Well, I made myself laugh so perhaps you will too!
That sunny, windless morning as he meandered his horse through the town, he couldn't help but notice that everyone he passed would stop what they were doing and watch him, as if he were one of those rough and tumble troublemakers of old. True, he had forgone his tie and could do with a shave, but did that really justify such contemplation? Was it simply because he was a stranger in these parts? Or was it something more? If he had worn the ridiculous cowboy hat Julia had picked for him he would not be wondering in the slightest at this undue attention. As it was, he felt slightly uneasy at every eye glued to his slow, yet steady progress towards the barracks.
Something else he found curious was the state of virtually everyone's clothes. While they were obviously not of fine quality, the tailoring was exceptional, as were the hairstyles. By the looks of these people, one would not think Calgary had been the middle of nowhere for the past decade, but rather a prosperous city like Toronto. In fact, this incongruity to the lacklustre nature of the actual town served to intrigue him to such an extent that he couldn't stop himself from entering the barber shop when he came across it.
A bell dinged as he entered Crabtree's Classic Cuts and a well dressed, well groomed dark haired man who looked to be about twenty-five greeted him gaily, as if her were an old, dear friend.
"Welcome, sir, welcome!" the man said, vigorously shaking his hand. He released his hand and for a second Murdoch thought he would bow next. "George Crabtree, at your service!"
"William Murdoch," he said, looking around the place to see it served as both a barber shop and a tailors. Was this one enthusiastic man responsible for the unusual state of things around here?
"What can I do for you today, Mr. Murdoch?" George picked up a pair of scissors in one hand and a razor blade in the other. "A trim? A shave? Or both?"
The man's eagerness to please was actually a bit unnerving, especially with sharp utensils in hand, and Murdoch instantly wished he had stuck to his duty. "Well, I'm not really-"
"Or," continued George, as if he hadn't heard him, "would you perhaps be interested in a properly fitted suit?" George started examining him from head to toe, piece of string out, measuring him, turning him around and feeling up his sides. Murdoch was very uncomfortable but was so baffled by the goings on that he found himself tongue tied. George shook his head tssking. He gestured to the fabric and sewing centre. "I could have this sorted out for you in two hours time. Every man and woman for miles around would stop and stare!"
They already are, he thought.
"Would that be to your liking, sir?"
"Well, I-" The tailor/barber looked so happy to be of service, and so like his childhood dog, Bear, that Murdoch couldn't say no. "would like that," he said with a weak smile. "Very much so."
"Wonderful, sir, wonderful!" exclaimed George, practically yanking him out of his suit jacket. "Your vest too, sir!"
Apparently Murdoch was undoing the buttons too slowly because George felt compelled to take over, whipping that off his back too. He stood there awkwardly for a few more seconds, feeling naked in just his white shirt and suspenders, and then headed towards safe haven.
"One moment, sir!" He turned to find George rushing over with a now unfolded wanted poster in hand. "I believe you will be needing this!"
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Crabree," he replied, taking it.
"It's dreadful that such people exist in this world," lamented George. "Absolutely dreadful."
"Indeed. You wouldn't by any chance have seen them? Given them a trim, perhaps?"
"No, can't say that I have." A darkness came over him suddenly, "If I happen to come across them I will show them what for...in whatever ways I can." Murdoch followed his gaze to the glinting barber's blade. Just like that the darkness passed and he continued exuberantly, "Now enjoy the rest of this glorious day, sir! And when you come back for your suit, I'll be sure to give you the closest shave you've ever had! Your skin will feel like heaven!"
Oh God! thought Murdoch as he finally left, I've just met Sweeney Todd!
Back in the Lieutenant-Colonel's quarters, Brackenreid took one look at him and burst out laughing. "I see you've met bugalugs."
Bugalugs?
"Almost disrobed me too the first time we met. Bloody madman! No one goes near my backside!" He held up a finger. "Except for the wife!"
"You are married?" he said in a more shocked manner than he had intended.
Brackenreid glared at him. "And why should that be so bloody surprising? Margaret's lucky to have me!"
