The Saloon of Fools

Posted on Sun Dec 21st, 2025 @ 4:07pm by Catalina Escareno

3,850 words; about a 19 minute read

Mission: Assembling the Troubleshooters
Location: Silver City, New Mexico
Timeline: Date 1877-09-01 at

Her encounter with The Lady had haunted her as she traveled the desert, and so she rode hard toward civilization, but more importantly toward noise, chaos, and drama. Those things, along with her guns and her horse, were all she needed in this world.

She arrived in Silver City as the sun crested the horizon. She was cold, tired, and frightened, and she wanted a place to lay her head more than anything else. It had taken all night for her clothes to dry in cold desert air, and she was shivering as she pulled up to a hotel on the outskirts of the town. Her father had told her about the founding of Silver City in 1870 after the precious metal had been found in abundance in the mines. Miners and prospectors had come first, followed quickly by builders, bankers, lawmen, and whores. The outlaws were a natural occurrence, and even she had been there on a few occasions.

Cat tied El Diablo outside, gathered her belongings out of her saddle bags, and walked the short distance to the hotel entrance. Typically, she would look for something nicer, but in her condition, she hardly cared. It was a common sort of place with common sort of people waking up in the early morning light. She walked past them and up to the counter.

The hotel woman was stout with forearms as wide as cured hams and a tight gray bun on her head. She didn’t even lift her head from wiping down the counter as Catalina walked inside. Her motions were smooth, slow, practiced, and methodical, polishing wood that probably hadn’t ever truly shined.

“Mornin’. Don't see many folks this early ‘cept the ones stumblin’ out,” she grunted and cleared her throat, her voice like sandpaper. She finally paused her buffing and cast a quick, assessing glance over at Cat. “God above you’re a pretty one, aren’t ya?”

“That I been told, Señora.” Cat responded, forcing the slightest of smiles as she struggled through the basic English. She was still shivering and barely had it in her.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough ride. You alone?” The woman asked, looking around for the nonexistent man who should be accompanying the girl.

“For now. I just need a room. I can pay.” Cat said, but didn’t flash her coin purse. She was too streetsmart for that.
The woman finished the wide, slow arc of her rag, finally setting it down on the worn countertop. Her gaze, sharp and evaluating, lingered on Cat's shivering frame and the dust clinging to her clothes.

"Don't matter to me if you're alone or got a whole troop waitin' outside," the owner said, her tone flat and completely devoid of warmth. She pushed a heavy, leather-bound register book across the counter toward Cat with a practiced shove. "The price is fifty cents a night. Paid upfront. Room four is clean, got a quilt, and it's near the stovepipe, so you might catch a little heat. Sign the book. Just a name, any name, so I know who to blame if the lamp burns down the building."

Cat appreciated the woman’s clarity. She was really too tired for pleasantries anyway. She pulled the register booked toward her and picked up the ink quill. In a neat, feminine script, she wrote the name ‘Maria Bellaflores’ and slid the tome back to the woman. She then fished into her pouch under her leather jacket and pulled out two quarters, having just identified them by the size alone. Placing them on the counter, she folded her arms under her ample chest and waited expectantly.

The owner didn't even glance at the name, her gaze focused entirely on the transaction. Her thick fingers, calloused from years of hard work, swept up the two coins with surprising speed. She held them for a brief moment, weighing them, before dropping them into a drawer beneath the counter with a heavy, definitive clunk.

"Room four," she stated, reaching under the counter and pulling out a single, large iron key on a simple wire loop. She didn't hand it to Cat, but dropped it onto the wood with a sharp tap. "Stairs are through that archway, end of the hall to your right. The door latch sticks; you gotta give it a good tug. Don't light any fancy cigars in there, and don't bother the other tenants. I like quiet this time of day."

Cat made no great display of taking the key or heading back to her room. She was tired and didn’t need to put on the act. She walked down the hall with decidedly less grace than was typical for her. She entered the room, locked the door, stripped down to her underclothes, and went straight to sleep. She was honestly deeply afraid of dreaming of The Lady, but instead she only dreamed of Julian. Quiet, sweet dreams of love, and not hatred.

The better part of the day was spent in deep slumber as the sun invited her over and over to join the living, working people of Silver City, but La Gata said “no.”. When she truly woke, the sun was half gone from the big yellow sky. She took a proper bath and pulled on a pair of jeans, a white blouse she left half unbuttoned to draw eyes where she wanted them to look, a nice red jacket she half-buttoned the same way, and a brown wide brim hat, then went out to feed and tend to El Diablo.

