Any expressed bigotry by any character is for characterization purposes only and reflect the beliefs held by many at that time. Please remember the time frame in which the story occurs.

2

There is another part of me that also precludes my marrying and inflicting my unsavory habits on a good woman causing her grief; upon occasion I have a "nostalgie de la boue," a yearning—as the phrase translates—for the "mud," for decadence, for depravity and to wallow in the sensual pleasures that a woman of a particular profession can offer and such a weakness is unacceptable in a married man. I therefore have convinced myself that I should refrain from marrying to save some honorable woman the humiliation of finding that her husband prefers to spend occasional nights in the arms of a well-schooled "soiled dove."

When younger, I would visit one of three brothels in Virginia City because being callow, simple pleasures took on an exotic tinge but now that I'm older, there seems to be no variety in the act and the women are not as exciting as they once were. New women come and go but they are so prosaic and the act so predictable that I once considered that I may as well marry—the climax would be the same.

But then, in my 37th year, a new gambling salon, "The Crown," was built in Virginia City. It was even grander that "Julia's Palace," an early attempt to reproduce the grand salons of New Orleans and a final tragedy in itself; but that is irrelevant now. The new place was a casino downstairs and offered some of the sophisticated games of chance offered by casinos in Europe—faro, roulette, baccarat, black jack, poker and the Chinese game, keno-a sucker's game, in my opinion. Upstairs were neat, well-kept rooms—no sordid cribs-where a man could take one of the women who worked there and fulfill any of his fantasies with a most-willing partner—all of whom were guaranteed to be disease-free. I once, just to get a rise from him, asked Paul Martin if he had a favorite among the working girls he examined at The Crown and he blushed beet red. I just laughed—but I did apologize.

The owner of The Crown was a Thad Murfee, a powerfully-built older man who also owned a similar, popular salon in Sacramento City and in Chicago; apparently he traveled among all three establishments, gathering his lucre, I'm sure, and rubbing his hands together in pure avarice. The Virginia City establishment, The Crown, catered to the more refined clientele and an ordinary cowboy stinking of manure and sweat was thrown out and told to get a bath and proper clothes before he would be allowed in.

I always dressed in a suit and brocade vest with polished boots and a brushed hat. I know that whenever I descended the stairs of our house dressed in that manner, it took all of my father's self-control to keep from telling me that Thad Murfee was a blight and a pestilence on Virginia City, encouraging even more gambling and whoring and that fine clothes on the patrons did nothing to change that. But he never did, at least not directly to me.

It was a calm summer evening and I was dressed and on my way to town.

"Feelin' lucky tonight, Adam?" Hoss asked from the settee, his stockinged feet on the table before him. He grinned. He had once confided that he felt uncomfortable in "The Crown." He would rather play poker at The Sazarac—the stakes were less—and he preferred the "big ol' gals" at Bertha's Place to anywhere else; they, for one thing, didn't require a man bathe before seeing them. He just preferred to have a few beers, roll on a woman, roll off and then have a few more beers and not spend more than ten dollars.

"Wasting your money tonight," my father mumbled under his breath but loudly enough for me to hear it as I headed to the door. He smoked his pipe and read his paper, not looking up.

"Want to come, Hoss?"

"Nope. I prefer to hold on to my money a little bit longer."

"I don't see how you can gamble your money away…" my father started but he said no more as I buckled on my gun belt. A patron had to check his gun at the door of The Crown to avoid a bad-tempered loser from shooting the faro dealer but I still had the ride to town. Besides, my wallet was full of my hard-earned folding money and I might need to defend it.

It was the first time I was at The Crown and playing poker—a game over which I feel I have some control—and the loveliest woman sat on the arm of my padded chair. There were no bare-boned wooden chairs here nor tables with water rings, scuffs or holes from some cowboys' bastardized version of mumblety-peg where they used their hands on the tabletops instead of their feet on the ground. The place was plush with brocade, brass, marble, maple and mirrors. I first had my suspicions that the mirrors might be placed in such a way as to give any dealer a way to see the players' cards so I was always careful where I sat.

So that night, I was playing my cards, holding them close to my chest and Saffron, the woman's name, perched on the right arm of my chair. She had retrieved my chips for me once I was seated and stayed by my side, keeping my glass filled with Kentucky bourbon and leaning down upon occasion to let me kiss her full bosom for luck. She had earlier whispered about the unearthly delights she would provide later should I so desire so I slipped ten dollars in her cleavage to put a "hold" on her and she stuck by my side, even allowing my hand to slide up her thigh to the promising moistness of her cleft. I know her purpose was to disturb my concentration but fortunately, I could still slide my palm over the smooth skin about her garter and keep the raises and bets in order.

I had won a large amount and Saffron and I were about to take the winding staircase upstairs when a large man motioned for Saffron to leave and she reluctantly did, standing a polite distance away.

"I don't take too kindly to your sending the young lady away," I said. I braced my stance in case I had to defend myself since it crossed my mind that the establishment might be averse to my winning such a large amount; I had more than doubled the $500.00 in chips I had when I sat down.

"Mr. Murfee would like to talk to you," the man said. He wore a cutaway jacket and a black tie and starched white shirt but he was obviously uncomfortable in the finery—like mule in race horse trappings-and his face looked as if it had taken a few poundings over time; I'm sure that he had given a few as well.

"Who the hell is Murfee and why would I want to talk to him? And who the hell are you?"

"I'm Mitch and I work for Mr. Murfee who is the proprietor of this establishment and he has a business proposition for you. You are Adam Cartwright, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. But what business is that of yours or Murfee's." I turned and crooked my finger and Saffron came back to my side, looking cautiously at the man. I slid an arm around her waist. We started up the stairs. I spoke over my shoulder to the thug, for that's what he was, "I have another business proposition, a far more pleasant one, to handle at the moment. And unless Mr. Murfee cares to bend over and spread his ass cheeks for me, he can just wait until I'm finished with this beauty." And with that, I slowly took the stairs, Saffron clinging to me.

"You best watch out for Murfee—you don't want him as an enemy." I smiled at sweet Saffron, warning me about the man who was to her, so powerful.

I smiled at her and chucked her under the chin. "He doesn't want me as an enemy." And then we walked into one of the bedrooms with a small Chinese woman waiting inside who bowed and smiled. Then she pulled down the scented sheets and helped Saffron prepare to entertain me and I didn't give Murfee another thought.