Murdoch cleared his throat and changed the topic. "Which men will be escorting me around the area?"
"None of them," he grunted, staring him down.
"Colonel," frowned Murdoch, "you assured me yesterday of your support. I think it highly unfair to go back on your word simply because I showed some surprise at your lack of bachelorhood."
Brackenreid rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell, Murdoch! What kind of man do you take me for? I'm a man of my word!" He paused. "There was a...dispute late last night down at the old saloon. My men went to take care of it. I'm sure they'll be back in no time."
"What sort of dispute?" enquired Murdoch, suspicious of the way the colonel was avoiding his eye. "Colonel?"
"All right fine! There was no dispute. Every now and again I let the lads partake in the company of...trollops." Murdoch made a face, more at the use of the vulgar word than anything else. "Don't give me that! They're good lads! But they're still lads!" More to himself. "A man has certain needs, dammit!"
Unbidden, a flash of the previous nights wild horse ride swam into view. He cleared it quickly.
"That may well be the case, Colonel, but I was under the impression that prostitution was illegal," he gestured around them, "even all the way out here."
"It's definitely frowned upon in town," he smirked, "but the brothel is some miles from here, so the proper little ladies can't cause too much of a stink. Well, there's that damn Hamilton woman of course." He visibly shivered even though it was already quite warm. In some respects Murdoch was thankful George had divested him of his heavy woollen things. "But that's neither here nor there."
"Tell, me, Colonel, where is this brothel located? I believe I must pay it a visit soon."
"Didn't take you for the sort," said Brackenreid, eyebrows raised.
Murdoch smiled thinly, "I am looking for fugitives, Colonel, men with...needs." Brackenreid scowled at him. "It is feasible that they are near there, or have been there in the last two weeks. If so, perhaps someone there will be able to point me in the right direction."
"Come on then, Murdoch," Brackenreid sighed, strapping his Mk III to his left side, handle facing forward. He left his sabre and rifle behind, apparently not expecting to need them.
"What about your helmet?" he said, pointing to the white cork helmet with a small metal spire out the top. *
"I never wear it if I can help it. Makes me to look the fool."
Wisely, Murdoch decided it was best not to comment.
The brothel was a two tiered somewhat ramshackle building that doubled as the saloon. All the hitching posts were currently occupied and Murdoch had little doubt who they belonged to. So they hitched up their horses around a tree instead.
They walked through the tall grass in silence and pushed through the swinging doors, Brackenreid in the lead. It being only eight in the morning, the place was fairly deserted. Though there were some revellers from the previous night passed out here and there as well as a couple of dull poker games in progress at two back tables.
Without looking up from behind the counter where he was wiping a glass with an oddly clean rag, the barkeeper, an older, white haired man, said, "It's about time you collected your boys, Brackenreid. They've more than stayed their welcome."
Once in awhile some less than polite sounds made their way down from the upper level. If it had been later in the day, the piano and general merriment would no doubt have covered it up. As it was, Murdoch quickly found such noises distracting and again had a flashback, this time to last nights dinner when Julia had smiled at him in that oh so enticing way.
"Ah, come off it Giles, they're paying customers, just like everyone else here."
Giles scoffed and stared straight at him. "I was not aware that military men considered themselves to be cut from the same cloth as civilians. Or that such practices were generally encouraged by their commanding officer. At least, back in my day as commander they weren't."
"Prick," muttered Brackenreid under his breath. He pushed Murdoch forward and said, "Murdoch here needs your help with an important matter. You can make yourself useful and answer all his questions." Brackenreid smiled, "And pour us both a drink while you're at it."
"Oh, no, that won't be necessary," he interjected. "I don't drink."
At least, not in the early morning while I'm on the hunt for dangerous fugitives...
Brackenreid looked at him like he was insane but Giles' face and tone softened ever so slightly. "A man with sense." He looked back to the Colonel and the hardness returned. "Quite the rarity these days."
