JAMMIES! (Or What The Colonel REALLY Wears To Bed)
Clay Mosby slipped down the stairs of the Ambrosia club. He almost slipped ON the stairs! He stopped halfway down and adjusted the feet in his jammies. Dang! They always turned around backwards! Reaching the first floor, he threw open the stove and peered inside, but he knew the fire had gone out. What was wrong with Carson anyway? Didn't he know his final duty each evening was to stoke the fire? It was cold upstairs! And Clay didn't like the cold. Thank goodness for his jammies with the feet in them. They were the only thing that got him through these long Montana winter months -- that and Florie. With her to warm his bed, he didn't need any jammies, with feet or otherwise.
Clay threw several fat logs into the stove and stuffed some paper in under them. He struck a match and lit the fire. He stood for a few moments warming his hands over the blaze. Then he closed the stove and headed for the stairs. It was almost time for Carson to arrive, and it wouldn't do to let him or anyone else see him in this get-up. He had an image to uphold in this town, after all. One slip up, and all would be lost. He could almost see Call smirking now. But he'd sent all the way to Chicago for these babies, and he wasn't giving them up, not for anybody! There had been a few close calls, like that time Florie had crept in through the unlocked balcony door and caught him just as he was getting ready to slip into something more comfortable -- you guessed it, the JAMMIES! It was no wonder he didn't like surprises.
Halfway up the stairs, Clay felt a sudden draft at the same time he heard the telltale PLINK, Plink, plink of the button from his trapdoor bouncing down the steps. Oh, well, there was no time to search for it now. Mosby held the dangdable flap closed and hightailed it up to his room.
Once there, Clay stripped off his jammies and hurriedly dressed before the numbing chill had a chance to set in. He carefully folded the jammies and stowed them under a pile of his fancy brocade vests, way in the back of the chifferobe.
Strolling out the front door of the Ambrosia Club, Clay drew in a deep breath of crisp, invigorating air and was instantly taken in a paroxysm of coughing. Damn! The air wasn't invigorating; it was freezing! He fumbled for his fine linen handkerchief and wiped his mouth with it. Regaining his composure, he strutted on down the boardwalk and out into the street, dreaming of Virginia and its balmy climes. Well, at least the cold snap had improved the condition of Curtis Wells' streets. He was tired of dodging mud and mule poop and worse. He was always scraping something vile off his fine Corinthian leather boots. It was difficult dressing like a dandified S.O.B. in Curtis Wells.
As Clay sauntered across the street, he took the admiring stares of the passing women in stride. He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip and nodded to each one in turn. "Mornin'. Mornin', ladies." He smiled and doffed his hat. Then noticing how cold his head instantly got in spite of its thick crown of shining curls, he replaced his hat rapidly and continued on his way.
He hoped no one would come to him with their petty problems this morning. He was tired of dealing with things like frozen pump handles and rusty locks. His "mayor", Josiah, really should deal with things like that and leave him free to pursue loftier matters. Clay sighed. Sometimes it was hard being lord of all he surveyed.
Clay headed to the Lonesome Dove Hotel for a bite of breakfast. Amanda met him in the dining room. "If you're looking for a hot meal, you're out of luck, Clay. My kitchen help let the fire go out. We're just getting it going again. Be at least an hour before anything's ready. You'll have to come back then."
Clay sighed and retreated. Why did this have to happen today, of all days, when he was really counting on a hot breakfast?
Coming out of the Dove, Clay noticed Call, already ensconced on his bench outside the general store. Good Lord, how did the man keep his scrawny butt from freezing to the slats? The bounty hunter pushed up his hat, glared briefly at Mosby, and then nodded off again. "Sweet dreams, Call," Clay muttered.
Just then Luther Root came around the corner of the building.
"Hey, Mosby, like I told you before, cold is when your spit freezes before it hits the ground." The mountain man expectorated vigorously to illustrate his point.
"Charmed," Clay remarked, stepping back just in time.
Luther spat again for good measure, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and grinned at Clay mischievously. Clay eyed Luther's warm fur pelts enviously. But he knew it was a look he just couldn't pull off. It would never do for a Southern gentleman to walk around with dead animals draped all over him, even in this backwater town.
Luther was soon busy entertaining some children who had gathered round and were trying to guess which crack in the boardwalk his frozen spittle would roll into. It seemed the man never lacked for an audience.
Clay frowned as he began to walk away. Curtis Wells really should have an ordinance prohibiting spitting on the street. He'd have to speak to the mayor about it.
All at once he was set upon by Unbob. "Ya gotta come, Mr. Mosby, ya jist gotta come!" Unbob insisted as he grabbed Clay's arm and began pulling him in the direction of Mattie's Gun Shop and Undertaking Parlor.
"Now, hold on just a moment," Clay began. "What's this all about, Unbob?"
"He's stiff, and he won't lay down! An' Miss Mattie's outta town, and Sheriff Peale, he's gone too, and he won't lay down. I don't know what to do. Ya gotta come!"
Clay pulled free of Unbob's grasp. "Slow down, Unbob," he said patiently. "Tell me what's wrong."
"I gotta git Clarence Freebolt in his coffin," Unbob went on. "His funeral's at 1:30, and he's sittin' up lookin' at me, and he won't lay down!"
Clay smiled. "Sounds like old Clarence has Rigor Mortis, Unbob. Surely you've dealt with this sort of thing before."
"It's more than that, Mr. Mosby. Miss Mattie and I usually just wait fer 'em to lay back down. And they do. But Clarence ain't. There weren't no heat in the shop last night on account o' I fergot to put wood in the stove, and he's frozen clear through!"
