Free A Lack of Temperance by Anna Loan-Wilsey

stomped back into the saloon, shoving the chair away and slamming the door behind him.
    “Kill her?” Did I hear him right?
    “Miss Davish?” My ears were ringing and someone was calling my name. “Miss Davish? Are you all right?” Walter Grice, grasping me by the wrist, glanced at his pocket watch. Taking a few deep breaths, I extricated my wrist from the gentleman’s grip.
    “You’ll have to forgive George, Miss Davish. His behavior is inexcusable.”
    I straightened my hat. “It’s a relief to know he’s not always like this.”
    “No, the Cavern is known as much for its hospitality as it is for its brawls; its proprietor is very popular. George Shulman may even be our new city councilman. No, he’s not all bad, Miss Davish. He didn’t mean what he said, I assure you.”
    We stood in silence for a moment or two. A beautiful tenor voice began singing somewhere inside the saloon. The song, met with rowdy applause, was jovial, but I couldn’t understand the words.
    “You see,” Walter Grice said, tilting his head toward the source of the music, “that’s typical George; he’s already forgotten about your row.”
    I knew I wouldn’t soon forget. “It was nice to make your acquaintance, again, Mr. Grice, but I must be going.” I turned to leave.
    “Let me walk you to your hotel, Miss Davish, if that’s where you’re going. It will be dark soon. Let me escort you back.”
    “That’s very kind of you, but . . .”
    “It’s the least I can do.”
    Mr. Grice did seem charming, and an escort would be prudent given that night was fast approaching. But the exchange with George Shulman had left my ears ringing and my hands shaking. I needed the solitary walk back to the Arcadia to calm my nerves.
    “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
    The song in the saloon stopped short, and then we heard shouting and the sound of shattering glass. Before Walter Grice could comment, I hurried away.
     
    It was getting late. And I was full of self-reproach before I even reached the Tibbs Alley stairwell. The once-crowded street was quiet of wagon traffic. The horses were all stabled and the marble players were gone. Only the men loitering outside saloons remained. The farmers and the shopkeepers were safely sitting by their firesides, not wandering past saloons, which were blazing with light and full to capacity with questionable characters. The warm glow of the gas street lamps on the faces of the people I passed only reminded me of my foolishness. What was I thinking? The saloonkeeper had threatened to kill Mrs. Trevelyan. Was he in earnest or merely making a boisterous, but harmless claim? Either way, I should never have gone to the saloon. Wanting the quickest route back to the hotel, I began climbing the alley stairs.
    With buildings towering up on either side three and four stories high, the only patch of light came from a single lamp, about a third of the way up, illuminating a fragment of an advertisement painted on the wall, & Sons, Furnishers, Guaranteed . Music and laughter coming from nearby establishments were swallowed up in the stillness around me as I reached the dim glow of the lantern. I paused in the circle of its light and peered down at the street below. A young couple, arm in arm, strolled by, the streetlight reflecting off the white heron feathers on the girl’s hat. Their lighthearted banter persisted as they passed out of sight. I adjusted my bonnet, imagining the wares in Mrs. Cunningham’s window and, hesitating only slightly when I turned to face the darkness above, continued climbing with renewed vigor. When did I become so skittish?
    Two flights of stairs from the top, the alley was pitch dark and I had to use the rail to guide me. I barely missed kicking an empty bottle sitting on the landing. A waft of liquor drifted from an unlit doorway. As I bent to move it, a figure lurched out directly in front of me. In the darkness, I could only make out the outlines of a cloak and hat. I stood up