It was supper time when she finally moseyed into the Boarhead Saloon, a rather fancy establishment in the center of a rough-hewn plank town where the upwardly-mobile drank, dined, and satisfied themselves in other ways. She’d never been there, but she’d heard it was an establishment where a stray businessman might find himself sitting there among the rabble of well-dressed criminals, and whores.

Stepping inside, the air immediately hit Catalina: thick, intoxicating, and warm. It was a soup of cigar smoke, stale beer, and cheap perfume, and a faint, underlying smell of barely-covered desperation–or perhaps just unwashed bodies and damp wool. The room was large and loud with imposing bottle green walls and a massive taxidermy boar’s head leering down at the patrons, its tusks yellowed and sharp. Unlike the austere quiet of the hotel, the Boarhead was an assault of noise and energy; the thrum of a piano in the corner, the shouted laughter of men packed shoulder-to-shoulder, and the rhythmic clack of billiard balls from a separate back room. It was all lit up by oil lamps that illuminated the bottles behind the polished mahogany bar like so many cheap jewels. Cat allowed a small, relaxed smile. This was exactly the kind of place her troubled soul needed: chaotic, desperate, and begging to be emptied of its gold.

She shifted into a stool at the end of the bar where none had yet sat. The bartender was a whiskey barrel of a man, wide and stocky, but surprisingly agile when he turned to fetch a bottle or slammed a glass down. She heard the other patrons call him Robert, but she kept that under her hat for the time being. His face was damp with sweat, whether from the heat of the room or the exertion of his job, and his wide face was framed by a scraggly, reddish beard that looked scorched at the edges. Once he was done tending to a pair of heavy drinkers on the other end of the counter, he took notice of the new arrival. His routine efficiency barely faltered at Cat, yet his weary eyes traveled from her delicately beautiful face to her inviting, mesmerizingly impressive decolletage and back up again within the space of a split second. He didn’t gawk; decades of bartending meant he’d trained himself not to lose focus on the drinks or the cash. Instead, he saw her for her confident posture and clothes. She wasn’t one of the women walking his floor, and she definitely wasn’t some timid, small-town wife. He didn't lift the rag from the counter, but simply shifted his weight, resting his massive forearms on the bar.

“Well, now. Look what the wind blew in. You ain’t from around here, sweet thing. What’ll it be? And keep your hands above the bar.”

Cat gave a dark smile, her full, pouty lips turning up in an expression that didn’t reach her big brown eyes. The man was perceptive, and it clearly took more than a beautiful woman to distract him from danger. And she was dangerous.

“You wound my heart, Señor. Las cosas dulces…Sweet things don’t need no guns to get what they want.” she said, steepling her hands on the mahogany counter with slow movements of her fingers. “Cognac. Best you got. Not la basura barata you serve to these hombres.”

Robert’s eyes remained on her hands as she moved them with theatrical slowness, not at her smile. His expression remained the same, his eyes meeting hers with the flat indifference of a man who had heard every kind of boast and flirtation the territory could possibly produce. He was good. If there was one thing she respected in others, it was fierce confidence and guts. That, and a quick draw.

"I ain't here to judge how you get what you want, Señorita," he replied, giving her the formal address with a heavy dose of irony. He reached for a specific, squat bottle tucked away on the back shelf—an expensive import that was rarely touched.

"We got one bottle of Hennessy VSOP. Costs three dollars a snifter. I'll need the coin on the wood before I pour it, though. The house policy on fancy talk is cash up front. And you won't get no fancy glass for it neither. You drinkin' it in a regular glass." He kept his voice low and steady, a challenge delivered without raising the volume.

“Ladrón, that is twice the top shelf I had in Juarez.” she countered, her tone just as even as his. She was no pushover, no matter the man or the language. “I will give you un dólar, Señor. Besides, that bottle is dustier than your sweet abuela’s panocha. It is clear no one else come to drink it.”

Robert let out a single, rough exhale through his nose—the closest he ever came to a laugh—and his thick eyebrows remained unmoving. The insult about his grandmother's, uh, baking didn't even register, a testament to his professional numbness. He simply rested his elbow on the bar, tapping a thick finger next to the lone bottle of Hennessy.

"This ain't Juarez, Señorita. This is Silver City, and that's French brandy that crossed half a continent," he stated, his voice flat as a plank. "The dust tells you it's got age and that the only folks fool enough to buy it are the ones with the cash to back up their big talk. You offered one dollar. I said three. That's a two-dollar difference just in case you can’t count it, not a few pennies. I ain't runnin' a charity, and I ain't hagglin' with a pretty face over a sum like that."

