"Staunton's" part II

                                              Staunton's Part II

The cool night air felt refreshing on Jim’s face as he left the tavern. Several glasses of beer had deadened his senses. He stood on the wooden veranda of Staunton’s and looked down the way.

The streets in Vancouver were still dirt roads at this point. On a rainy day, a walk along them was a chore. Duck boards, in front of each of the stores and offices helped. The struggle through the mud between them was an ordeal.

Staunton’s had a wood-paneled sheeting on its frontage. A covered, second-story over hang made for a shaded and covered front entrance below. During the day, several of the local geezers would sit in the wooden spindle chairs and carve blocks of wood to pass the time. They knew enough not to make eye contact with any of those entering or leavings Staunton’s.  Their sizzling and critical commentary dissected the purpose, character and substance of all who passed within. Wisely, they kept all such commentary to themselves.  But the old gas bags had long since retreated to their humble abodes when Jim made his exit.

In the window frames,  of the second story, a chippy would often sit, clad in her minimum and making cat calls to prospective clients walking below. The proper matrons walking nearby were scandalized by their tawdry behavior. The business men nearby just smiled and waved up at the soiled doves, advertising their wares. They may or may not have already made their acquaintance.

Jim’s three-year old roan stood patiently, at the rail, waiting for him to unleash and mount her. She was a well-proportioned and graceful mount that Jim had won in a card game, at Staunton’s the year before. No one really worried about rascals stealing their mounts. Anytime something like that occurred, the miscreant was rounded up quickly. Sometimes the lads waited for a local magistrate to appear. At other times, they placed a rope around the rascal’s neck, dragged him up over the overhanging branch of a nearby oak tree and watched him dance in the air, until his last breath escaped him.  Horse thieves were particularly disapproved of locally.

Next to his mount, tied at the rail,  stood a large grey stallion, equipped with some expensive but worn saddlery. A repeating Winchester lay sheathed in its leather quiver. A blanket and bedroll were tied to the saddle’s rear and a lasso hung from the saddle’s horn. The blanket beneath the saddle had a faded stitching of “U.S. Cav. “ stamped on its edge. In that the U.S. border was a scant 32 miles away,  Jim figured that it  must belong to the solitary gunman inside. Ex-cavalry troopers, gunmen and other wranglers often wandered north from Seattle to Vancouver, looking for adventure.

Jim reined in his mount and rode slowly down McConnel Street. The gin mills and card palaces were just coming alive. The waterfront of Vancouver was the place to be at night. Card games, whiskey, women and other pleasures abounded here. 

A whole fleet of sail-rigged, wooden sailing ships lay at anchor in the  nearby harbor. The swabbies aboard were anxious to spend their pay and enjoy the pleasures of land after so many months at sea. Most of them made it back to their berths at night. Those who didn’t were presumed to have jumped ship and made their way inland, looking for gold or other treasures. The odd lad, fished from the harbor the next day, was deemed to have wandered drunkenly into the water. The bashed head or slashed throat must have been caused from the rough conditions in the surf. Pickpockets and cut purses were not publicly acknowledged by local authorities. It was also not uncommon for an ill-intentioned bar keep to slip the celebrating sailor a “Mickey Finn” in his beer. Compatriots would then help the young seamen, drowsy from the narcotic, outside, there to fleece him of his poke and toss the body into the sea. The waterfront here was a hard place, for hard men.

Jim thought of all of this as he rode down the street. He had arrived here in Vancouver on one of those schooners, a few years back, after a several-months journey from Liverpool. This was his home now and he intended to make the best of it. His work was hard daily, manhandling loads of stone and formatting them into neat rows of masonry. It was a demanding task. He had picked up his skills at this family’s place, a brick yard in Bristol, England. It was a skill that paid his rent and fed his face. It would do for now. Since the great fire of Vancouver in 1886, most of the local buildings had burned down. There was work for skilled tradesmen here for many years to come.

Just ahead lay Jim’s second story walk up on Brighton Street. He dismounted and led his mare into the stables next door, where he unsaddled and unleashed his mount. After a quick wipe down of the mare, he filled the horse’s buckets with enough water and oats to keep the animal content for the night. Horses were valuable assets and in need of proper care.

At the end of the hall in his walkup, a small Loo provided him with space to make his ablutions for the evening. Afterward, he lay down and prepared for sleep. Usually, he fired up the whale oil-fueled lantern, to read from an anthology of stories. But tonight, he was too tired from a long day ‘s labor and a night at Staunton’s. He closed his eyes and slept the deadened sleep of a work-man after a long day.

                                        -30-

                                  (944 words)

                            Joseph Xavier Martin