"Well, why don't you ask Call to help you; he's right over there." Clay nodded in the direction of the sleeping bounty hunter.
"Oh, no I . . . I can't. I jist can't, Mr. Mosby. Mr. Call gets downright pernickity when he gets woke up from his nap."
Unbob cast an uneasy glance in Call's direction and then looked back at Clay helplessly.
"Oh, very well, I'm comin', Unbob." Clay looked around for Luther, who seemed to have conveniently disappeared now that there was work to be done. There didn't seem to be any way out of it. He sighed and followed Unbob across the street.
Once inside the shop, they were confronted with Clarence Freebolt's staring face. And sure enough, he was sitting bolt upright on the slab.
"Hmmmmm. Well, there's nothin' else for it, Unbob. You'll have to get him over to Lau's and dunk him in a tub of hot water to thaw him out. Go and find Zeke and Pratt; they'll help you take him out the back way. No sense makin' a spectacle of the poor man."
Clay stepped back into the street as Unbob left to find the deputies. He turned toward the bathhouse. He longed for a good, long soak in the private tub. Surely no one would bother him there.
"Yoo-hoo, Mr. Mosby, may I have a word with you?"
Clay was passing by Twyla's Sporting Club, and the rotund little Madam herself was addressing him from the open doorway.
Clay groaned. He was beginning to regret having gotten out of bed that morning.
Twyla grabbed him by the arm and pulled. Clay's last glimpse of the street included the town's old-maid gossips, Ruby and Eula May Longbottom. The sisters' eyebrows inched ever higher as they stared at him, whispering behind their hands. Their shocked faces disappeared from view as he was yanked inside.
"This had better be important, Twyla." Clay straightened his coat and glared at her impatiently.
Twyla had closed the door and stood leaning against it, barring his escape.
"Oh, it is, MIS-ter Mosby, it is. How am I supposed to run a business in this town when the outhouse is full?"
Mosby stared at her as if she had lost some of her marbles. "Whadya mean full? How many people are in there, anyway?" Clay smiled at his own joke.
Twyla didn't seem amused. "That's not what I meant, MIS-ter Mosby. The hole is full. I'll need a new one dug right away."
Clay stared at her, his mouth dropping open. "Now, Twyla? Why, you must be outta your mind. The ground is frozen solid. It'll have to wait till spring, and even that isn't a good time. You know how the mud is; a man could be buried alive diggin' a hole like that. Why didn't you bring this to my attention before now?"
"It happened suddenly. Business has picked up. There's a steady stream of cowpokes visitin' my girls now. A lot of them come just to get warmed up." Twyla glared at Clay awaiting a response.
Clay sighed tiredly. "Very well, Twyla, you'll have to use the one back of the hotel for now; I'll clear it with Amanda. Will that suit you?"
Twyla smiled and opened the door. Clay replaced his hat and stepped around her. She obligingly shut the door behind him.
Once outside, Clay pulled one of his fine cigars from his vest pocket and was preparing to light it when a commotion down the street drew his attention.
"Oh, what now?" he mumbled irritably as he made his way to the well in the center of town.
Drawing closer, Clay saw Billy Marshall, a cowhand from the nearby Crocker Ranch, standing at the pump with a crowd gathered around him. Clay found it hard to believe his eyes. Billy's tongue seemed to be stuck to the pump handle! Everyone was shouting directions to the poor man. Even Call had roused himself and stood smirking at Billy's predicament.
"What's goin' on here? Billy, how'd this happen?" Mosby inquired.
"Ootha dayed me," Billy began, obviously hampered by the fact that his tongue was out of his mouth and stuck to the metal pump handle.
"What's he sayin'? Luther, are you responsible for this?" Clay demanded sharply.
"Aw, I was only having myself a little fun," the big man said sheepishly. "I never thought he'd really do it, a grown man like him." Luther looked down at the ground, ashamed of himself.
"Well, perhaps the amount of liquor Billy has consumed has somethin' to do with it. Hmmmm? Someone get some hot water," Clay ordered. "What're you grinnin' at?" This last was aimed at Call who was still looking on the scene with some amusement.
"Just pull him loose. He won't be talkin' for a while, is all," was Call's helpful suggestion.
"Very nice, Call; I'll take that under advisement," Clay drawled, frowning at the younger man in annoyance.
About that time Amanda came out of the hotel lugging a rather heavy kettle of steaming water.
"I see you have managed to get the stove goin' again," Clay remarked as he took the kettle from her. Let's throw a little snow in this. Don't want to burn his tongue off either."
A short while later Billy and Luther ambled back to the Ambrosia for a little liquid lunch.
Clay watched them go. "It's like livin' in the monkey house," he announced to no one in particular.
After lunch, Clay decided he really would like that hot bath. And without further ado, he headed to Lau's to take one.
The little Chinaman met him at the door waving his hands and shaking his head vigorously.
"No, no, Mr. Mosby, no hot bath, not today. Big hole in kettle. Water all over place. Wood all wet, not burn. Hot bath not avairable. You come back tomorrow. Prenty hot water tomorrow."
Clay rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Why doesn't this surprise me?"
Well, this certainly was the last straw. He had had about all that he could endure for one day.
Clay walked back to the Ambrosia. He was glad to be home; it had been a tough day. And to top it off, he was coming down with the sniffles. He climbed the stairs tiredly. Once inside his room, he stripped off his dandified duds, climbed into his jammies with the feet in them, and crawled in between his fine silk sheets. It was going to be a long, cold winter.
The End
1/2002