He then slid a plain glass across the counter, stopping it precisely in front of her hands. "Whiskey is ten cents, rum is twenty. That’s the rest of the menu."

She let her eyes drift to the men now watching them, meeting a few of their overtly fascinated or even lustful gazes with her own mercurial, intense expression. The floor was a mess of sawdust, spilled drinks, and dropped cigar butts, but the tables scattered across the room were made of good, heavy oak, surrounded by chairs upholstered in faded crimson velvet. The clientele was a rich stew of miners in patched denim mixed with suits of crisp broadcloth and gold watch chains. A few well-dressed madams managed their girls, who circulated with practiced ease, their dresses bright splashes of color against the dim wood paneling, their eyes cutting to her with those of the men, though much less interested and more resentful.

“You got a good poker face, Roberto, but mine is mucho más impresionante,” she said, leaning forward so that her breasts pressed against the counter, drawing comments and more stares from the men at the bar. She was turning this into a public negotiation just for the fun of it. “It is dusty, very dusty. Tú lo sabes. Yo lo sé.. It mean the kind of buyer who understands its worth, they do not exactly walk through that door every day. I am here now, Mi Amor. A dollar fifty, which is fifty cents of my…diversión…how you say…amusement in your pocket. Take it. Or let it sit and gather more dust. I do not give second chances.”

A ripple of appreciation, excitement, and hoots ran through the nearby patrons, catching the attention of the men who hadn’t yet taken notice. Her provocative lean against the counter and her tough talk had worked. Before Robert could muster his next refusal, a man occupying a stool a few feet down slid quickly into the stool next to her. He was tall and strong, dressed in a brand new suit of dark broadcloth that looked impossibly clean for a mining town. A heavy gold chain looped across his silk vest, and a diamond stickpin glittered in his cravat. This was clearly one of the town’s successes, a banker, a mine owner, or a land speculator. The rich man inspired a respectful, if grudging silence from the men around them. He ignored Cat for the moment, focusing his indignation entirely on the bartender. He slapped a gloved hand down on the mahogany counter, landing directly on the two-dollar gap in the negotiation.

“Robert! What in the blazes are you doing haggling over a few coins with a lady?” The man’s voice was loud and rough, the sound of a working man with newly acquired wealth. It carried over the saloon noise. He reached inside his vest, pulling out a small, thick roll of bills. “She wants the French stuff, she gets the French stuff, damn your policies. I’ll pay for the whole bottle, you miserly toad, just uncork it and bring two clean glasses. And wipe that dust off!”

The man turned to Cat, offering a wide, oily smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were too busy inspecting her cleavage. He was handsome enough with a thick mustache and slicked back hair, but he was bold, brash, obnoxious, and the easiest mark she had been gifted in months. “I apologize for the lack of courtesy shown by this common bandit, ma’am. When a woman of your obvious quality and refinement asks for the best, she shouldn’t have to debate the cost. Please, consider this humble offering my treat. Mr. Horace Stillwater, at your service.”

Of course. Stillwater. The man she’d read about in some paper a few months back. He had come across a large vein of silver and opened up his own mine. He was one of the most successful men to strike it rich in SIlver City. He was quite the lucky man, and lucky for her, he was underestimating her greatly.

She lifted the glass of Hennessy between them, her smile daring and innocent all at once. Her eyes moved over him in a display of impressed attraction, lingering on the signs of his wealth in a way that would let him know how interested she was. It was the dance she had mastered over the past years in the wilds of the borderlands.

“Dios mío! A gentleman, finally.” she said, bringing the glass to her full, pouty lips and taking a sip. “Esto está delicioso, señor. Top-shelf, just like I like. Expensive.”

Horace Stillwater preened under the inspection, his chest puffing out slightly beneath the expensive broadcloth. The way her beautiful eyes lingered on his gold chain and diamond pin was clearly a validation he constantly sought. Her immediate acceptance of the drink, and the subsequent compliment, smoothed over the rough edges of his ego. He gave a hearty, booming laugh—the kind meant to draw attention from every corner of the room. He dramatically waved a hand toward the bottle of Hennessy, dismissing its cost as insignificant.

"The price means nothing, Señorita," he declared, leaning in conspiratorially, his breath smelling faintly of chewing tobacco and something sweet. "Only the quality matters, and I recognize quality when I see it. In liquor, and in company." He let his eyes drop again, holding the gaze a moment too long. He placed his elbow on the bar next to hers and lowered his voice, intending intimacy, though his volume was still loud enough for several nearby men to strain their ears.