The two men stared each other down for a time until Murdoch thought it prudent to clear his throat loudly, if only to give him something else to do than listen to a woman's muffled moans of ecstasy right above their heads. Giles poured some whiskey into a shot glass, put it in front of Brackenreid and then gave Murdoch his full attention.
"Mr. Giles, have you seen either of these men before?" began Murdoch, unrolling the wanted poster and holding it up.
Giles took it from him and examined it quite closely. He made no comment about the bounty amount and simply said those same disheartening words Murdoch had heard time and time again all the way down the line and for most of his professional career, "No, I don't believe I have."
Brackenreid downed the whiskey and tapped for another. Giles begrudgingly obliged.
"Are you quite sure? I have reason to believe they may have been disguised at the time."
"Yes, Mr. Murdoch, I am quite sure," replied Giles with a bit of the same coldness reserved just for Brackenreid. "I have an eye for those sorts of troublemakers, disguises or no. I demand order in my saloon at all times." Some thumping around from above and Giles subtly gritted his teeth together. "Now, if that is all, would you please collect your men and leave my establishment?"
"Just a few more questions, sir," said Murdoch pleasantly enough. Giles nodded. "Do you have any idea where these sorts of troublemakers tend to congregate? Is there a camp somewhere around here?"
Giles gave Brackenreid a disdainful look. "Ask him. He's our great protector after all."
Brackenreid scowled and then turned to Murdoch. "We patrol the area as often as we can in order to keep the peace. The only one I can think of is run by two brothers, the O'Shea's. They were fired from the railroad after causing too much trouble with the Chinamen. Nasty lot."
Murdoch wasn't sure if he meant the O'Shea's or the Chinamen.
"Yes," said Giles, "I had the delightful pleasure of their company last week. They barged in here demanding bottles of whiskey and upsetting all of my customers. I of course did not acquiesce so they started harassing the girls. So, I told them Mr. Warton would dispatch of them all if they did not leave the premises immediately."
The man was in his sixties but was clearly still sharp as a tack.
"Mr. Warton?" said Murdoch.
Giles cocked his head towards a silent, brooding negro man sitting in the far corner, cleaning his rifle. Murdoch was embarrassed to say he hadn't noticed him there upon his entry because the man blended in so well with the shadows. Even from this distance, Murdoch knew that was not a man to get into a gun duel with. He had the cool calm one attained through countless fights...and kills.
Murdoch thanked Giles and went to speak with Warton. Giles called him back. "There is little point in questioning him, Mr. Murdoch. He speaks so rarely that most mistake him for a mute. You would simply be wasting your time."
"He's right, Murdoch," said Brackenreid. "Never met a more quiet bloke in my life."
Murdoch approached Warton regardless and held up the wanted poster. "Have you seen these men, Mr. Warton?"
The man glanced up for one second and said, "Nope."
"Please, sir, take another look."
"Nope," he repeated after a lengthy pause, never once stopping with the service of his weapon.
After internally glowering for a moment, Murdoch turned back to the men at the bar. "Where is this camp, Colonel?"
He hoped it was nearby. Part of him was already looking forward to Julia's...offerings.
"Bugger if I know." Giles scoffed again and Brackenreid became defensive. "They're nasty...but they're smart. They move around every few days. It will be difficult to find them without inside help."
Brackenreid surveyed the saloon's occupants and strolled over to one of the men sleeping off the previous nights festivities. He kicked his boots, saying, "Oye!" until the man stirred.
"Whaddaya want?" the haggard man replied grumpily.
"The O'Shea's, you seen them recently?"
"Even if I had," the man grumbled, "I wouldn't tell the likes of you." He spit at the colonel's feet. "Bloody redcoats."
Brackenreid hoisted him to his feet by the lapels. "You've got five seconds to spill your guts, sunshine, or I'll do it for you."
* They didn't start wearing the brown broad rimmed hats until closer to 1900...something I kinda got wrong in my Life of Another fic, as well as a bunch of other details, like Vancouver didn't exist in 1884, or at least not the way I described it...I guess that's what happens when you don't do any research...:p
We should start a game of name that episode...I must have referenced at least three this time...