so, they had put a respectful distance between their bed rolls and the graveyard, and built a lean-to next to a stand of Big Tooth Maple up the hill a bit. That was about all that happened in Keenans; that is until 1877.
About that time we started seeing soldiers and scouts scattered in among the usual passers thru. Before then, I had the occasional cavalry man stop by, but now I was seeing more of a steady stream. Like just about everyone else who came to Keenans, most of these soldier types passed through without either the town or the soldiers giving each either much mind. But one day, a fellow came through my doors and walked directly over to where Old Injun was sitting. He threw his hat and gloves on the table. The dust that flied up made Old Injun cough. The stranger pulled out a chair, put his muddy boot on it and leaned over between Old Injun's face and his coffee cup.
"Whatcha you doing here?" said the stranger.
Old Injun leaned back and looked at the stranger, but said nothing.
"What's wrong Indian. Don't understand English? If you sit in a white man's saloon you should be able to talk the language. Who is the owner around here?"
I walked out from the kitchen. "I am. What can I do for you?"
The stranger looked down at the chair, wiped the dried mud of his boot on the edge, and dropped it to the floor. "Why you let that Indian in here?"
"Everybody is welcome here if they cause no trouble."
"Indians, lady, are by their very nature trouble. Most respectable places wouldn't let them in, much less serve them."
"I got no pretense of being respectable, just profitable, and he ain't hurtin nothin."
"Well I am hungry and thirsty and this is the only place around for miles and and I ain't sharing my space with no Indian."
"You choose what you want, but this is my place and I ain't kickin' one person out just cause another says so."
"You just think this is your place lady. This is Wyoming Territory--it's federal territory and I am a federal soldier so this place might as well be my house, and I said kick him out."
At that moment, Asiago walked in, turned to the stranger and said as friendly as he was greeting someone at church supper, "Hello, Jack."
"Hello, Asiago," sneered the stranger now identified as Jack. "Shit, now we got two Indians in here to stink up the place."
{{{{{to be continued}}}}}