"Horace Stillwater, that's me. And you," he added, his smile growing wide and proprietary, "haven't told old Horace your name. A beautiful woman like you, drinking French Cognac and talking like a gunslinger... What should I call you, my dear? And don't tell me you're alone in this miserable town."

“My name is Maria.” she said with a dark smile, lying as if it were her native tongue. Her head moved down low and she leaned in enough to make at least her half of their conversation intimate and quiet. She was close enough that her hat drew near to his face. “But keep that quiet, eh? I am traveling to get away and I no want the bastardo to find me here. I come to Silver City to be my safety. Mi nuevo hogar.”

Horace Stillwater’s eyes lit up with a mix of excitement and possessiveness at her closeness. The scent of her—leather, soap, and something delicately floral—filled the space between them as her wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face. The sudden intimacy, and the confession of trouble, made him feel instantly important and necessary. Horace immediately lowered his voice to a conspiratorial rumble, leaning in so that his thick mustache nearly brushed the edge of her hat. He dismissed the surrounding noise and the bartender with a flick of his wrist.

"Maria. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman," he murmured, soaking up the secret. "Trouble, you say? A man chasing you, eh? Well, let me tell you something, little lady." He tapped his gleaming stickpin with a boastful confidence. "This is my town. I own a good chunk of the land and I've got men working for me who know how to keep their mouths shut and their guns ready."

He paused, letting the weight of his declared power settle. "You found the right spot for refuge, Maria. And the right man. You stay close to Horace, and that 'bastardo' will never lay eyes on you. You can consider my claim as good as a deed of protection."

The stupid damn fool. A pretty face, a pair of tits, some broken English, and a sad story. It got her so very far so very often. She grinned, wide and genuine, but she added a touch of surprise, as if she was genuinely touched by his foolish gesture.

“For me, Señor? You would do this for me? I…I do not know what to say.” she said, placing her hand on her chest. “My husband…a rough hombre named Rodrigo. He take me from my parent’s home when I was just a girl. He is a miner of ghost rock. Mean and hard. I escape from him when he was away and he chase me for weeks. That is why I buy these weapons, though I do not know how to use them.”

Horace Stillwater’s chest swelled beneath his silk vest. This was the moment of conquest—the display of power, followed by the reward of gratitude, vulnerability, and hopefully so much more. The touch of surprise on her face, coupled with the placement of her hand over her enticing chest, convinced him he was dealing with a genuine damsel in distress, albeit a surprisingly beautiful and armed one.

"Say nothing, Maria. Not a damned word," Horace commanded softly, puffing out his mustache with satisfaction. He patted her hand quickly—a bold, possessive gesture—before pulling his own back to appear dignified. "Ghost rock miner, you say? Mean and hard? They all are, those bastards. But his kind don't scare Horace Stillwater. They just dig the dirt I sell. Rodrigo, eh? Doesn't matter if he's the devil himself. He steps foot in Silver City looking for my guest, he'll run right into my payroll."

Horace leaned closer still, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of lust and the thrill of his own heroism. "You don't need to fear anymore, Maria. You just stick with me. I can give you more than just refuge. I can give you a home, safety, and everything a woman as fine as you deserves. Tell me about your escape. Every little detail."

“The details,” she started, drawing the glass to her lips again and taking another sip. “El inglés…it is hard for me. Es una historia terrible, Horace. I need a meal and some… comfort before I can think to tell it. Why do not we enjoy some of whatever they cook here at el salón and then, after, we get to my details?”

Horace beamed. The suggestion of food and comfort—a transition from the rough saloon bar to a more private, sustained interaction—was exactly what he wanted.

"A meal? Done! Absolutely right, Maria. We won't dwell on that wretched man a moment longer than necessary," Horace declared, snapping his fingers toward a young waiter scurrying past. He ignored the menu, his gaze fixed solely on Cat.

"The cook here is passable for Silver City. They make a damned fine venison stew sometimes, but anything is better with the proper company, eh?" He gave her a meaningful look, then addressed the waiter with the imperious tone of a man used to being instantly obeyed. "You! Bring us two plates of whatever the most expensive dish is tonight, and bring a bottle of that good California claret from the back—not the swill you serve the miners. And get us a table in the corner, the one near the window. Somewhere quiet where a gentleman can talk to a beautiful lady."

He gave her a triumphant, proprietary grin, rising slightly from his stool to offer her his arm. "Come, my dear. Let's get you comfortable and fed. Then you can tell old Horace anything you like."

A drink, a meal, and a feast of lies. This was exactly the kind of chaos she needed. The Lady was quickly forgotten, and La Gata, La Flor en el Viento, she would own the night.

 

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