'Jezebel,' hissed a voice from the shadows.
It took Callie's eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit shop, after the bright sunshine of outside.
Chastity, Montana appeared to comprise of what appeared to be a bank, a convenience store and a two-storey saloon bar, which Callie hoped might offer rooms for the night. Two horses – a frisky young bay and a docile piebald – were tethered outside the bar, but Callie could see absolutely no other visible sign of life. The vista was so open and unbroken, with softly rolling hills of parched prairie land as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with copses of trees, that it had made Callie feel quite dizzy for a moment.
After a moment's consideration, she had decided to try the convenience store first. There was a pleasant smell of grains, burlap sacks of bran and rice and oats lined one of the wooden walls. Row after row of jams and jellies and chutneys sat primly on a roughly built shelf above the counter.
'I beg your pardon?' said Callie in surprise. 'I only wanted to enquire as to —'
The woman shrank back behind the counter, pointing an accusing finger at Callie.
'Get out! Get out. I won't have an evil temptress soiling the pure air of my store. You'll make the milk go bad.'
'I haven't done anything,' Callie protested, baffled.
The woman, middle-aged or so, wore an ankle length skirt in a heavy, dark grey fabric, a blouse with a Victorian ruffle right up to her chin and her here was tied in the sort of wide brimmed bun Callie hadn't seen since she was a child. For an absurd instant, she put Callie in mind of her mother, which was entirely unfair to mamma. Her mother had been kindly and soft-spoken, while this woman resembled a wasp with her sharply flashing eyes, harsh words and accusing finger.
'Get behind me, Satan.'
'Me?'
Never taking her eyes off Callie, the woman grabbed a broom from against the wall and brandished it at Callie like a weapon. Callie fished in the camping knapsack of rough burlap that Fred had lent her for the postcard.
'I was hoping you make to be able to direct me to –'
Callie went cold as the broom hit her square on the head. The bristles didn't hurt especially, but the shock stunned her. She had roughhoused with her brothers once upon a time, but it occurred to her now that she had never in her life been struck out of the blue.
'Out!'
Mildly dazed, Callie picked up her suitcase and headed across the dusty road to the saloon bar, hoping for a warmer reception.
Her dress – the most conservative she owned, a light navy wool with a white collar – was distinctly flapper-esque, and her bobbed hair suddenly seemed even shorter than it had when she left California. The few women she had spotted around the train station back in Butte wore ankle length prairie skirts and cheesecloth blouses that covered them from neck to wrist. Too late, it occurred to Callie that it might have been prudent to have retained a few of her long skirts and blouses for a trip such as this, but there wasn't much she could do about that now. In any case, she could hardly instantaneously regrow her hair.
Pushing down the little flutter of nerves, Callie firmly pushed open the bar’s swinging doors. Second try lucky, she thought valiantly.
The quality of the saloon’s fixtures suggested that once upon a time, someone had held high hopes for the prosperity of Chastity. Callie could just see the saloon as it was intended to be at the height of the goldrush, entertaining gentleman in top hats and ladies in jewel-coloured dresses with bustles and elaborate feathered hats. There must have been a rumour of gold or oil in the area that had not come to fruition, Callie thought sadly.
There were ghost towns like this all over the west, neglected testaments to naive optimism and unscrupulous promises. Somebody had gone to the trouble of building a grand bar in the Western style out here in them middle of nowhere, then seemingly not bothered to so much as polish or dust it in the forty years since.
The floor was of a good oak, but covered in decades of sawdust and dirt. The beer taps were brass but cloudy and stained, and the stained-glass dividers between the booths along the back wall were barely visible beneath the cobwebs.
An old-timer, his long beard was matted and yellowed with years of tobacco, glared at Callie from behind the bar.
'Don't serve no women in here,' he growled.
'Fortunately, I am not thirsty.' Callie hoped her voice sounded steadier than it felt. 'I am searching for lodgings —'
'Why you ain't got no clothes on?' he demanded.
'I think you'll find I'm wearing a dress,' she blurted, with all the sass she could muster. 'And one made by Emmanuelle in West Hollywood, don't you know. She is simply a marvel, copies things directly from the catwalk for a quarter of the price. She says she is from Paris but we all know she is from Cincinnati.'
Bizarrely, this jabbering speech seemed to do the trick. The old-timer was now staring at her with a sort of wary confusion, but he seemed a tad less aggressive than he had a moment previously.
'Now,' she added, knowing she was pushing her luck. 'I should like to see your manager if you please.'
'I said, women ain't allowed in,' repeated the old man. The threatening note returned to his voice. He made to stand, and propelled by sheer survival instinct, Callie drew back through the swinging doors without another word.
Back out in the sunshine a second time, the unrelenting emptiness all around her shimmered in the heat. Callie supposed she had two choices. She could either sit right down here on the front steps of the saloon bar and burst into tears, or she could dust herself down, find the mysterious writer… persuade him to let her have the rights to the story that would secure her future, and hightail it straight back to Hollywood.
She had camped outdoors alone many times before; she supposed she would survive the night if the worst came to the worst. Pushing any thoughts to the contrary firmly to one side, Callie hoisted the knapsack over her shoulders, and set off.